u s e y o u r h a n d s

Every Friday, the proprietress of the webbity, the lovely miss shylo, chooses several Missed Connection ads and develops a backstory for them. This week, I feature selections from the Chicago Reader and Seattle’s The Stranger. If your town weekly has Missed Connection or I Saw U ads, send me a URL.

BROWN LINE, MONDAY 2/10, 10:50am, between Sedgwick and Merchandise Mart stops. I sat in the handicap seat kitty-corner to your left. You had sandy-blond hair, 5 o’clock shadow. I had a charcoal pea coat, black stocking cap, later shaved dark-brown hair, sporting backpack/ black portfolio case. Me: exited at Mart. You: looked lost with directions in hand. “Can I help you find your way?” is what I should have said. (From the Chicago Reader)

It was horrible. The first interview I’ve had in 14 months and I totally blew it. First, I get there fifteen minutes late. Wasn’t my fault. The HR lady told me to “turn right at the Dunkin’ Donuts” but there were two on that block. Fucking turn where? When I finally got in there, she told me she really meant “turn right at the White Hen.” Whatever. So, I got in there and they started talking to me about the position, the company and I start yawning uncontrollably. Holy fuck.

Angelic White Subaru Wagon. Ubiquitous Subaru, I am lost. Drive to me and steer me to the truth. If you love me, show me or set me free. I saw your Valentine, you have wings, learn to use them. My two wheels are rolling nowhere without you. (From The Stranger)

Sir? Um, sir, please don’t do that. “….” That’s completely inappropriate, sir. People are here with their families. “….” Oh, Jesus Christ, sir. Pull your pants back up. “….” Yeah, I think it’s a lovely car, too, sir, but you just can’t do that. If you’d like to purchase the car…. “….” Oh, God. You’re sick. Get the hell off the lot. Hey, Ted, can you get the detailing guys to take care of this?

the architecture of a kiss. You were walking downtown and stopped to adjust your fishnet stockings…I saw infinity then the wind began to howl through my mind and down the streets. Would love to meet you and bake a cake…not vanilla. (From The Stranger)

Goddamn fishnets. They look amazing, but this particular pair is always shifting in odd ways. But I wear fishnets all the time. I love the first wearing out of the package, but I also like wearing them when they’re shot to hell and have rips in them. The first is my Bettie Page look, the second, my Courtney Love look. Both make me look fuckable, in my opinion.

I THREW GLOVES in your face Sunday, 2/9. Brown Line? Loop? I was trying to toss them off the train for whoever had just dropped them. I tossed too forcefully. Sorry. (From the Chicago Reader)

There are things that I do that can be misinterpreted. I am often told that I am brusque. With the help of Dr. Tim, my therapist, I’ve begun to take a good, long look at how others view me and how I view myself. Turns out, it’s not the same way. I’m going out of my way now, to be nice. Holding open doors, smiling. I’ve been told it looks like growling, but at least I’m on the road to happiness.

Esprit d’escalier of the day: I made an appointment for a lady exam and the receptionist instructed me to “not put anything in [my] vagina for 24 hours.” I should have replied, “Well, guess that means I’ve got to get a wallet.”

Waiting for: my fucking bank card to show up. So far Bank One, you’re just like those assholes at Wells Fargo.

Wearing: Leopard-print Mary Janes with sparkly socks. I keep it real in my slate-gray cubicle.

Overheard: [at work] “Jeremy’s wearing painter pants. I saw you come around and saw the little loopy and thought, “Oh, Jeremy’s wearing painter pants!”

[at work] “Erroneous Monk.”