My mind is on other things. I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me... hell, it's not me, it's you. Why are you looking at me like that? Where did you put the dog? What's that in your canoe? Is that a glue gun in your hand?
These and other conversational gems have all been gathering dust in my relationship repertoire as I bounce contentedly bachelouresque along my life. One day, one day I swear I'll be lucky enough to meet a woman who knows. Her name will be exotic and she will smell of flowers and insence and potatoes and she shall tolerate my shortcomings, enjoy my long comings and then callously break my heart by leaving me for Hillary Clinton.
And then I shall be in the position that I have been longing to be in. I can finally turn and ask,"Pardon me Celeste, but what is that in your canoe? And where did you put the dog?"
And then, as she leaves I shall crumble. Broken. Alone. And she shall not turn, not glance, no island in her eyes, no salvation here. I crumble.
Love, even imaginary smittenish love, is a cruel game.
I wish I played better.
2 comments:
I know you are a romantic...but I reckon you are drunk
Not even close, my wine stealing lady.
But I will be. Oh yes, I will be.
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