Monthly Archives: July 2012

A Post-Apocalyptic Dating Profile

My self-summary

I’m a young, fun-loving soldier in the rebellion against our robot overlords. I’m a little shy, but I open up once you get to know me. I love meeting new survivors, long walks on the beaches that the floods are creating every day, and freeing prisoners from labour camps. I’m a very spiritual person; but I’m tolerant of all beliefs, so if any faith you once held in a just and fair God has long since been destroyed, I’m cool with it.


For security purposes, I am unable to post photos. Let’s hope my words do me justice! I’m about six feet tall and severely underweight, with brown hair and green eyes. The scars on my neck where the robots’ control device was removed are worse than average, but my hair covers most of it. Severe exposure to radiation has given me three extra toes. I have a great smile.

What I’m doing with my life

I’m just trying to get by day to day and not worry too much about my future. I would love to travel the world and aid pockets of resistance, but of course the patrolling robot death squads, constant earthquakes and fires, and large stretches of irradiated wasteland are keeping that a dream for now. I hope to one day own a dog that we won’t have to slaughter for food. I’m trying to learn Chinese, but it’s tricky!

I’m really good at

Minesweeping, salvage and CQC are my main talents. I’m also handy around the bunker—if you need a sink unclogged, a shirt mended or an anti-aircraft gun calibrated, I’m your guy! And while I don’t mean to brag, I’m a pretty decent tennis player.

The first thing people usually notice about me

That I’m missing an eye, which I lost in the latest assault on our bunker. Either that or the giant scar on my arm that I got from a piece of shrapnel in the Battle of Brooklyn. Or maybe the hole in my neck where the robots injected my weekly dose of nutrient paste back in my labour camp days. When people talk to me the first thing most of them notice is my wacky sense of humour.

Favourite books, movies, shows, music and food

I don’t read much, but I did stumble across half of the March 2015 issue of Oprah Magazine in the ruins of an old house a few weeks ago. It had a fascinating article on weight loss tips—to think that our ancestors had trouble losing weight! It also had some good home decoration ideas, which I used to spruce up my sleeping capsule.

I enjoy all kinds of music, from marching tunes to propaganda songs. I play the drums in my bunker’s band, Johnny and the Machine Killers, but our bassist was euthanized for resource efficiency purposes after he lost his arms in an artillery strike, and Johnny shot himself after his wife and children were captured and liquidated, so we haven’t played any gigs lately. If you can play the bass or sing, we’d love to have you!

My grandparents told me about movies and television shows, and I hope to one day watch one.

When it comes to food I know most people prefer nutrient paste B, but personally I’m a D man. It tastes how I imagine strawberries tasted before they went extinct. I also like rat meat, but that’s a luxury.

The six things I could never do without

-My standard issue firearm.
-My third cousin, Andrew, the only surviving member of my family.
-My friends.
-My tennis racket.
-My distant memories of the day I saw the sun.
-My standard issue suicide pill.

I spend a lot of time thinking about

What I would do with my life if we somehow win this war. Whether I can reconcile my desire to have children and do my part to keep humanity extant with the cruelty of bringing someone into the living hell that our world has become. Who I’m going to challenge next to a tennis match!

On a typical Friday night I am

If I’m not raiding a prisoner processing facility or bombing a robot munitions factory then I’m probably on guard duty. After my shift I like to head to the bunker’s multi-purpose room with a couple of buddies to kick back and enjoy an ice cold water ration. If my friends are busy or if our water supply has been poisoned again then I’ll curl up in my capsule with a brand new intelligence report for a little light reading.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

Despite general orders to shoot robot operatives on sight, when my best friend was captured, turned into a drone and sent against us, I couldn’t pull the trigger. I knew he was only a husk, that his humanity had been stripped away and that putting him down would have been a mercy. But dammit, I couldn’t look in his eyes and pull the trigger. He’s still out there, killing good people while trapped in a horrible, agonising state of unlife. And it’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.

I also don’t know how to dance.

I’m looking for

-Girls who like guys
-Ages 23-30
-Near me
-For short-term friendship, short-term activity partners, short-term dating, short-term attempts to stave off the horror of our inevitable enslavement or death with a fleeting and ultimately meaningless emotional connection.

You should message me if

You’re looking for a good time!

Coffee Shop Genesis

In the beginning of June the guy who owns that new coffee shop, his name is Josh I think, created the coffee shop. And the shop was without coffee, and void; and darkness was upon the shop, because Josh insisted on wiring the lights himself despite not knowing what he was doing. And Josh said, Let there be overpriced coffee: and there was overpriced coffee. And Josh saw the overpriced coffee, that it was good for profit margins: and Josh divided the overpriced coffee from the other coffee. And Josh called the overpriced coffee House Blend, and the other coffee he called That Crap Tim Hortons Serves.

And Josh said, Let there be a stage in the midst of the tables, and let it divide the tables from the tables. And Josh made the stage, and divided the tables which were under the stage from the tables which were above the stage: and it was so. And it sucked, because it cut off the tables under the stage from the washrooms, and if the stage was in use you couldn’t go to the washroom without looking like an asshole.

And Josh said, Let the House Blend be gathered together unto one place, and let the cappuccino machine appear: and it was so. And the gathering together of the House Blend Josh called the Bar: and Josh saw that it was serviceable, albeit cramped. And Josh said, Let the Bar bring forth baristas, and let the baristas be the arrogant kind who look down on your taste in coffee, then wonder why the tip jar is empty and fret about paying off their philosophy doctorate. And baristas of that kind were brought forth, and Josh thought that it was good, because Josh did not understand the importance of customer service.

And Josh created two manager positions; the greater manager to rule the day, and the lesser manager to rule the night: he made the associate manager positions also. And Josh set them in the back office to give condescending dismissals to complaints, And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light of the day shift from the darkness of the night shift: and Josh saw that it was good. And Josh created poetry slam night, and open mic night, and post-modern art show night, and every other kind of themed night Josh could imagine: and Josh saw that it was pretentious. And Josh blessed them, saying, be fruitful, and fill the shop with people who will pay any price for House Blend so long as I tell them it’s fair trade coffee from Ethiopia, and bring forth writers for local art magazines that only three people read, so that I may post their reviews on the walls and look sophisticated.

And Josh said, Let us make the customers in our image, after our likeness, because only douchebags like Josh would frequent a place like this: and let them have dominion over the tables, and over the washrooms, and over the free Wi-Fi, assuming they don’t just buy a small decaf and use it as an excuse to sit by the fireplace for five hours. And Josh blessed them and said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply your pompous poetry and mediocre Bon Iver covers, and replenish my bank account.

And Josh said, Behold, I have given you several kinds of passable baked goods, and every kind of hippy organic fruit you can get in this city; to you it shall be meat. And to every customer of the coffee shop, and to every hobo that picks through the trash of the coffee shop, I have given every baked good and organic fruit for meat at a somewhat unreasonable price: and it was so. And Josh saw everything he had made, and, behold, it was alright I guess, but it doesn’t stand out from any of the dozen other coffee shops in the neighbourhood.