The Honest Classified
Twenty. Munich. Student. Gemini, which means nothing to me and probably shouldn’t mean anything to you either. What works: three-day stubble on whoever I’m looking at, hoodies, a proper steak. What doesn’t: ugly texts, people doing impressions of other people’s accents. What I run from: the kind of stupid that thinks it’s charming. Special skill: I make an excellent cookie monster cupcake. What my best friend says about this post: nothing, because I haven’t told him. What my ex says: when are we seeing each other? What I say: also nothing. I believe in myself.
I want a woman—not some performatively low-key girl who can’t decide between her third oat milk latte and another sad Spotify playlist, and whose deepest commitment is a carefully curated apartment. You should know what you want. Not in a vision-board way, just in the basic way where you make a decision and stand in it. Not a recreational-boredom type whose sharpest opinion is which sneaker brand to buy next season. Decisiveness is also useful given my total absence of jealousy—if you’d rather be somewhere else, I’ll figure it out before you say it and I’ll be gone without ceremony. Long-distance relationships are genuinely fine with me, for what that’s worth.
I won’t ask you whether I look good or whether my outfit is right. I’ve got that handled. But if you don’t wear the shirt I gave you, or leave your things everywhere, or push my call to voicemail without explanation—there will be consequences. I’m not a romantic. Send me flowers and they’ll be dead in two days and I’ll feel vaguely guilty about it. Ask what I want for Christmas and I’ll genuinely ask for an electric toothbrush. What I will do, without exception, is show up at the start of every semester with a Schultüte—one of those enormous paper cones of sweets that German kids get on their first day of school—whether or not you’re enrolled in anything. This is non-negotiable.
I own 92 records and twelve pairs of sneakers. If you read "sneakers" and thought about food instead of shoes, you might actually be right for me.
I can hold a qualified conversation about not just the current table and last week’s results but an obscure Eintracht Frankfurt derby from 1959 that only the real diehards remember. A previous relationship gave me two nearly frostbitten toes and a broken nose at football grounds. I consider this a fair price of admission.
I’m not entirely sure why I’m doing this, since I tend to always have someone rather than no one—my mother describes this, with generous affection, as impulsive. Maybe I want a specific someone for once instead of just anyone. Besides, I’m probably going to marry my best friend eventually; that part has always been obvious. But right now, just for now, it would be nice. That seems like enough reason.