SWM in dead-end job seeks dumpy neurotic for mutual psychological torture, tepid sex, and co-dependency.  I enjoy drinking, smoking, pornography, and self-righteous indignation. I can’t stand movies, and the last album I bought was The Marshall Tucker Band’s Greatest Hits.  I have middling intelligence but try to appear smarter by  affecting a world-weary air, memorizing useless facts, and  chuckling at my own mean-spirited, agenda-driven jokes.  I’m 32 but look 40 and feel 60. You are: a whiny, bitter shrew with a misplaced sense of entitlement and unrealistic expectations.  In time you will become coolly hostile when I don’t fulfill every unmet need you’ve ever had.  Bonus points if you just finished boinking every guy in town and but now want to take it slow with me. My perfect night would include getting hammered in a sh*t-hole bar while you flirt with seedy old drunks, followed by an embarrassing screaming match.  I would be open to an unsatisfying fling that leaves me filled with regret and dread but prefer a long-term, soul crushing descent into booze and pills.  No friendships. I don’t need any damn friends. Age unimportant, but I will condescend to women under 30 and rehash mother issues with women over 40.  Serious replies only, please.

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