I need a girl who’s a total loser but not bad looking. Who some other guy hasn’t got to first. I need a girl who has no job no car no place to live but not because they smoke crack or some shit. I need a girl who’s smart but no education. Could some day be a good mother but not a girl from a good family, ever– no one who talks to her dad. None of this good college Fortune 500 shit, I need a girl who earns minimum wage at the water store but doesn’t feel compelled to describe herself as CEO of me incorporated or some girly Etsy shit. Ambition makes me puke. I need a girl with no pets no friends who’ll move in with me and shut the fuck up while I play the The Witcher 3. Not even The Witcher 3— I play The Witcher 3 so my Witcher 3 character can play Gwent, the game-within-a-game in The Witcher 3. A girl who won’t talk while I’m playing Gwent all night. Just watch. Continue reading
Previously on Passions:
October 16, 2012
from: Angela Euna Kim (firstname.lastname@example.org)
to: Filbert B. Kim (email@example.com)
Lexus of Alhambra called me this morning. A man told me that my monthly payment was not made on time. I was at brunch with my friends and I don’t need to tell you how embarrassing it is to receive a call from a creditor regarding a late payment when your friends can clearly hear what is being said over the phone. YOU did not make the monthly payment on time and they are assessing a $100 fee and additional interest, and if there are three more late payments the car is in danger of being repossessed (!)
How could you allow this to happen? YOU need to take care of this right away. You also need to call on mom’s car and make sure her latest payments are up to date. Please do this right now. If mom got a call from a car dealership telling her she was a deadbeat she would be mortified.
Fuck. The fucking car payment.
October 16, 2012
from: Filbert B. Kim (firstname.lastname@example.org)
to: Angela Euna Kim (email@example.com)
Why don’t you just call it what it is, you idiot– a fucking Toyota. A fucking Toyota Camry, except, that wasn’t expensive enough for you. You needed a Toyota Camry that cost eighty thousand dollars. Because you liked the color. Metallic teal. And probably because you thought the raghead salesman was handsome. You fucking whore.
You bought it because you liked the fucking metallic teal, and the voice of the onboard computer. It was easy for you to plug in your god damn earpiece that’s glued to your head like fucking Robocop and make calls where you talk about nothing to your muppet-faced USC friends. What did you even have to talk about, before you had that fucking car? Grey’s Anatomy? God forbid you should pick up a fucking book. I should have killed you when I had the chance. Continue reading
I gotta be honest man. You have the best profile I’ve ever read. Both in terms of being well-written, paced and humorous, and also as probably able to wrangle in more women than any other jerkoff profile I’ve seen. Respect.
That being said, I’m curious if you could give me your thoughts on my profile. I know it’s kind of a lame thing to ask, but fuck it, you get it. Do you have any advice for me on how to better attract chicks on here?
OK, well first of all, thank you for saying such nice things. I like my profile, too. I get a lot of these emails because of reddit users briefly discussing me months ago. And most of my visitors are dudes from out of state. So, thanks guys. I wish you were nubile young women from Southern California, but, fuck it. At least someone gives a shit.
But I should tell you– I get an incoming email from an actual girl in my age range about once every two weeks. If this is in fact the best profile on the entirety of OKCupid, and I am a six foot one athletically built white guy who is gainfully employed in a major metropolis, and this is the unsolicited message yield one can expect from an “original” and “humorous” profile, men are genuinely fucked. Plus my response rate on outgoing emails is about fifty per cent, my phone number rate when I ask this fifty percent for it is about fifty percent, the call back rate when I leave a message is about fifty per cent, and the amount of dates that actually result in sexual intercourse or wanting to see the other person again is fifty per cent, and so on. I am in a Zeno’s paradox of pussy where you are walking halfway of halfway of halfway along a wall forever and by the time all the hoops are jumped through the possibility of having an actual relationship is functionally zero. So even if this profile is so fucking great, it’s like– the most lethal Nerf weapon ever invented. There’s just not much you can do. Continue reading
Somebody called me “attractive” last night. For the first time that it was actually meaningful. Because every other time it’s either been:
a) in response to my saying “Jesus Christ, my face looks like it was hit with a fucking shovel.”
b) a horny gay guy trying to get laid or
c) an even less attractive friend saying “Jesus, you must have it so easy, you’re attractive.” To him, I am “attractive” just like to a Somali war orphan the guy clocking fifteen grand a year at Arby’s is “rich.”
Or it was my friends, or my girlfriend, or my mom, etc. I don’t believe any of them. For my entire life it has been my absolute bedrock belief that I am a hideous unlovable mutant whom no woman could let her eyes linger on for even a second lest she gag. And this is borne up by reality, because no women ever look at me, talk to me; no woman ever makes the first move to approach me, ever. Gays do it all the time, but you know, I hit on fat chicks all the time. Gays want to fuck me the same way a drunk guy wants to fuck his couch. Continue reading
You know how it is. Lotta fatties on OKC. Your first harbinger of this— I mean, besides everybody knowing that the internet is full of fat chicks, this fact having suffused our popular culture, etc.—your first harbinger of this is the weight class list it makes you pick from, which has like two words for skinny and fifteen different kinds of fat.
Because of course we all know “average” means fat. These eighteen to thirty-five year old L.A. girls are generously assorting themselves according to the national average across all age groups. Not the average for eighteen to thirty-five year olds in Los Angeles, California, as a reasonable layman would expect “average” to mean when looking for that age group in this city. These girls are following the letter of the law and not the spirit, like Hasids who string yarn along the telephone wires on their block so they’re technically in an enclosed space and can walk around on the Sabbath. So “average” means fat.