(Okay, I am hating on your mandals a teensy bit because I live in New York City. There is nary a bodily fluid, human or otherwise, that I haven't encountered on these sidewalks. And yet you chose shoes that both expose your toes and can slip off at a moment's notice to traverse this gooey rat-tracked hellscape? I mean, fine -- you do you -- but you're washing those disease-riddled stumps at the ends of your ankles before you bring them up in my bed. Or my apartment. Or perhaps even my building.)
|See how squeaky clean those tootsies are? |
It's because she's never set foot on land before.
Flip Flops are the guys who invite a dozen different potential suitors to any given social gathering, then spend the entire night juggling them like some kind of Clown College honor student. (Not that I'm jealous of his juggling skills.) They're the guys who flirt shamelessly with you during the playoffs but are nowhere to be found when your team blows a save in the final game of the World Series. They're veritable unicorns: unless you're actually looking them in the eye, you simply can't be sure they exist -- and no amount of one-sided texting will serve to conjure them back.
(Side note: Ladies, if he didn't respond to your text, seven more are not going to do the trick. Trust.)
Feelings come and go, crushes are fickle things, and he reserves the right to change his mind. Fine. All that, I can abide. But as a glutton for punishment, I'm wont to let these waffling motherfuckers back into my life when they reappear, which sets the scene for them to do it over and over and over and over again.
|What can I say? I fall easily and often, and not just because I'm clumsy.|