The ideal candidate will be smart but earthy. You don't have to resemble a young Leonardo DiCaprio, though it wouldn't do any harm. I appreciate bruises, bad haircuts and general raggedness. Please be open to "issues" and "baggage"--I mean, we all have our pet issues, and we're all carrying around some heavy luggage. I'll be patient with you if you'll be patient with me. You needn't be a world-class conversationalist, but then total silence won't exactly do either. You'll have to accept my lousy adulthood, my gradually-plumping belly, my submerged passions--I'm no fuse-burning 22 year-old, not even a spring chicken, and I've taken some blows in my 30 years that have served to dim the glow of my once-bright visage. But if anything, despite it all, my secret hopes smolder more forcefully than ever--come out with me and blow on them, help me to cultivate a small, peacetime flame!
What's that? Peacetime has yet to arrive? Well yes, Afghanistan does still burn somewhere off on the horizon. I'd almost forgotten. But Afghanistan isn't even a proper war, just a bunch of senseless skirmishing out in the poppy fields. Anyway, isn't young, homo love even more urgent and necessary in times of war? There seems to be almost a co-dependency between violence and tenderness, as if one can't do without the other. Do you agree? I'd love to take you up to the train tracks and discuss it at length. It is picturesque up there, the foliage has run rampant, an authentic prairie scene--although the view, I'll admit, is slightly marred by the Golden Arches glowing over at Cermak and Western. Come over and let's drink to Iraq, and may her supposed sovereignty bear some kind of fruit!
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