Unboring Hangout Friends First (Seoul)
Date: 2009-11-30, 12:36PM KT
Be attractive. Know how to dress with a sense of style- no need to wear Helmut Lang if you know what I mean. But if you do possess one of his write me. Be located in Seoul, preferably above the river. The season's arrived. Be comfortable with hanging out at upscale places now and then. I am cute and petite, so don't be fat. Don't be smaller than 5'9 or taller than 6'1 either.
Considerations:
Have a style and don't say you enjoy going to the museums here. Good command of written language. Extremely well-educated guys whose intellects also allow them poignantly aware that being smart doesn't necessarily get them very far, and many times left feeling empty, baffled and dumb. Old-fashioned decency, manners and compassion- a huge plus point.
I am not interested in what you do as much as how you look. When you reply please send me a pic along with your answers on the essential requirements.
- Location: Seoul
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
I Am A Man of no Modest Aplomb
Who am I, you ask? I have so many epitaphs: the Jali tribe of Papua-New Guinea calls me korno baba, meaning “white poet-king” in their moribund tongue; the tabloids call me “The Godfather of Gauche”, referring to my extensive wardrobe and sundry collection of priceless adornments; and the Zurich chapter of the Bilderberg Group calls me its most important member! (that last one was written by man-servant Mandalay who, against my wishes, is attempting to pursue a career in comedy) You, however, can simply call me Anton: tomb-hunter, gamesman, adventurer, and gentleman explorer.
There is one aspect of your posting that raises some alarm, however – your inferred appreciation of Helmut Lang. The whole affair sounds so… noveau riche. Are you simply sowing your oats with the lower classes as I once did as a disaffected youth in the bazaars and opium-parlors of Marrakesh? For, you see, I would never be associated with such rubbish. My suits are made only by the skilled hands of a 119-year-old Genoese friar, and only from the most supple fur of the yellow panda.
What’s that? You say there is no such thing as a yellow panda? Bah! You are only displaying your own ignorance! Clearly you have never studied cryptozoology or attended Thelemic occult rituals in the ossuary of a Hungarian castle. Remove yourself from my sight, you common urchin, lest I command man-servant Mandalay to do it for you!
I’m sorry I was uncourtly there for a moment. I am simply so… on edge. You see, lately my half-brother Cecil - damn him for the illegitimate half-Creole he is! – has been increasing his attempts to purloin me of our father’s inheritance. I can sense him every night, hovering in his dirigible just outside my bedchamber window, pulling on his moustache as he conjures diabolical plots.
My time may be short. Reply to me… make haste! I can hear the ivory tip of Cecil’s cane tapping along the marble floors of Blackwater Manor as we speak!
| show details 6:13 AM (17 hours ago) |
So you are basically what.. a prince or something? Don't you think you play video games too much?
I am willing to be acquainted with a deliciously delusional person, so let me know where your highness resides and how he looks like in layman's terms and modern tools.
I am Korean, not as feisty as my post might sound. Though I am not going to take my superficiality label back, so suit yourself.
| show details 6:58 AM (17 hours ago) |
A prince? My, my, no dear lady - any title of "prince" I may possess is simply honorary, such as has been bestowed upon me by the Raj of Hindu Kush and Sultan of Songhai.
No, I am just a common man. My father was a wealthy New England rubber magnate and my mother a Spanish wet nurse. Like most children, I spent my childhood between society galas in the New World and caravan crossings in French Algeria.
I must say, I have mixed feelings about your ethnic... dilemma. You see, as the scion and sole remaining heir of the Blackwater estate it is expected of me that I marry among my own kind, the blue-blooded families of New England. That isn't just an expression, by the way: open my veins and you'll see my blood is indeed blue, a sign of true breeding! My father, however, broke from this tradition when he married my mother, in secret, one thundering night on the Spanish Isle of San Cristobal. So, while I am loathe to further dilute my bloodline, I do have my father's legacy to live up to.
You want to know my physiognomy, you say? Well, I have a broad, strong chest due to countless hours of Tropian Island honor-grappling, lean, muscular legs from sundry excursions up ice-clothed peaks, and a chiseled, jutting jaw - a hallmark, if you care to see the Blackwater family portraits, of my distinguished lineage.
Shallow? You believe I think you shallow? Nothing could be further from the truth! As my childhood tutor, Hanno of Alexandria, once instructed me, beauty brings us closer to god (in his case, the Hellenic god Aesclepius, that serpent-bodied trickster my master revered with such fervor!). I assume a woman who appreciates beauty, or as you put it, "only cares about how you look", has a rich and fulfilling intellectual life. I myself can have quite the critical eye - why, just the other day I was entertaining the Baroness of Saxony and noticed a patch of dry skin beneath her left ear, no doubt the product of her ancestor's dalliances with those dubious Hapsburgs!
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Blackwater! You dare show your face, revealing to me, Leon Cavalier, First Captain of the High Order of Nephilim, the location of your sanctum sanctorum? The time draws near when your insidious line will be thwarted and the Bands of Cytorrak will be mine once again!
You'll find my man Mandalay more than capable of handling your average time-traveling Gnostic cult. try as you might, you will never get the anti-life equation!
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