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Both logic and heavy foreshadowing suggest your “type” includes this hapless vessel for existential dread. In they pour, all corpse-breath and fang: Closet-dwellers.

) Night after night he lifts the sill to call the monsters.

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As a twofold pain in the ass, he’s asked to dinner less often. * “I don’t have a car but I live downtown” On a map downtown looks like a place one might live.

* “I sold my car and have been getting to know the city by bike” (vegan edition) The car was sold out of fiscal necessity, the meat renounced to lend said sale a look of deliberateness. Add “waiting for a cab” to any possible date scenario; consider that sum.

He’ll wait until the second date to mention the DUI.

See also: The Rule of Grad Students) * “kinda broke so no car at the moment” Such frank speech—is it brave or is it shameless?

(This is how we get pickier as we age—pattern-recognition, the erosion of goodwill.) Might as well scare off the weak ones.

So first things first: that profile could be made less patient. Less accommodating— to all the wanderers seeking shelter—you’re not shelter.

Or—no need— let it stand there; you still can’t see it.) But who needs happy when you’ve got all these lemons. Goodbye, finally, to all of you who wrote perfectly nice messages—not crass, not cut-and-paste twee, not mean, (not funny), just perfectly fucking polite and decent messages that conveyed nothing so much as “I am interested in you as a human being,” which I probably ignored, possibly unfairly, my fear of being too much to someone more profound, still, than my wariness of being too little.

Likewise, disappear the fact that naming what you don’t want can’t substitute for knowing what you do. Cheerful often (Isn’t there anything else we can call this? Goodbye getting dressed, and getting dressed, and getting dressed again.

)(But moving on.) Goodbye, trying to think of a bar I don’t hate where I also won’t bump into friends.

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