Talking about myself is way more fun than typing about myself. When I talk, I gesticulate wildly and swear a lot; also, my self-deprecating charm doesn’t seem quite so much like a desperate plea for flattery.

I like lots of stuff, but I’m fickle. What I like today, I’ll hate tomorrow. What I hate, I’ll defend in argument because being being contrary is easier than being sincere. There are some constant loves of my life: old tea-cups, second-hand detective novels, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice, the sound of an orchestra tuning up, the smell of cinnamon, Thrills gum, and historical scandals. I'm vaguely aware of what "good taste" is, but I haven't got any.

I wouldn’t like to meet a “good-hearted man,” or anything of the kind; I’m pretty sure those are common enough in one’s daily life. My time here should be spent looking for some frightening, basement-dwelling, Norman Bates-ish types of men. I’m talking about men who haven’t left the house in 12 years because their masturbation schedules won’t allow it; misogynists with criminal records; men with children who are older than me and ex-wives who are younger...

...In short, I'm looking for men whose frantic desperation is second in strength only to their halitosis and genital-related insecurities.

Assuming you're paying for dinner, I'd probably eat too much then deny you sex because I feel bloated.