It’s always a little depressing when I happen upon a beautiful young woman who seems like she has her shit together. Because after I get over her physical attractiveness and begin to eavesdrop on her conversation, she will invariably say something halfway intelligent and/or funny, unlike most of the beautiful women a man is fortunate enough to come upon in this fair city.
“So on the way to LACMA at lunch, I realized; a fundamental difference in approaches to foreign policy is really what this election is about, when all is said and done. Problem is, the electorate doesn’t know it.”
-or-
“So I was sitting at a table and there was a guy behind me with the exact same speaking voice as Jeremy Irons. Only it wasn’t Irons, it was some fat guy who seems to really really like extra caramel sauce on his latte.”
To add insult to injury, her favorite pastime is usually something awesome like smoking pot, eating mac and cheese, and watching Family Guy after leaving the bars early. Or maybe she understands that Journey can be good on an entirely non-ironic level, that it’s truly excellent music worthy of discussion.
Then it really gets depressing. She’s got a boyfriend or, the older I get, she’s engaged to be married. And it’s not like in high school when the girl you love form afar is dating the asshole football captain or the douchebag bandanna-wrapped fuckstick with the Lugz supporting a larger percentage of the mass of his jeans than his waistband. No, these women are ready to marry firemen, JPL engineers, sous-chefs. Men who could never act like assholes and probably worship their women like I do from two tables over in the coffee shop. Men who wear vintage Guns N Roses t-shirts that they got at Guns N Roses shows back in the day, and then take their girls out for salad bar at some joint in Malibu. Dressing? Their choice.
And it spirals down from there, as I come to the sad realization that she’s so in love with her man that she won’t even try to cheat on him for at least two years. And by then who knows where I, Kevin, will be? Iowa? Dead? Paralyzed from the waist down? Or possibly deep into a commitment with my current girlfriend, whom I love as much as a dram of heavy cream in a fresh cup of espresso? Who knows? All I know is I probably won’t be jogging up and down between the hills on Ocean Park with this amazing mystery woman, since she'll be rocking poached eggs on brioche at Urth whenever she likes with her special man.
For realsies, though. My sweet shiitake sunflower and I are having a super duper time together and I wouldn’t give up our relationship for all the ass in Compton.
But still… I get depressed sometimes.
Monday, October 6, 2008
The Type of Pain that Hurts Like Candy
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6 comments:
What's idiomatic Japanese for "round eye, why you gotta toss a gal so many mixed messages? Just say the word and I'll be Toshiro Mifune Jr.'s hot tub in Brentwood so fast it'll make your Gaijin head spin."
I'm happy to see you're using your semi-free time to blog, but you should know that you can't dollop heavy cream unless it's whipped. Also, JT is stalking you. I, at least, use my name when posting comments.
a dollop is any small quantity of something. but i'll change it just for you.
I have no idea who this "JT" is of whom you speak, but he sounds brave and wise.
And if you're going back and fixing the dollop part, you might beef up the transitions in this entry as well.
But you have to admit that referring to a liquid as a dollop is a less common usage.
dram improves it greatly; it's much more conversational. why, just the other day i bumped into JT while pouring a dram of qahwe into his zarf.
Were I the chooser, a dram of well-doing should be preferred before many times as mush the forcible hindrance of evildoing. --Milton.
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