>I just came back from the gym, mm i feel soo relaxed right now. I want >a guy to just hang out and lay back with.
>I am sick of flings. I am sick of getting my heart broken. My >ex-boyfriend was a douche and I just want to meet nice guy. I'm >crossing my fingers that this new experience will work out.
>I am loving person and just want to meet 'Mr. Right' if there is such a >thing.
My mother used to say that there was nothing wrong with being bored, unless you make a habit of it. But if the empty bottles laying around our house were any indication, I believe she meant that there's nothing wrong with doing alot of anything, as long as you don't admit you've made a habit of it. First steps are tricky like that. You see them in the daylight and negotiate them fine, but in the dark you wind up missing them and breaking your neck. Except instead of a neckbrace, you get lots of wood coins, or chips, or whatever they call them. (Well in Mom's case, she got the brace as well. Wheelchair too. Which in turn negated any need for stairs in the first place. I didn't mind, though. Ranches are easier to maintain. And let's face it, she wasn't gonna be cleaning the gutters. Not with those withered, useless hands.)
Listen to me, I've probably turned you off already. Let me just say that you shouldn't worry--I'm not a mama's boy, and I'm not into the Oedipal thing. And even if I was, I don't know where my dad is and I don't have a shovel, so I'd more or less be fucked from the word go. In more ways than one. No, it's just that knowing that little bit of my history will save me some explanation later, should we decide to meet. (fingers crossed) I hope we do. You seem interesting.
Like how you described your ex. How you called him a douche, like he wasn't worthy of the extra three letters that are normally tagged onto the end of that particular insult. That's a kind of coldness I can get behind. (Again with the necrophilia allusions. Good thing my innate fear of Germans keeps me from buying into Freud's nazi bullshit.) I dig your vibe, is what I'm saying, and I think you and I would be good together, in the kind of tragic way that might make a good short story. I'm probably not Mr. Right, but from what I hear, that guy's pretty fucking boring.
Who the hell knows what they want, anyway.
- Mr. Suitable
Tuesday
Re: Firestone - Missed Connections - w4m - 25
>You were there, helping me with my car as the other mechanics were >finishing it up. You handed me my keys, and for the first time ever, I felt >like taking off my wedding ring.
>I left to get in my car, and I thought it was making bad sounds.
>You and I went on a drive around the block, and I asked you
>"What would happen if you were driving down the highway at 70 mph >and then put it in reverse?"
>You tried to be serious, but I finally made you laugh. And possibly >blush.
>I wanted to make you pull over the car so we could make out in a >parking lot like high school idiots.
>You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. And you smelled >fantastic.
>Let's grab dinner.
I'm not your missed connection. But I thought about you all day that day. The way you looked so vulnerable with the car window down, your hair whipping around your face as he drove you away from the rest of us.
The second you were gone, after he'd gotten out of your car and you drove off, he said things about you. He said things about you that made you seem like a whore. The short skirt you were wearing, the way you kept holding your hand in the other so that we couldn't see your ring--he said it all meant he could have had you.
But I know better. I know that you are just damaged. That someone has hurt you, that you see a better life, happiness in every other face on the street. I know that when you lie awake at night, you wonder what's wrong with you, what you should change.
I think that's what I liked about you. It wasn't those legs, that smile, the fact that you drove an import. It was that you were searching. It was that you were so insecure, and so afraid we would discover it. It was that you're alive, in a way that alot of us aren't. It made you more beautiful than any thousand-dollar outfit, any spray-on tan ever could.
Maybe tonight, when you're lying next to whoever hurt you this time, you'll think of me, in my shirt with my name on it, admiring you quietly from beside the dodge that was up on the lift. Maybe you'll remember that small wave you gave me, before you saw even more happiness in his face. Maybe you'll come back and you'll let me ride along, and maybe I'll do what he couldn't. Maybe I'll be able to figure out what that vague, ominous sound means. Maybe you'll let me fix it.
-Sincerely,
The (other) Observative Mechanic
>I left to get in my car, and I thought it was making bad sounds.
>You and I went on a drive around the block, and I asked you
>"What would happen if you were driving down the highway at 70 mph >and then put it in reverse?"
>You tried to be serious, but I finally made you laugh. And possibly >blush.
>I wanted to make you pull over the car so we could make out in a >parking lot like high school idiots.
>You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. And you smelled >fantastic.
>Let's grab dinner.
I'm not your missed connection. But I thought about you all day that day. The way you looked so vulnerable with the car window down, your hair whipping around your face as he drove you away from the rest of us.
The second you were gone, after he'd gotten out of your car and you drove off, he said things about you. He said things about you that made you seem like a whore. The short skirt you were wearing, the way you kept holding your hand in the other so that we couldn't see your ring--he said it all meant he could have had you.
But I know better. I know that you are just damaged. That someone has hurt you, that you see a better life, happiness in every other face on the street. I know that when you lie awake at night, you wonder what's wrong with you, what you should change.
I think that's what I liked about you. It wasn't those legs, that smile, the fact that you drove an import. It was that you were searching. It was that you were so insecure, and so afraid we would discover it. It was that you're alive, in a way that alot of us aren't. It made you more beautiful than any thousand-dollar outfit, any spray-on tan ever could.
Maybe tonight, when you're lying next to whoever hurt you this time, you'll think of me, in my shirt with my name on it, admiring you quietly from beside the dodge that was up on the lift. Maybe you'll remember that small wave you gave me, before you saw even more happiness in his face. Maybe you'll come back and you'll let me ride along, and maybe I'll do what he couldn't. Maybe I'll be able to figure out what that vague, ominous sound means. Maybe you'll let me fix it.
-Sincerely,
The (other) Observative Mechanic
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