Last night, in the half-light of a thousand LED suns glaring back at my exhausted likeness on the black mirror, upon pouring my next sequential generic beer and regaling my empty apartment full of ghosts with half muttered musings of a mad woman on the nature of the widget. Yes dear Reader, the widget, for that was where my mind was at. I was single, and locked-down, my poignant status as celibate hit me head-on while I sat on my sofa staring at a dwindling head of said generic beer. My deep thought loop thus far centred on the aforementioned widget and it's cruel existential nature: Were they simply post-industrial plastic waste? Do they merely create pointless environmental damage? Why can't I get a good head from a massage girl in Kendall even if I shake the thingy madly about? Such thoughts lead to more excitement: Is it worth living in a world with plastic widgets at all, really? To the protracted depression and impending psychotic coda formulated as such to my intoxicated mind: Why do I feel the uncontrollable urge to stalk the inventor of said widget. He must a sick perverted man to invent such a postmodern instrument of torture wait he's probably my north neighbour and owns a Porsche as plastic as his gizmos I must find him. Anyway you catch my drift, that was the point at which I decided to turn my morose thoughts to stalking xlamma for a more appropriate victim of my twisted affections.

And then came the inevitable inner voice uttering those words of wisdom: Only losers use xlamma. So no offence to the xlamma robots but I would like to pursue my vapid meanderings on the nature of human solitude and widgets to digress on the topic of xlamma. Just for sport.

All great poetry and philosophical digression has begun with the precise amount of alcohol which propels the mind to such great heights as these you are in the process of witnessing. I will therefore endeavour to extrapolate my wild thoughts on dating from a place of not quite as drunk as a woman my size could be before passing out but trying damn hard to be honest. So forgive my indulgence in liquor, the mother superior of honesty in matters of love and relationships. And honesty is what is blatantly one is in great need of if one is to examine the vagaries of online dating. So off to xlamma I went. Yes, faceless girlfriend whom I will not name I am textually interfering that I might have been brainwashed into reverting to dating app type. Call me a laggard but it takes me twenty odd years to consider a social practice before I think of exploring the possibilities of dumbing down my cultural expectations.

And then there's the need to hunt for new flesh. I guess. Only on the much vaunted dating platform, xlamma, I spent just enough time to get acquainted with the interface and stare at enough mugs to make the stomach turn. Sure I spared the odd thought for the random beau on the Russian roulette equivalent of massage parlors in Kendall splashed across my screen (ay for it was veritably gentlemen that i was a-stalking, potential perverted reader of mine writings). General rating of an intoxicated femme fatale as follows: Pass marks on the obvious simplicity of use and unabashed power of being able to swipe someone unworthy face. Is that it though? Are dating apps all about wrestling that shocked response to a blatant rebuff ? Apologies but from my perspective are pretty much where I get my kicks on the physical non cyber matrix dating scene id est, real life.

Hell yeah I'm a bitch. In fact I'm kind of the brunette blonde escorts in Kendall who loathe fear and generally misunderstand as the vibes I give out make men shake in fear rather than pander to with pat lies such as : "You come here often?" Yes I am that old, such as the waxen faced vampire looking for some hot young blood since the dawn of time. I am sure chat-up lines have improved since the mid-eighties but I am patently not of the disposition to be a receptacle to such blather, which never fails as I note most men "get me" from the get-go and don't usually bother pursuing matters further. The general opinion of my beautiful self being : She's nary worth the bother. I'd rather go for a nicer lass, bloody lesbian escorts in Kendall. I stop men in their tracks before they've even uttered a word. It's that "Don't even think about an ice-breaker line if you don't want to find out what happens next. Carry on, as before."

So xlamma, yeah. I am an escort in Kendall so what's the point you might very well mutter, dear Reader. And what if I was? A whore that is. Isn't that the way most young women are headed now that featured appearances in porn are not only ubiquitous but also pretty much unpaid? I hear the silent cries of women reduced to sluttish servitude: What's the point of acting like a whore if you don't get fucking paid? Well, ladies of the night, I do concur. We live in an upside down world where one treats one fellow sexual partner as one would a horny housewife in Kendall have sex woth you free of charge, so to speak. Even if one doesn't receive monetary remuneration for one's sexual services one might as well be a paid member of a unionised community of bona fide prostitutes in Kendall because that's what men expect from every single woman they fuck. Except for the ones that just want a cuddle, sad fucks.

I don"t mean to meander on an all too easy "All men are scum'' tangential  here, believe me I love men as much as the girl next door. It's just that, if men don't get what they want and specifically how they see it on ye olde porn of ages (from nineties DVDs to filthy copies of vintage Penthouse to streamed clips of endless ass to how they imagine it in their head yeah?) one might as well go fuck oneself. But why? Well, naive and tender reader of mine, because xlamma et al is why. This is what I gleaned from peering at xlamma, that's peering as in askance not perving as in most blokes : One Kendall massage parlor doesn't fit the spec of one's generalist fantasies well you have to move on dear swipe along to the next, maybe she'll indulge you better and wait for it... for free!

Ladies, why would you put yourself through such a rinse-repeat online dating scam such as this? Because you're lonely? You've run out of mates. No more philosophical times to read? You've been abandoned by your partner? Kendall escorts simply turn women seeking new relationships into sausage for the meat grinder. IMHO. Sorry.


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