I hate everything about this.

Could you imagine what kind of person would read this and say, "Oh, that's about me! I must write them back!" That person is clearly into 34-year-old men who LOL at their own poor attempts at making a move and the pathos of a missed connection posting in general. And Franny and Zooey, probably.

McSweeney's should look into gay porn; I think I've found them a managing editor.

Jackie published on his blog an amazing missed connection he found a few weeks ago. In that spirit, I'm going to publish one that I found over the summer, which was not so much a missed connection as it was a personals ad, but it was one of my favorite things all year. It pretty much serves as an example of everything I hate. It's been passed around amongst friends through email, and I figure it's time to share it with the rest of my Internet family. Enjoy!

I hereby decree that a Gay Hipster Consortium must no longer exist exclusively within the greasy-hair-enveloped minds of Chicago's queer indie crowd. No more shall we secretly admire each other with the steely glances born out of insecurity and envy. Nay, nay: we must unite our musical prowess, our varied film interests, our nerdy bookishness, our love of the obscurely beautiful, our interests that give us the capital-I-indie status.

(But we, of course, must also be able to chortle at ourselves, calling ourselves "hip" and "indie," as though there were anything tangible in these self-definitions.)

If you are already meeting, under the cover of darkness and smoke and sweat, please welcome me into your malnourished arms. If you are dreaming of such a delicious feast of minds and music and men as I am, reveal yourselves: remove your mask of cool indifference and admit that you just want to be surrounded by living mirrors of yourself, each reflecting a slightly different manifestation of your Indieness.

Bless his little heart.