My friend Sarah recently directed me toward the profile of a person who messaged her on a dating website. The message was an extremely fruity poem, soliciting her for “perhaps a spark of conversation?” As this person’s profile lists him as “Seeing Someone” already, we judged him ripe for ridicule and had a good laugh at the expense of his absurdly pretentious and sensitive profile. We decided to each try a hand at translating this flowery tripe, just like the margin notes of a Shakespeare play, and here is my take. Strap yourselves in!
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My Self-Summary: I remain invisible, hidden by the wings of the night. Some believe that they have seen me, yet it is never I.
(Translation: His ex-girlfriend broke it off with him after becoming frightened by his creepy, unhealthy devotion to her. For awhile he followed her around, “coincidentally” bumping into her in public places, asking how she was doing…to the point where long afterward, every time she sees someone who looks like him at the club, her heart still leaps into her throat.)
What I’m Doing With My Life: I lurk in the shadows of the city streets looking for the most original little shoppe of the evening or facade producing shadows worthy being photographed in black and white. I empty a mug of fine stout (thick as soup) or cup of tea in a moody pub, have a competition of drawing obnoxious ducks on napkins. Books are good friends, so is a telephoto lens which is unfortunately too large to carry around at all times.
(Translation: The life of a true artiste gets lonely. Good thing they have “shoppes of the evening” to cater to the needs of a bachelor in the city. After loosening her up with some fine stout and some duck-drawing (she’s played along with much kinkier stuff for $300 an hour), he’ll take her to his place and try to get some artistic telephoto shots of her facade-producing shadows.)
The First Thing(s) People Usually Notice About Me: My height or perhaps my apparently mismatched pair of shoes. I have also heard a comment about my hands from a rather lovely and quirky stranger whose name regretfully eluded me.
(Translation: He worked as a clown at children’s birthday parties for awhile, until little Dylan’s sixth, where his “quirky stranger” mom found the two of them behind the toolshed and made a comment about his hands to the police.)
My Favorite Books, Movies, Music, and Food are:
.books
.movies
.music
.food I do like to get creative, adventurous even, with my sandwiches that some consider “seriously whacked” or order – when in a foreign lands – dishes that others consider “risky”. I love Haribo Gummie Bears, especially the European version with boneless gelatin.
(Translation: Live fast and eat hard, that’s this man’s motto in life! His parents always told him his adventurous, “risky” eating would get him in trouble one day…but he’s a techno-savvy member of the “dot-food revolution”, so he lives every day on the knife’s edge (the same one he uses to cut his “seriously whacked” sandwiches in half). Wheat bread? He’s feeling dangerous today…make it rye! As long as nobody finds out that he secretly gets the boneless Gummi Bears. He’s crazy, but even he’s got limits, man.)
The SIX Things I Could Never Do Without: Cyan skies, high mountains, wide road, loaf of bread, escapades and adventures originating from a quality companionship.
(Translation: He tends to go a little too fast with women, wanting to get to the “escapades” before she’s ready. She’s okay with his no-holds-barred sandwich lifestyle, perhaps is even turned on by it a little, as she admits with a giggle to her girlfriends. But she’s just not ready for that weekend in the high mountains, or to introduce that loaf of bread into the bedroom.)
I Spend a Lot of Time Thinking About: Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries, where are the poets to breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary?
(Translation: None of his friends showed up at his spoken-word performance down at the cafe…AGAIN. I know Mother Earth needs saved, but how do these environmental poetry readings keep happening just when he comes up with the perfect monologue about a turkey and watercress sandwich on whole wheat?)
You should message me if: I collect woos and comments, store them in a little red pouch. Will you add to my collection? Will you make the ones I have got a tad less lonely?
(Translation: This is the same pouch in which he used to store the severed fingers and toes of his “dates” (that pouch wasn’t always red), before he went on his journey of discovery at the State Hospital. After, when he reclaimed it from the evidence locker, he figured it was a shame to let it go to waste.)
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Note to guys: There’s being sensitive, and then there’s pompous horseshit like this. But I’m not complaining. Compared to this guy, I look like the Marlboro Man. Now if only I would get more risky with my Gummi Bears.
