"Heh... I like that Creepy Craigslist thing you guys do."

I will never tire of random people at events and out-and-about town telling us that they enjoy our show, or even just certain parts of our show. Many people are only able to listen to a short segment on their way to work or school, so it's cool that they choose to tune in to us. Around 9-9:15 each morning, we read a Craigslist Missed Connection from somewhere in the Quad Cities. Besides playing some creepy music, the original post usually speaks for itself, in terms of weirdness. People may eventually learn that they should just go up to a person that they see and say hi! Until then, we'll keep reading them to the delight of listeners.

Today's was particularly creepy and out-there, so enjoy!

I'm pretty sure it's impossible to post here without being creepy. - w4m (Davenport)

And it's a shame, too: something like this should be a good way to reconnect with satellite loves from the past, to stay in touch after someone quits an execrable(!!) job in disgust, or to firm up some fleeting connection in this tempestuous and ruthlessly lonely world.

But this is to you, the one I have barely begun to know: I write to you in a quiet hour with an unquiet heart, in this creepiest of forums, I whisper into this stickiest of internet payphones, no dime paid, dead line audience. Missed connection is right.

There is nothing more rare in the world these days than a heart that can still has the courage to hear itself. In your sudden, stark confession, that diffident admission, what I heard out there was a soul of geodesic depth, of infinite capacity: I heard you that night months ago when you ranted about compassion, I wondered what you said to those two old men who didn't say another unkind word to me that night. This isn't a new thing for me: there have been nights when you were the only thing I looked forward to in that place.

So into this payphone, I insist on it: you will only be alone as long as you choose to be, and when you change your mind that's going to be a fortunate woman. (Aha, the armies of Cyrus couldn't pull this out of me in person.)

I say so little to you, to anyone in that goofy joint. I can't tell you how much I want to. I don't, because I want to. It's like that.

I know you haven't set out to compel me, to spear me so precisely through the heel. We've barely passed ten words, and however my soul may spark I don't want to create a situation, I've been through some heavy situation already as I know you have too. Right now I'm just trying to heal up, I lost a lot of hit points over the last ten years and besides, I've really been a general embarrassment to myself over there. I don't look cool at work these days, ok. Of all the places to meet you, I don't know why it couldn't have been somewhere civilized like a coffee shop where I could at least affect some dignity. It's ridiculous. There are reasons for that but who gives a fuck, this isn't the time.

I'll never be able to tell or explain to you how the compassion you extolled, that brief glimpse of your heart that you gave, that kindness that seems an intrinsic if deeply pained part of you has done a greater mercy than you will ever understand. Life is sometimes an abyss, and even a spark gives enough light by which to navigate. I thought I was dead from bow to stern and what I have felt, even just walking past from time to time, says otherwise. Something beats there still. Thank you.

You'll never know. You're a kind, compassionate and deserving person, and I'm genuinely sorry that you're hurting. I know you have the strength to find the other side again, as you have given me some glimpse of shore in this black water. You'll never know: this is my tired, scribbled paean in the Western Wall, whisper to a dead line audience. You're bright, you're strong and you have a rare and fiercely alive heart, and I'm sure you will escape the shadow and find happiness again. Someone, indeed, cares very much whether you live or die.

Find this one and others and be sure to send em our way! http://quadcities.craigslist.org/mis/4335614688.html

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