Looking for Love: Must be Early 20s with Domestication Fetish

At the age of 22, I have a favorite sponge brand. Sometimes, I sniff my bathroom cleaners to see if I’m feeling lemon-y fresh or plain bleach for the week. I salivate over the Dyson vacuums in Macy’s Home Store. I’ll say it: I have been thoroughly domesticated. 

For example, I get horny in the grocery store when I see the asparagus is on sale for $1 a bunch. Some people may think that asparagus piss is a plague, but I think the greeny piss is akin to Chanel Eau-de-Parfum because the vegetable is fiber loaded and antioxidant rich. To carry the odor is a badge of geriatric honor, and a huge turn on. 

I am seeking a like minded individual with the same abhorrent fetish for the responsible mundane. I want a motherfucker/someone who mentions their joints creaking when it’s cold out despite the fact that they are in their early twenties. I want to be properly fed (a balanced meal with overcooked veggies and all), in a house with heating and AC and a redundant amount of blankets, and happily scroll through my Target app to examine my custom coupons. Because of me, Hallmark stores will have to start stocking condoms next to their seasonal displays. Don’t even get me started on Marshalls, Costco, and Joann Fabrics; you think those suburban Meccas close when they say they do? The lights do get turned off, but everything else, including me, gets turned on.

And so, with this ad, I accept that I have a domestication fetish. I fall into league with adults who earn a stable income and say phrases like “my insurance deductible” and “mortgage rates” at office happy hours. You know what’s really sexy? Making the boring decision. Are you risk averse? Are you free tonight? These are dangerous times. Doesn’t a little responsible reasoning make you want to take your clothes off? Hit me up, baby!