I was thinking about this the other night when as I was sitting alone, in the dark, with a bottle, and perusing the CL personals. Why doesn't anyone try to make them funny? Here's mine: About me: emotionally constipated American male who is uncomfortable with public displays of affection (including hand holding). I would like to say that I keep a fairly frantic work schedule, but the truth is that most morning roll around and I hit the snooze button. I routinely don't get out of bed until lunch time and I have an unhealthy tendancy to spend the weekends binge drinking with or without equally disillusioned collegues and/or college buddies. I have a natural inclination towards overdressing, and will often mix jackets with old, faded jeans and antique cufflinks. When asked about what I "do for fun," I usually spout some boilerplate about enjoying traveling and volunteering with worthy non-profits, because if I answered truthfully ("I drink like a fish and spend the money I should be saving for retirement on craft liquor and the kind of food that will likely lead to a mild cardiac event before the age of 40") people would label as someone suffering from a self-defeating personality disorder with a side of mild depression. Now, you may be sitting here thinking that I am some sort of unemployed slacker, but I actually have a pretty fucking amazing job servicing investment banks. About you: a single, white female under 30 who is overeducated and underemployed. It would be nice if you felt the urge to start your daily grind by weeping over your Ivy League diploma, then sacking up and riding the cattle cars that compose SEPTA transit to a job working with underpriveleged youth. You probably come from a blue collar, yet semi-affluent background and while you refuse to admit it, you judge guys based on the type of car they drive. Your mother, if she is still alive, likely calls you once a week and reminds you in a passive-aggressive fashion that you aren't getting any younger and she was already building a family by this point in her life. Come holiday time, you lament the horrors that are memories of Christmases past, but plaster on a smile and hug your inebriated father as you regale him with tales of your "worthy" job. Oh, and if you had a massive amount of drama from some poorly chosen roommates, that would be excellent. I do thoroughly enjoy answering phone calls at 1 in the morning to hear about how "Cindy didn't take the garbage out and it was her week to do it and why doesnt she understand that it is such a hassle for you because it means you have to get up 15 minutes earlier but you never are able to do that so you always miss the train and why arent you listening to me? I dont think you love me." Full disclosure? I do not drive a large, luxurious automobile due to the fact that I spend what I imagine to be the montly payment on a lightly used Porsche in my attempt to maintain a fairly rigourous schedule of drinking high end brown liquors and dabbling in recreational drugs. I will probably judge you, openly, when you apologetically admit to me during our first date that you have never heard of the company I work for. I end sentences with prepositons and routinely mispronounce words in an attempt to see if you are actually listening to me. When we walk out of a bar after a date, I will likely pat you awkwardly on the shoulder and say something akin to "see you later, kid." This is not intended to be dismissive or rude, it's just how homes here operates. My regiment of insufficient sleep schedules, borderline alcoholism and processed food has lead to physique that could best be described as pudgy. But it's ok - I counter this by draping myself in expensive clothes. So, if any of this sounds in the least bit appealing, why don't you drop me a line and we can get down to the business of exchanging 2 year old photos we cribbed from our friend's facebook pages because they have soft focus and dim lighting. After a few witty, caustic email exchanges we can meet at some out of the way bar that is crowded enough to not seem like a serial killers haunt yet obscure enough that we wont risk running into coworkers and being forced into the shitty situation of coming up with some cover story so as not to disclose we have resorted to internet sites to find dates that aren't vapid whores or huge douchebags. Then, you know, if all goes well we can get onto the business of building a codependent relationship with a solid foundation of mutual nondisclosure, passive-aggressive acts, petty arguments and sex with the lights off. Focus: What would your painfully true personal ad say?