This week’s MC (which comes latelatelate, I know—but if you’re missing it, you can always read the past weeks’. Or, you know, obsessively read MC to the point where it interferes with your social life. But who needs friends when you have the Loneliest Souls on the Internet, amirite?) marks the tenth week of the Miss Connections column. So, as a special feature, the first MC this week was sent in by a fan. If you have ever read the Comments section of any post on SFSF, you will read some snarky and/or inspirational note from a commenter named Susan. She’s my mom.
I know, cute, right?
Well, my mother started reading the Minneapolis MC—yes, I was born and bred in Minnesota, these hips don’t lie—and sent me the following MC, which is especially relevant because it happened RIGHT next to where she works, and because I am my family’s “dirty hippie.” It’s also fucking adorable:
Self Proclaimed “Dirty Hippy” at Dunn Bros. – m4w – 27 (Loring Park)
Dear Self Proclaimed “Dirty Hippie”,
You were sitting close to me at Dunn Bros. this morning, Saturday, talking with a friend/loved-one/telemarketer on the phone and you had an interesting conversation about your first days/weeks in Minneapolis.
Wait, was she talking to each of these three types of people in turn, or do you just assume that she would speak to a friend, a loved one, and a telemarketer in the same way? How many people use telemarketers as tele-therapists? Better question: why doesn’t everyone? It’s not like they’re going to hang up on you.
Yes, I listened to your conversation. I apologize for being so rude, but don’t worry, I’m here to help.
Okay, let’s be real: we all do that. If you’re in a public place, people will listen to your conversation. It’s not eavesdropping if they’re talking about something interesting, I always say!
The subject of bar stools arose near the end of your conversation and whether or not you should purchase some for your new apartment.
At first, I agreed with you and I thought you should wait to get bar stools until you actually have friends to sit in said bar stools. A very wise, logical point. Because, obviously, you would go to buy the bar stools, and the salesperson, the point person for your bar stool purchase, would certainly ascertain as to the use of your bar stools, as an inquiring salesperson is wont to do. And of course, with you not having any friends in the city, you would have to either 1) make-up friends and tell the salesperson that you are having a bunch of your (made-up) friends over for a (made-up) get together (probably Hawaiian/Tiki themed) or 2) tell the salesperson the awful truth that you just moved to the city and don’t have any friends, thus furthering your self-esteem downward spiral. And who wants to buy bar stools in a sad state? I certainly don’t. And I’m pretty sure you don’t either. Buying bar stools should be a happy, momentous occasion.
Right up there with graduating high school and getting married!
I’m fairly certain you would be left weeping over your unused bar stools, cursing their existence. You would have to greet them every morning, filled with hollowed pleasantries. “Hey, Bar Stools! How was your night last night, empty and unfulfilled? Great. Mine too!”
I’m like REAL close to writing an MC for this guy, asking him to be a contributer to SFSF…
But then, as my mind wandered, I read through a couple inspirational quotes and phrases, and I realized, no! No! No, goddammit! Go buy the bar stools and the friends will come! Yes! Go buy the bar stools and their vacant, cushioned tops will call out to soon-to-be friends, yelling at the top of their comforting, bar stool lungs: “Yes, come sit on me! Relish in my proportioned butt to cushion seat ratio! Join me and your new friend “dirty hippy girl that sits on at Dunn Bros. on Saturday mornings” and we shall dwell in bar stool nirvana!” Yes. You just read that last sentence correctly. Defy the odds. Go buy the bar stools and the friends will come knocking. Self-esteem downward spiral be damned!
A newly purchased IKEA bar stool is a friend indeed.
Welcome to Minneapolis.
GET ON THAT NOW
HAIR LIP AND GIANT FACE MOLE BE DAMNED!
—I mean, I can only assume that someone this charming, and actually funny, who is single, and yet lacks the confidence to approach this girl, must have some sort of physical aberration. Or, like, a predilection for brushing his teeth with chocolate pudding or another equally heinous quirk.
As much as I comb Boston’s MCs every week, I cannot read them all, let alone ones from other cities. SO, readers, this is where you come in: send us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses! Send us your MCs with snarky comments! We will post at least one of these things on this blog. (The tired, poor, and huddled masses will also be put to good use…building the world’s most pre-beleaguered army. But that’s another blog post.)
You can send in your MCs with commentary, or just the plain ol’ MC and I’ll put my own spin on it, to: firstname.lastname@example.org.
Okay, enough of the cutesyadorable fuzzy times; let’s get into that creepy shit:
Think you followed me to a gas station – m4w – 27 (Marlborough)
Left the Solomon pond mall, you were in a red Saturn. I think you followed me to rt 20 in Marlborough. I think I should have said hi. I was in a blue car. If I am right and you see this hit me up. I want to buy you drink and see where it goes.
- Malls are meant to attract large groups of people.
- Freeways and highways are meant to provide routes for large groups of people to get from gathering places (see: #1) to any other place on Earth.
So the chances that this guy actually did follow her from the mall to Route 20 are very high. The chances that he did it on purpose, with the Bates-esque intention of seducing this woman via stalking, are right up there with the chances of Dick Cheney living forever: not totally impossible, but God help us all if either one is true.
Though, if this next MC is real, it takes this week’s pixelated cake for Most Terrifying Reality:
Craig Robinson I’m having your… – w4m – 26 (Back Bay)
Being optimistic, I’m going to assume that this sentence ends with, “parents over for dinner and forgot to invite you and all three of us have lost our phones and there was an Internet apocalypse and MC is the only thing left standing.” Because, really, the only other thing she could write, the strangest and saddest thing, is—
Baby in about 4 months.
That’s the one!
It would mean the world to me if you call me. My husband is thrilled to be a dad and is ok with you being part of this. You only get to see your child born once!
Or never, since I thought the best way to reach you was through MC!
I hope this finds you and finds you well.
There are a lot of questions left unanswered here. Like, why did she wait five months before contacting Craig, using the most obscure means possible? Is she working her way up through the forgotten and ignored methods of communication, beginning with Friendster and ending with actually just calling the guy? Why is her husband okay with this? If she slept with Craig five months ago, did she cheat on her husband, or did she get married within the past few months? Or is he a sperm donor? If so, shouldn’t she have a more reliable, and confidential, way of asking him to watch her push a human out of her birth canal?
But the most pressing question really is: How many weirdos responded pretending to be Craig, who weren’t me? I can only hope for a follow-up MC…