January 29, 2010
I don't care about his blurry, jokey tattoos that are already half-faded because he doesn't give a shit about wearing sunscreen. I don't care that he has an overflowing ashtray next to his bed and it looks like a chalky homage to Sideshow Bob's hair.
I don't care that he's mean to his vegan roommate and his preppy brother. I don't care that he has an off-brand cell phone with a loud polyphonic ringtone that always seems to die right when I want to hear from him most. And, I don't even care that his comforter has a distinct, pungent sour smell like a french fry wrapped in a gym sock that's been buried in a basement.
Once I sink into his couch as he plays the "Heartbreaker" record over his living room stereo, I'm all his.