The Yearning (Reply)

I’ve never done this kind of thing before.

This is embarrassing. I am not sure where to start.

I read your ad and, I don’t know, something about it really spoke to me. There is a longing in you that I sense in myself, although I’ve never been able to define it the way you did. I mean, I want to share dinner with someone too. I used to love cooking, but now I mostly eat frozen dinners. They cover all the food groups so I get all the nutrients I need, and they’re not always bland. Sometimes the pastas are pretty good.

There are never any leftovers, so it’s a new meal every night. That’s something.

Anyway, my point is that something is missing from my life too. I am looking to be saved too. At this point I’m pretty much willing to sacrifice anything for a bit of love. Only a bit of love, mind you – I’m willing to sacrifice myself for just a few really good dinners, if that’s all you’ve got.

I should probably tell you something about myself. I’m still not sure where to start. You didn’t go into specifics in your ad – I have no idea what you look like, or how old you are, or what you do for a living - so I don’t know if I should do the same. I should be honest, though, regardless of how I go about it. Ok, I am taking a deep breath, and I am telling you about me, and I am telling the truth:

I am plain. There’s nothing really extraordinary about me, but I wouldn’t say I’m boring or ugly. I’ve always hated the word ‘mousy’ – it barely describes anything, I don’t have whiskers or a tail or long front teeth – but I think some people might call me mousy, for whatever that’s worth. I guess I blend in more than anything.

I’ve gotten really used to my life, which most people would probably describe as dull. I work in a doctor’s office. My day is all filing, phones, and old people. I’m used to watching people wipe their noses on their sleeves and cough without covering their mouths. One piece of advice I can offer is, never touch the magazines in a doctor’s office.

I have a cat. I have a couple of good friends, although I spent most evenings alone. I’ve become accustomed to mediocrity, I guess. Things are fine.

I think I may be a cliché. I never intended to become a cliché. Though love is a cliché, isn’t it? Makes sense that I am yearning for it then. I’ve been thinking about that word a lot these days: yearning. I don’t know where it came from (I should do some research, I’m sure it has its roots in Greek myth, all the best words do), but I like the sound of it. It sounds like the noise a baby bird makes. It sounds like longing. It sounds like a really pretty song played on the piano that you hear coming through your neighbor’s window.

Sometimes I get kind of melancholy, as I’m sure you can tell.

But other times I feel like a kaleidoscope on the inside. I mean, if you could see the colors inside me you would be amazed. Sometimes I am amazed that I can hold such a rainbow of color flowing through me. Inside my head and my heart it’s a rainforest of birds and flowers. Sometimes it’s like the sun has exploded and inside me the supernova is pulsing out its last few desperate bursts of light. All I want is love, and I am full to bursting with hunger for it. I would really like to share the colors inside me with someone.

When I read your ad I recognized myself. I think you’ve seen the colors too. I just want to spend an evening on the couch with someone. I don’t want to be mediocre forever.

I might cook myself dinner tonight. If you’re interested, please write.

Room For Advancement

We binge. Left to our childish devices we binge on the empty calories of the deadliest of sins. We binge on complacency. On mediocrity. On misery. We take no pains to put together our meal. Our pantry is stocked. It’s always on sale, lining the shelves of every life experience we have ever partook in. It comes in a single-serving box.

Open memory side up.

Pour it into a day.

Add life.

We wake up, we throw up, it isn’t healthy. But we don’t care. The morning comes too early to prepare. Or it comes too late to forget. The meal will do. The pantry’s stocked, so we’ll never go hungry. We’ll always starve.


The following was found, posted on heart, in a dream, where written words are sounds and hidden meanings are feelings:


I’ve never placed an employment ad before; I never needed to. I always thought I was self-sustaining. I feared I wasn’t. So, I’m not sure if this is the right place for it, though I’m not sure any place is “right” for it. Forgive me my lack of certainty. It is not all I offer. Its presence is not at all what I require.

I need a partner. Someone to provide the checks and balances missing in a world full of food and empty of chefs. A single person dedicated to setting aside a large part of their life for the nutrition of another. An entity willing to provide slight slavery in exchange for overwhelming partnership.

It sounds like a lot, but really it isn’t. I don’t ask for the world. Just yours. Just mine. You see, I’m tired. I can’t do it on my own anymore. I’m not even sure if I ever knew how to do it. But something deep down tells me that with you – with a partner dedicated to the pursuit – I could do it.

The salary is simple, the recompense plain: reciprocation. Total and complete. I cook for the hand that feeds me, and I offer the ingredients that I request.

You needn’t have any experience. I think that knowledge of life will make you too old. Most people say that “you must be willing to learn” but not so for this position. You must be willing to let me teach you something. I must be able to show you something new.

Naïveté will also disqualify you. Every dancer must know the pain of real training and effort if they are to put on a professional show. If you are to dance with me around my relentless demons, you must know demons yourself. An artist is never innocent.

You don’t have to be a super-model. That, too, is certain failure. The eyes, the ears, the touch – the very heart – is discriminatory. I will never deny that. I am looking for perfection, but perfect partnership is not found in a concept of flawlessness. How could a painter paint with uniformity? Let us be colors – terrible, terrific colours. To mix, to mingle, and to find new shades in every blend. A painting should never be finished, and it should always be beautiful. Preference will be given to the laughably passionate.

You don’t need to be single, but let’s be clear: devotion is essential. Your relationships may not survive. They will be asked to take a back seat. Late nights, lost weeks, eternal memories. Whole halls enshrined. I’ll claim no responsibility, because I am giving you the advantage of transparency right at the start. This life can’t be microwaved. If it grows cold the meal is finished, and I’ve already wasted enough passion to feed a nation. I cannot bear to waste another drop. I will not let someone who uses a backburner into my kitchen.

Applicants will be discriminated against based on their histories, their passions, their moral choices, their circumstances, their company, their rationale, their interests, their eye contact, and their heart.

My world deserves nothing less.

Successful applicants will have the following: A helpful disposition. A natural sense of motivation and self-sacrifice. A ceaseless zeal for thinking big. And you must believe in me. You must be interested in every facet of me. You must love me.

Save me.