It's Like a Classified Ad, with More Sex and Whining

Missed Connections.

It’s my understanding that in the world of dating, the term ‘missed connection’ implies that there was an instant where things could have flourished, but you dropped the ball and you missed your chance to plant your seed (heh heh). It would appear, however, that a good portion of North Americans have a different understanding of this term.

I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that I get great joy out of perusing the Missed Connection (MC) section of Craigslist. While some might browse my internet history and think I’m desperately hoping that someone spotted me on the street and felt the need to write about me, I’ll be the first to tell you that that is true nonsense. I mostly read them because I like to bask in people’s idiocy.

If you’re unfamiliar with Missed Connections, you must live under a rock or up a mule's ass, but since you’re here, reading this today, I will enlighten you. In an ideal world, MC is an e-classified ad devoted to reaching out to strangers that the writer feels they could have had a real connection with.  In reality, MC is more like a drunk text. In other words, you probably shouldn’t write it because the person probably doesn’t want to hear what you have to say and/or it’s a booty call. 

Often times, when I’m reading through the posts, I find myself getting frustrated with the writer. I’d hate to tell you “Man in the yellow coat”, but “I saw you on the bus. You were wearing a red scarf and you were playing with your iphone.” doesn't count as a missed connection. The bitch probably didn't even know you existed. (And if she did happen to notice you, chances are she was texting her friend/boyfriend/grandmami, telling them about the creep that won’t stop staring at her.) Instead of being a little pussy and hiding behind your computer screen, grab yourself by the balls (not literally, please, you’re in public) and take a shot with the hot bitch on the bus. You have wasted my precious time, and I have better missed connections to scrutinize. Thankyouverymuch.

I know I’ve mentioned my wonderful and hilarious roommate before, but I don’t think I talk about her enough. (She might disagree with that…) I happen to know that she shares my love for Missed Connections. She may spend fewer hours per week reading these e-love stories, but she still supports my addiction. One night, she got home after polishing off some pints and admitted that sometimes she makes eye contact with people intentionally on the subway (read: stares them down), in hopes of having someone write about her on MC. In the same breath, she acknowledged that this probably comes across as crazy, but she does it, nonetheless. This, singlehandedly, is reason enough to be friends with her. Her actions are definitely missed connection worthy. I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me more eager to get to know someone than having them stare at me for 8 subway stops. That’s romance, folks.

What I’ve come to noticed in my hours of MC surfin’, is that there is a huge difference between the content of m4m (man for man), w4w (woman for woman) and m4w (man for woman). After years of perusing, I’ve decided that the categories should be renamed to this:

1)      Let’s get naked. (m4m)

2)      I’m pathetic and weeping over my ex. (w4w)

3)      I like your ass, let’s go for coffee. (m4w)

Let’s break this down a little further, shall we?

1)      Let’s get naked (m4m).

This category has the odd sentimental missed connection, but let’s be honest here folks, 85% of these ‘connections’ involve the word “naked” “gym” “shower” and “horny”.  Often times there will be pictures of penises involved, and I don’t love that, but you boys always give me a good laugh. Carry on.

2)      I’m pathetic and weeping over my ex. (w4w)

This category makes me feel a little ashamed. While there is the odd ‘real’ missed connection, these are jammed pack with tear-filled poems dedicated to lost loves. I’d hate to tell you, “S”, but it’s not a missed connection if you were at one point ‘connected.’  This is called a break up and I’m sure “J” doesn’t care if your ‘Ode to September’ haiku is packed full of your metaphorical, bleeding twat heart. Let it go. Take some pointers from the m4m and go get your fuck on. “J” is probably wrist-deep in a new emotional hoe as we speak.  (That was a little harsh. She’s probably not that emotional.)

3)      I like your ass, let’s go for coffee. (m4w)

Here is where you find the classic bus scenario that I mentioned earlier in this post. While this section is comprised with more ‘legitimate’ missed connections than the other 2 sections, it’s also filled to the brim with creepiness. Here’s the section my roommate would be mentioned in, if her subway staring contests ever materialize into an MC.  In my mind, it would read something like this: “I saw you on the subway. You had hazel eyes and straight-across bangs. You kept staring at me and I felt like I had something on my face. I think you might have tried to wink… or maybe you were just blinking slowly. You were cute, though, so holler at me if you see this.” And you know what, guys? She wouldn’t answer. Who meets people on Craigslist, anyway? That’s just creepy.

So, even though so many of the entries in Missed Connections are absurd, cheesy, skeezy or lame, (or all of the above), I just can’t help myself. I’m not going to suggest that you all start devoting time each week to bask in the absurdity of these Craigslist gems, but I will say this: Someone had better write about me ASAP, or I’ll start thinking all my hours of winking at strangers is a total waste of time. 

WINK.

My Life is Sort of Like the Movie ‘Cocktail’, but More Homosexual.

 … and with fewer beaches, and waterfalls, and accidental pregnancies. Pretty much it’s nothing like Cocktail, except for the cocktails.

…

So, I’ve dropped the G-Bomb in earlier posts, but, I understand that y’all don’t necessarily give me your undivided attention, and I can’t expect my readers to catch every little detail that I throw down on this bitch. (But you should know that I’m really disappointed in you for ‘skimming’ my posts, and if you don’t get my obscure blog references when we have a conversation, I go home and cry myself to sleep. Okay, fine, I don’t. I can’t even remember when I purchase a calendar filled with pictures of puppies, how can I expect you to remember something trivial like all the reasons I drink in a movie theater?  I think I’ve strayed a little from my point…)

Gay. The G-Bomb means Gay. .

Good, I’m glad we got that out of the way.

Coming out is something that can happen effortlessly (ie: Oh, please, even my stapler knew you were gay), it can be awkward (ie: Oh, so, um, does this mean you want to have sex with me? Do you look at my tits when you talk to me?), or it can be painful (there’s really no funny joke to go here). Sometimes it’s any combination of the three.

Personally, I’m terrible at it. I got my initial “I like girls” talk with close family and friends out of the way at the young, tender age of 17. I lacked a lot of tact when I was coming out as a teenager. Like, for instance, the awkward MSN conversation with my sister where I wrote “I don’t like boys”, having assumed she had already put two and two together, and this would come as no surprise.

She hadn’t.

It was uncomfortable.

It was even more uncomfortable when her leading question was “How do you have sex?”

… yep.

In my older age, I’ve only gotten worse. On several occasions, I have resorted to drunk-dial outing. The conversation goes a little something like this:

Friend: “Hello?” 

Me: “Were you asleep!?!?”

Friend: “It’s 3 am.” 

Me: “And?” 

Friend: “Can I help you with something?” 

Me: “I have something to tell you.” 

Friend: “Yes?” 

Me: "It’ssss just thatttt… ummmmm… I… uhhhh.” 

Friend: “Yes?”

Me: “I happen to like the company of women. Like, A LOT.” 

Friend: “I know, Britt, I know.”

*(Or my most favourite response from a dear guy friend of mine: “Britt, I figured that out when I said I thought a girl was hot and you said  ‘I don’t know, I feel like I could snap her like a twig’.”)

I’ve also been known to drunk-text it from a club when I’m out of town.

Pretty much, when I’m drunk, I’m all about the gay.   

The problem comes when I’m sober. There’s no way for me to not be awkward when I come out because all I can think is I’m pretty much just telling you that I like the vag. This is what we are discussing right now. You’re picturing it right now, aren’t you? You totally are. Stop it.

Moving along…

I’m what you might classify as a “femme” lesbian. By this, I mean that I wear makeup and predominantly wear skirts and dresses. La-dee-fucking-da.  I’m not a big fan of these classifications, but for the sake of this post, let’s go with it.  Since I’m ‘girly’, it seems a large portion of our population thinks this means I’m straight.  On more than one occasion, I’ve actually had to argue to “convince” someone I’m gay- and I’m not just talking about the men trying to get at my nether regions.  (As I write this, I’m picturing of a hoard of men, running at my nether regions with torches, protesting my lesbianism as they prod me with pitchforks. As you can see, my experience with men has left a lot to the imagination.)  I never thought I’d ever have to defend my gayness to someone… it seems to me like the strangest thing to dispute. It’s not really a “mother knows best” kind of topic. If I say I like surfin’ the turf, then I like surfin’ the turf. Shut your stupid fucking face.

While I do have to defend my preferences from time to time, I have learned to take the “prove it” remark with a big ol’ grain of salt. In other words, when I hear “You guys are lesbians? Prove it!”, it’s not time to school the sonofabitch on gay rights. To the more naïve twatwaddlers out there, that’s likely someone’s attempt to get you to make-out with another girl in front of them. Don’t fall for it. Or maybe you should… if she’s hot and you’ve been looking for a window. But don’t make out in front of men for their benefit. that’s just stupid. Make out in front of me instead.

Regardless of your sexual preferences, you should never have to defend them (unless you’re into dead things or animals. Sorry bro, but the boat your on is a lonely one and has none of the colourful boas and glitter that I’ve grown accustomed to. You can defend it all you want, but I snap my fingers in your face and give you a “AW HELL NAH.”)  I lost my train of thought when I started thinking about bestiality.

,

Ah, the ol' ‘bestiality diversion technique’. What a classic.  

Got me again, old pal.