Literature has given me a fool-proof way for you to attract the interest of a potential spouse or conspirator.
Dig a grave by hand in front of the object of your affections. The effort and the degree of caring it exhibits seems to be the biggest literary aphrodisiac around. Of course, the biggest problem with this method of attraction is that most people don’t have spare corpses on hand at just the right time. You know how it is…you are just never ready for love when it comes along. Now, I highly advise NOT murdering the nearest coworker or annoying relative in full view of the target. Whatever points and cache you earn by interring the remains is likely negated by being all murdery. It sends really conflicting messages, too. “I’m callous!” “No! Wait, I’m Caring!”
So I’ve yet to figure out a time when one would be around BOTH sloppily-placed cadavers AND sexyfuntime hot men. Maybe at a showing of _Magic Mike_ in the theatre. “See, Channing Tatum, how desirable I am? I’m caring enough to dig a grave for this thoughtless teenager murdered by that grumpy woman in her 40s for talking on his cellphone during the previews.” Granted, this only works if Magic Mike is actually a movie like The Purple Rose of Cairo. I suspect if it were we would have heard by now. “That werewolf dude from True Blood totally took my box of Junior Mints! What a JERK!”
The only other times I can concoct what I’m calling the “Bury Bodies; Bear Your Soul” method are wartime–too dangerous, too hard on makeup–and hospice work. I didn’t say it was a perfect plan.
I first encountered this method in Harry Potter of all places. When someone close to Harry is murdered in the wars, he buries the individual in a sandy beach. (He’s a 17 year old wizard, not a geologist. He clearly doesn’t understand that sandy graves have a way of, um, undoing.) A quasivillain Harry needs to enlist in his plans views the event and decides that Harry is–different. Clearly the quasivillain isn’t a geologist either, because he thinks the actions are admirable cause to trust Harry’s Game.
Then last night I was finally–finally, finally–reading Lois McMaster Bujold’s Shards of Honor. In that book one character proposes to another, saying that he knew she was the dame for him when, yep. That’s right. She dug a grave. Well, in truth, she started the grave, did a crap job and let him take over. So there is that whole “oh me oh my! Gravedigging is soooo hard! Mr. Strong Person, won’t you help me out?!” learned helplessness trick going on. I hate that. But I guess she needed to even the score because as seductive as shoveling a fellow soldier into eternal rest must be, vomiting in front of the love interest pretty much undoes all that. So you’ve got to bring out the girly big guns.
There you have it, my single friends who are looking to be coupled. Maybe you could invest in one of those Real Doll things and just cart it around with you. Hang out in the park next to it and then when a cute man walks by, ask him if he has a shovel.