InsaneJournal

Wanted: Fuck Buddy.
Stipulations: You don't call me the next day to talk about your emotions. You don't even call me the next day unless it's to see if you're spending the night. I like beer, whiskey, and pizza, I like my coffee black, and I don't keep cream or sugar at my apartment. If you want that shit, run to the store. I welcome offers of random takeout foods, but no MSG.

Complicated Emotional Bullshit is not an option. If you can't fit that bill, don't even bother messaging me.

I'm quirky and I'll be the first to admit it, and I don't take any shit, but I can drink with the best of them, and I'm not afraid of meeting you in person so you can see for yourself that I'm exactly who I claim to be.

You can even run a background check, son.

A british accent would be nice for reading me the phonebook a Chinese Takeout Menu one of my Gun Manuals afterwards, but isn't necessarily a requirement.

Wade, just no. And all of you Feds? Don't worry, this isn't a business transaction, so go sniff for idiotic prostitution announcements somewhere else, like Facebook.