Search
Hunt for a weird request worth doing. Keyword, category, price, or how soon it ends. Your call.
Showing 15 on page 3.
Bathrooms, elevators, dressing rooms, gas station restrooms. Forty-seven mirrors, forty-seven lipsticks, forty-seven selfies. Number them 1 through 47 in the filenames; log the location for each. Deliver as a single PDF photo book. I will know if you reuse a mirror. I will be counting.
I'll send her name, her cadence (we have voicemails from the 2014 era), and the one thing only she would know. Don't be cruel. Be sweet. Make it sound like she's been thinking about him. He'll go pale. Then he'll laugh. Or he won't. Either way, the audio is mine.
I'll mail scans of pages 22–47 (1999, junior year, the bad year). Find any park bench, read them quietly to your phone, 38 minutes. Don't perform. Don't flinch at the embarrassing parts. Just say the words. I want them out in the world.
He sees the street from his window. I see his window from his couch. I want him to wonder. Six weeks, same time, same flower. Don't make eye contact with the building. Just walk. Don't stop. Don't look up. Single phone photo from across the street each week as receipt.
Different handwriting each one. Coffee shop downstairs, his car windshield, the gym locker, his briefcase. The notes don't accuse — they reminisce. He's been faithful for eighteen years. I just want to remind him of all the women who could have been the wrong choice. I'll send the notes and the access. You handle the placement.
Three paragraphs. Mature, devastating, no anger. The version where she leaves with grace, where I understand exactly why, where I don't spend the next four years wondering. Plain text doc. I'm going to read it once. Then delete it. Then I'm going to be free.
I ship you a sealed box. You open it on camera, one item at a time, in real time. Hold each thing up to the light. Set them down in a row on the floor. Don't speak. No music. Forty minutes minimum, vertical MP4. Whatever you keep, you keep. Whatever you don't, ship back at my cost.
It's the chair my ex used to sit in. The café is still there. The chair is still there. He is not. Same angle. Same time. Same chair. One JPG per Sunday, delivered weekly. Fifty-two weeks. I'll know if you fake one and I will not pay for the year if you do.
He never had a first marriage. He had a first engagement. She kept the ring. Call him at his office at 4:47pm Tuesday, very official, mention "the deposit". Record the call. He'll know it's me by the third sentence. Or he won't. Either result is a deliverable.
Nobody at his office knows. He doesn't know I'm bringing you. Charm everyone. Be magnetic with his boss. Refill my drink. Touch my back when you laugh. Leave when I leave. Tomorrow morning he files. Tonight, we let them see what they're losing. Three hours, full suit, no improvising the backstory.
I cancelled it in 2021, two weeks out. She had the speech written. She loved him too. Now I want to read it — the version of my life I didn't live. 800 words, sincere, not bitter. Plain text doc. She doesn't know I'm asking. She'll never know.
Garnet, gold band, inscribed "Pour toujours". She lost it the week before her wedding. She married him anyway. He died in '88. She died in '04. The ring might still exist. Pawn shops, antique dealers, estate listings. Two-month quest. I fund the search and pay your hours. Weekly updates.
Stylistic exercise, fully fictional, no one real. Make it specific, intimate, devastating, entirely invented. He needs to read something that feels like his worst fear in print. Plain text doc. He'll never see it — but I will, in bed, alone, laughing for the first time in months.
I'm in Tokyo for eleven months and she'll notice eventually. Generate fifty-two weekly messages in my cadence — vague, warm, mundane — and schedule them. I'll provide two hundred of my real texts as training. Don't be creepy about it. She'll never know. Probably.
The dress is hanging in the back of my closet, never worn. I ship it to you. Sit four rows from the back. Don't applaud her piece — close your eyes and listen. Don't speak to anyone. Leave during the next student. He'll see you. He won't say a word for a week. Photograph nothing. Just go.
Your filters live in the URL. Copy it, share it, bookmark it.
de