My entire time as a freelance fashion designer I just wanted to find a woman to work with in hopes of finding one I could love, but I never could find the courage. I could barely even pitch my clothing designs, and when I finally mustered up the courage to do so, my stutter would get in the way and people would just walk away. In school, I was always the kind of person to not ask for help because I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Everyday was an obstacle with my social anxiety and it seemed like I was never fit for the job. I felt like if I could at least find a woman to love, I could overcome my social awkwardness. As for pitching my clothing designs, I was hopeless.
One day I decided to just quit in pursuit of love, so I chased it in the only way I could think of: personal ads. They are hit or miss, in my opinion. There was one that read as follows:
“Chloe, 22, female. I’m looking for a man who can care for me and has a million dollars…”
Obviously, I could not get behind this because I was broke. I answered anyway. She wrote back “Ew” and that was it.
I saw too many that always had the same theme: money. So I started lying when I responded to personal ads. The most successful one I answered actually led to an actual meet up. Here’s what it read:
“Supermodel looking for an alpha male to set me straight. I have felt the need for a man who can handle me. So I’m hoping one big muscular alpha male can let me see the joy in life. Has to be sympathetic, a millionaire, stable career, 6-foot, owns a Lamborghini Countach and a BMW. Here’s what I bring to the table: I am pretty because I have a decent amount of money from modeling, but that is my pocket money. If interested, hit up, #814-380-0081.”
I instantly fell in love, just like I did with the others. I called the number and a woman answered, “Hello?”
“H-h-h-h-hi. I saw y-your number on a personal a-ad,” I stammered uncontrollably.
“Oh, well, let’s meet up then,” she said abruptly.
I was hesitant, but I felt I could show my worth through my personality. “Ok, let’s meet up,” I said.
She gave me directions to an alleyway in the slums, but I thought, “I won’t judge,” and tried to keep an open mind. I walked down the alleyway. Then a gang walked into the alleyway after me. The guy in front said, “Yo, yo, yo, you that gullible ahh, dude, who thought a supermodel would look for a man through a personal ad?”
“Y-y-y-yes… that’s me,” I replied. “Where is she?”
The gang leader laughed for a while and then responded, “She doesn’t exist, lil’ bro bro. Now anyway, where’s that Countach and BMW? Thought you would have those.”
“I-I-I-I’d bring it on the second da–”
“You’re lying,” he said, cutting me off. “Well, cough up some money then.”
I checked my pockets and only had a few quarters on me. I tossed them to him.
“Not enough,” he said, pulling a baseball bat from out behind him. “Well, if you don’t have money, then let us have a little fun. Come on boys, let’s do our thing.”
Never will I ever try to find love again.
