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A good date is always a bad date for a writer. I get a rush of delight when I realize things have gone horribly awry and I’m stuck in a situation that I will be forced to endure for another 53 minutes. It’s sweet, the taste of the meat of him, the reassuring thought that I own this story now. I can twist and spin and create a reality of terror and delight for myself and, hopefully, my readers.

I had a date yesterday. It was very awkward until we started making out. He had squinty eyes and was a bad kisser. He wore a pimp ring on his finger. I admit to liking it.

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I met him at the Waffle House, which was even cooler than saying
I met him on the internet
He was cute
though for a moment as I was walking up
I wasn’t sure
He had stunning blue eyes
usually I go for brown
but he was all smiles and there was little awkwardness
I think I’d finally found my stride
not thinking twice about the fact I remembered nothing from his profile
He wore a sports jacket while I wore a slinky top
encouraging him to check out my rack—he did several times
I felt a rush of adrenaline
He kept smiling

  •         He says he needs soup and a good woman to take care of him. Aw.
  •         He says raw emotion is lame. Double aw.
  •         Sweet is good, he says.
  •         Sarcastic is good, he says.
  •         He shrugs his shoulders when called Pookie.
  •         He says we walk into his jokes like a blind man walking into an invisible tree, which makes us laugh but try not to analyze it too much because it gets confused.
  •         He’s not Hitler.
  •         He just needs to reflect a little.
  •         He’s willing to soul search. Awwwwwwww!
  •         He’s selling us in the most fun way, we adore his technique.
  •         He is diligently trying to decide whether to drive his truck or his car to meet us next week.  He asked what our preference was.
  •         He’s in the motherfucking AIR FORCE!

Inbox says (1) new message
Just then (2) new messages
My God, could it be.
Usually not
Usually naught
Unusually knot
My love in a Sir Mix-a-Lot basket
Spare the spearhead
the spearmint
the spirit man
Inbox says nothing
I wait on the porch, old school.

This whole time, I was thinking I had only recently licked my wounds from the ex of 2008. Then I remembered that last November I was developing a solid relationship with a guy who would 3 months later leave to go to Japan for a couple of years (aka the guy who left the country without telling me; I technically knew he was leaving but fuck him, he’s my story to tell now). Remember that? What fun. I called this man an asshole and he was but I still like to talk to him sometimes. I mean, he has that funny Wisconsin accent. Then the guy with the facial tic. Then that guy who diagnosed my knee problem, which would have gotten him a second date (I’m a hypochondriac) except he used “golly gee” and “holy smokes” during the conversation and I couldn’t live with that. No one could. Then there was the one I liked but it didn’t work out. Rapid fire dating. Airforce John. Oh, and remember the one who shaved his arms and had the smoothest arm skin I’ve ever seen. I’m sorry, but he was too short. 5’8 is too short for me and I know this but then I tell myself, “well maybe…” and then I remember that the height specifications I’ve set are important as soon as I meet the guy…I swear I feel as though we’re eye to eye even though he’s 9 inches above me. Aside from Gary Stubble of yesteryear, I’ve never been attracted to a short guy.

They fade quickly into mythology, don’t they?

There might be another shot at an Air Force man (too soon to tell). Mainly, it’s slow-going because I am so over putting out effort at the moment (as such, I’m ruminating over all of my lost loves, most of whom I didn’t mind losing). Ebb and flow, friends.

I have some random man’s boxers on
maybe the ex’s or any sort of reasonable facsimile
or the Gay Man
or such

The utility of men’s undergarments
the user-friendly hole in the front
pisses me off
as women are trapped in bras, lycra
panties that don’t have any ass coverage
just shoestrings
and such

Which has nothing to do with the point
which is that if woman came from Adam’s rib
isn’t Adam to blame for everything

**Admittedly a rant but only because I have a fatalistic look on love and sometimes I need to blame another gender as a distraction for blaming myself for all things terrible in relationships.** 🙂 or alternatively, 😦

I might or might not be going against the liberal grain here. You can let me know.

I’ve been musing over the war in Afghanistan. Call me right-wing but I think the U.S. should be there. This Taliban bullshit has to end. If the generals and folks on the ground say they need more troops, give them more troops. I saw a report last night on NBC that said violence is up in Afghanistan and is at an even higher rate than in 2001. I find this statement/report misleading. Afghanistan was the focus on the War on Terror for about two seconds before the distraction of Iraq’s “nuclear arsenal” became priority. Violence is up because although we have transitioned troops there for a while in that country, the Taliban have been allowed to strengthen as U.S. efforts focused on Iraq. It was going to be a long fight anyway—I don’t think we went to Iraq for the right reasons and it took forever for troops to get out of there—as a result, the American public’s patience for waiting has been (understandably) reduced. These folks (Taliban) have been entrenched in war for forever; I think it’s a matter of adaptation and governmental/military evolution.

once
it was trendy
could be pasted from a copy
no longer
able

a font is an expression
of the soul
any font you can create
should be readily used forthwith
pasted from a copy
or better yet
typed in time, real time
now time

After returning to work from lunch today, I smelled an unpleasant scent emitting from my person. It smelled like dog. I sniffed my hands, my elbows, my shirt, my pants, no luck. And then the thought struck, it smells like shit. And so it was.

Right there, on the bottom of my shoe. I’m pretty sure I mean that literally and figuratively.

I know I was jilted because of my freckles, at least once.
Two, maybe four, times for my hair.
They always said they liked short girls but when you’re trying to get laid, that’s probably the thing to say.

Let me reiterate. Air Force John was a douche. His hobbies included cuddling, talking about a possible mental breakdown, and watching Wifeswap. I give him respect for getting drunk with a priest.

Any insecurity you have is the exact
reason you’ve been jilted.
Trust me, it was the gargantuan zit you had on your face that killed it
for him.

This other guy, he fished all day and called himself self-employed. He lived off his father and got fat. His picture was super old, which led to unbearable disappointment. His hobbies included swatting away giant roaches that were on the booth I was sitting in and spouting on endlessly about his political viewpoints, which were not favorable to Hil (I set him straight).

Seriously, don’t make excuses for him.
It’s all you.

One guy was a decent date aside from his gaunt appearance and bulging bug eyes. I’m not sure what his hobbies were because the two times I saw him, I kept thinking of words that rhymed with his last name (Ooouly). I didn’t come up with anything. Another guy ate a raw steak he did not want (spent the whole dinner grimacing and choking it down despite my helpful suggestion that he could send the plate back), ate all foods with his hands, and got hammered enough that I drove myself home in his car. I didn’t want to know what his hobbies were, but clearly he was breaking up with me in the form of my breaking up with him.

It never matters who’s actually done the jilting.
It’s your terrible foot odor and your misaligned posture that did it in.
You’re not graceful, as evidenced in your many, many injuries resulting
from painful, full-scale fall-downs.
This is all your fault.

I felt trapped in a parking lot downtown after a so-so dinner with this one dude. Nice, but no thanks. His hobbies included sticking his cold dead fish tongue down my throat and not anticipating that when kissing a girl, you should keep in mind that her mouth is not the size of a horse’s. Don’t worry. For his efforts, I bit him.

All of which bring us back you (and me).
I support the anti-bullshit; you’re not that pretty.
If you think you are satisfied in your relationship, I suggest looking at
the cellulite in your thighs one more time.
It could be the end.

SOB with me

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