Cupid’s Matchbox: A Virtual Romance

poemsNpaint
19 / F / Gay / Single
Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada

Last Online: a month ago.
Ethnicity: Klutz and screwball poet.
Height: 5’7′, a plausible lie.
Body Type: A nomnom hoarder.
Diet: It’s odd, the way animals taste.
Smokes: No way. It’s a metaphor for cancer.
Drinks: Coffee, Chai tea, and your hair.
Drugs: No. (Maybe the arsenic in showtunes.)
Religion: God’s a bisexual chick without her own website.
Sign: Of what? Sanity? No.
Education: I read ketchup packets and Western Phil.
Job: In school. I can’t tell why.
Income: Broke. Klutz and screwball poet.
Offspring: Not sure. Raised by family of blame.
Pets: No. Hypothetical cats.
Speaks: English, French, chat, and advice.

When I was 2, to everyone’s horror, I cuffed myself with a toilet seat and made it my subnormal necklace for days. I think I’m like that, now; I believe in the scatterbrain stuck-ness of life. Interpret that how you will. I cook and write and make bad jokes as unfortunate half-brothers to love. I want love?the campy screwball kind from Some Like It Hot?so I’m working toward it. Maybe you’re crazed enough to help? I make up hilarious lies and try to scatter them through my talk like commas. I’m also a poet of overcast days; at 13 I caught blue ink religion and the old-timey song in my off-key lungs. I get the geeky Jeopardy! questions and do well on Philosophy exams.

But I might require some better news, even though there are always frenetic friends or Richard Hugo poems to love. I’m not too picky, but I thought I’d make Oxford or at least learn to care about school by now. University isn’t at all like the movies; I read without literature in my heart. All over the house I find stacks of books I’ve never read, loose chickpeas in the wash. I’m not the most figured-out kind of adult.

But hey?I’m wearing pants right now, and each day at exactly 8:30 AM I try to brush my metaphorical hair. Someday I’ll live in an award-winning home and bake elaborate nomnoms for tea, publish poems and maybe delicious cookbooks on your picky-eater cuisine. You’ll be a book I never edit, a kind of cholera I catch. Sorry I’m online and crazy. Maybe it’s the thing to be.

poemsNpaint?New Message from freehugsv!

Dec 1, 2011 – 3:31pm

Ha! ha! ha! I hear you’re a poet.
Scatterbrained lover, too.
I’m real. I write. I compose
to love. Am I what you lack?

Reading you, you seem so able.
So do you like fun? Do you like liking
A person songlike and brainy as you?
I’m brainy. I am, though I didn’t
graduate from college or a first wet
kiss. Your interests?what? Scat songs?
Compost? Hearing back? I hope to hear
back. I loved love. I hear you. Really,

I’d like to like, to randomly read
your back, your profile…a funny
poetry to love. I hope you’re
interesting. Really. I hope that.
I hope unique reads can be love
to poets. I compose my hope.
I compose and compose. Hope
to hear your scatter-brained song.
freehugsv
22 / F / Gay / Single
Waldoboro, Maine (296 Kilometres)

Last Online: Just yesterday.
Ethnicity: Chocolate-Caucasian desire.
Height: An exuberant 5’1.
Body Type: A Cerebral Palsy poem.
Diet: Okra, beans, and glee.
Smokes: No. (Maybe the scent of a woman?)
Drinks: Bright smiles and herbal tea.
Drugs: I get high off laughter!
Religion: The alchemy of love.
Sign: A star.
Education: The miraculous college of Earth.
Job: Wheelchair choreographer. Officially, I fiddle with words.
Income: A million-dollar daydream.
Offspring: I’m cuckoo; I’d like kids.
Pets: Four philosophical cats.
Speaks: English, Spanish, sexual suggestion.

I step-dance to the animal music of life. I sautee lyrics and poems ’till they burn with passion, sense your soul by touch and grow, like bok choy, a belief in your love. A beanlike beauty who hangs out with myself (most days) and nurtures a fine arts fancy. I like to heal phantom pain and journal the jewel-like genetics of Earth. Interests: elephants, typewriters, travel, hugging Elton John.

Born with a homocreative heart; 22.5 weeks. 1 lb, 1 oz. I’ve heard I’m miraculous. I’ve heard I’m determined. But really the miracle, million-one chance is to be. I write poems and a physical opera on the thrill of my differently-abled eyes. But I’d like to feel the smart of love. I’d like to traverse the pan-romantic world? India,Italy, Mexico. All sequels to your Celtic kiss.

You’ll pique my memory if your hair runs like water, if you bloom on reading foreign books, and most of all if you’re Tori Amos. If you’re not, then be a music I’ll dance to, a pretty vegetarian. Be everybody.

I’d like us to speak a loyal language, suggest books in an ESL of emotions. The bluest butterflies are my favorites. Yours, too. You laugh and laugh and laugh. Message me for colorful wigs, common interests, an antique love. Just message me.

freehugsv?3 new messages from poemsNpaint!

Jan 14, 2012 – 11:33pm

Hello! (Odd dilemma, hope.)
I watched you first. I’m completely
Sadie, never you. Weird
etiquette, calling you hope.

I feel joy by fluke; I logged
a month and a half of ‘sorry’s
in subzero cold. I ran to life?
a silly calling. Your smile
frolicked outside, vibrant.

Passion ate my focus;
seems Cupid is contagious.
I am fascinating, really.
I admire love. I watch
how the world is you.

Jan 14, 2012 – 11:33pm

No lie to your love. Interesting.
I work to fasten your bilingual
smile to summer?guide to
a renaissance nation. I find
and find you in potent life
without the cost of thinking.

But I think cartoonish Canada
is fucked without you. By next year,
beavers and hockey will get beaned
in the teeth by love. I’d like to clothe
you in love. Would you like that?
A sort of art, you and I. I’ll dress you,
tour you with renaissance hands.

January 14, 2012 – 11:33pm

I bum around in school
with no real direction,
except to you. I want
to write in the lilt of you,
not French. Could I be
a scholar of you?

I’d like to learn the tune of you
on the fiddle of your back.
I want to travel outside
my pride of problems —
live on a Caribbean island,
or go to you in Maine.

I guess I grow everywhere,
without a home. I’m hurled
like a ship on a tripped up sea.
I still pretend to know
how to stop.