Surprisingly Not A Bonerkiller: His Nervous Sweating On Our First Date

He wants to impress me so much that his armpits wept salty tears of anxiety. Lucky for him, I think it can be kinda cute if he nervously sweats on our first date because those massive, damp circles seeping through his shirt let me know that he's taking our date seriously, which I appreciate.

Sure, it looks like he was just came in from a tsunami, but most likely it was tsunami of nerves because he knows that this date is important. In fact, it makes me smile when I see those humongous sweat stains peeking out when he reaches to refill my wineglass.

I also think it's cute how self-conscious he gets about it. I can tell he's embarrassed, but he shouldn't be! If he brings it up and says something like, "Wow! I'm totally drenched. This is crazy." I tell him it's not a big deal and I mean it because it's not. As long as this super soaker routine is confined to the first few dates, it certainly won't be.

0 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Guys Who Were Stagehands In Their High School Theater Productions

I've as surprised as anyone that being a stagehand in high school isn't a total turn-off for me. I want it to be. Boy, do I want it to be. You honestly have NO IDEA how much of a turn-off it is to picture a younger, chubbier version of this guy wearing a black turtleneck, shuffling around backstage pulling ropes and pushing set props around in the dark. It's probably the dorkiest thing I can think of as far as high school extracurricular activities go.

By all means, this should be a bonerkiller, but it's not. I look at the guy now and he knows which wine to pair with which proteins at dinner. He plays NPR when he gets dressed for work in the morning. He's smart, funny, and well-educated. I mean, he's practically perfect!

When I grill him about the stagehand thing, he just shrugs and says that he wasn't into sports so it was a way for him to be part of a team without the whole competitive angle.

"Did you have to wear a turtleneck?"
"Yeah."
"Was it black?"
"Yes."
"Did you have to pull ropes?"
"Sometimes."
"Did you push set pieces around between acts?"
"Sometimes. Why are you asking about this? It was so long ago!"

Here's the thing: In high school, I never would've hooked up with him. I'd gravitate toward the mouthy punks, not the quiet, sensitive peripheral theater help. But, what can I say? As adults, those guys rule as boyfriends! I've come to terms with it. I gotta give high school stagehands props and not the kind they'd move around behind a heavy curtain during intermission.

4 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: She Kicked My Ass on the Playground

From our homie, Eric E. I love this guy!

She tossed me the football, issuing a challenge: “Let’s see if you can get past me, Buttercup.” She hunched her shoulders and rushed me like a linebacker.

I hesitated, tucked the ball, and faked a move to the right. She hit me full-on, her momentum carrying us both to the ground. With me pinned down, she used her forearm to mash my face into the grass. I felt her grab the ball, jump up, and sprint past me. I rolled over and looked on helplessly as she celebrated in an imaginary end zone.

Did I just get my ass kicked by someone who smells like coconut oil?

I felt dejected, so I played hurt. She marched over and prodded me with the toe of her tiny sneaker. “Quit your moaning, Buttercup,” she taunted.

“What happened to stroking a man’s ego?” I asked from the ground.

“Show me a man, and I’ll be happy to."

Ouch. What was I dealing with here? Obviously, she wasn’t suffering from Avian Bone Syndrome, like Phoebe on 30 Rock. Nor was she a knuckleheaded bruiser who wanted to light farts on my head. She was something in-between: She was a jock.

I accepted that she outmatched me athletically. She had played varsity lacrosse in school, whereas I had been dismissed from Little League Baseball due to my lackluster performance. And, I wondered how this might affect our relationship: Would she ever be disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm for extreme sports? Would she be let down if I skipped the Mojave Desert Triathlon to practice my Gaelic for an upcoming tour of the Whiskey Trail? Could I be happy as the WALL-E to her EVE?

I took the ball and trotted up the field. “OK, Pinky Tuscadero,” I shouted. “Prepare to receive.” As I watched her stretching her legs, I visualized where I’d put my hands for the tackle. The game was now a full contact event.

Little known fact: my first kiss was with my neighbor. We both were little kids, we couldn't have been older than six. I informed him that I wanted to kiss him and he flatly refused. So, I tackled him down to the ground, jumped on top of his chest and forcibly kissed him. He totally flipped out and furiously rubbed his lips on his sleeve, tears streaking down his chubby cheeks. Then, he threw dirt at me and ran home. The moral of the story: Boys are fun to fuck with. They just are. 

1 comments

Reader Submitted Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Girls Who Name Their Cars

From our reader Eric E., who doesn't entirely hate it when girls name their cars:

The bartender whisked away our glasses and showed us the door. Out on the sidewalk, I pointed my boots westward and readied myself for the long trek home. I was turning my head to say goodnight when she managed to get in the first shot.

"Can I give you a ride?”

“I’m not far. I can walk from here.”

“Don’t be silly! Hop in. Bob won’t mind.”

“Who’s Bob?”

“This is Bob,” she said, patting the roof of her red Volkswagen Jetta. She tossed her bag in the back, slid behind the wheel, and leaned over to open the door on my side. She was all smiles, as though reassuring me that I had nothing to fear.

I climbed in next to her. “How old are you again?”

“Oh, come on. You’re gonna give me grief about Bob?”

“No, of course not. I was just wondering about my legal exposure here. As Baretta said, ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.’”

She stared at me like I was speaking in tongues. “Bob’s the best,” she insisted. “He’s loyal, handsome, and trustworthy. And he doesn’t mind if I give some random guy a ride from time to time. Can you live up to those standards?”

She had put me on the defensive. I was charmed by her wit, but her zaniness seemed forced. Did she think that any woman who's not model gorgeous has to be a wacky comedian? What else had she named? Was this her way of blocking unwanted sexual advances? Rather than feign a headache, she announces that she’s named her vagina and--ta da!--no more worries.

I settled back and silently appraised the situation. I clearly enjoyed her company, but I was dubious about her eccentricity. In the end, though, I was more enticed than deterred. After all, there’s something about a glimpse of maternal instinct that--for me, at least--can put a woman in a favorable light.

This is perhaps one of the only reader submissions I've received that I can personally relate to. I have a black Jetta that I named Bruce, a two-fold homage to both Bruce Springsteen (I bought the car in New Jersey) and to Bruce Wayne, Batman's daytime persona. He has leather seats and being manual shift, well, let's just say that there's a lot of masculine energy going on with him. Every time I take him in for repairs, I tell the mechanic to, "take good care of Bruce" and they roll their eyes at me. Guys do think it's weird to name a car, but why would'nt I? I toss enough money at his upkeep to warrant some kind of personification. Besides, it helps to have a name to curse when he needs significant, costly engine repairs. Bruuuuuuuuce, you expensive motherfucker!

12 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Over-orderers

While I order one lone entree like a boring person, he's hopscotching through the menu, asking for apps, sides, and main courses willy nilly. My eyes grow wider as he rattles off his selections to the waitress. When I tell him that there's no way that he can eat so much food in one sitting, he shrugs it off and says, "I wanted to try it all." He's not kidding!

The best is when the food comes and we have to rearrange the table to accommodate his feast. He's dabbling in the mac and cheese, chomping on the grilled asparagus, then diving into his pot of Belgian-style mussels. It's a veritable smorgasbord up in here!

I honestly think it's cute when a guy orders too much. After dating so many picky eaters, I admire his willingness to try a range of foods. He doesn't finish his meal, not even close, but he always seems happy to have sampled so many options. In a weird way, even though he orders so much, he knows exactly what he wants. And, I like that. A lot.

3 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Mild Body Odor On My Dude

From our reader Colleen, who doesn't mind gettin' a whiff of that funk, that sweet, that nasty, that gushy stuff. (Ew, I just grossed myself out a little bit. THANKS A LOT, RICK JAMES!):

Johnny Depp just LOOKS like BO

I once dated a guy who never had any body odor. Ever. Which is pretty weird, don't you think? It's kind of a like a guy who doesn't cast a shadow; clearly there's something missing from his soul, some element in the person that keeps him from getting BO and maybe also, I don't know, allows them to kill kittens without feeling remorse.

I won't deny it: I love a little bit of stink. I've been known to surreptitiously take a deep breath near my beau's pits, especially on steamy summer days. I love it is because every guy smells a little different. It's like his fingerprint.

Also, smells seem to evoke memories and emotions more than anything else. So picking up his unwashed t-shirt and inhaling his eau de parfum immediately whisks me away to memories of our first dates.

Once, a boyfriend of mine went away for a week but accidentally left a t-shirt he'd worn at my place. Instead of throwing it in the wash like I normally would, I put that puppy on every night for the rest of the week. And I won't lie, the first thing I did was put my nose all over it and take a deep breath. Ahhhhh.

I just googled "smelling an armpit" to find a photo for this. I wouldn't recommend doing that. Learn from my mistakes, people.

It's funny: I've been known to get pissed off if a guy doesn't smell like anything. How can both his body and clothes smell like nothing? Does he wash his clothes in baby tears? Is he a hologram? Are we on the holodeck on the Starship Enterprise? Is Whoopi Goldberg gonna serve me a drink at the Ten-Forward? SO MANY QUESTIONS!

9 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Former Hoodlums

So, while I was doing my Latin homework in study hall like a bookworm, he was the guy who'd be tossed out for talking back to the teacher? While I was applying to colleges, he was suspended for smoking on school grounds? While I was writing essays about Camus' The Stranger, he was pounding rivals in an alley?

Surprisingly, I'm not turned off by this. In fact, I think it's kind of cute to picture him being a teenage badass. He's the total Will Hunting to my cross-eyed British lady with big life plans!

The good news is that this guy is reformed now and can look back on his younger years and laugh at the scuffles he got into it. His scars have good stories. One is from the time a guy pulled a knife on him (!!!!) during a rowdy house party. And, another one is from the time he lit his eyebrow on fire as a dare.

I don't have any good stories to my scars. I once tripped by a swimming pool and have a nick on my knee. I also have a scar where a kitten bit me. THAT'S IT! Those are the lamest scars ever.

I'm totally fixated by his stories about his turbulent youth. It's hard to believe that this sweet, amazing loyal, successful guy was a teen troublemaker. How cute!

2 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Stroller Stallions

Most girls are out the door by the time "I have a ki--" comes out of a guy's mouth. He could have been trying to say "I have a kitten," but the alternative word (kid) is considered so bad that most chicks won't stick around to hear the rest of the sentence.

Why do these girls do the scaredy cat shuffle? Well, there's plenty of reasons why someone wouldn't wanna date a dude with a kid: Maybe he has a crazy ex, maybe the kid is prone to bratty temper tantrums, maybe it means that you won't get sufficient alone time with him, etc.

BUT there's also something kinda sexy about a dude with a kid, given the right situation. This guy is legally responsible for another human being's life. Some guys can barely feed and dress themselves, let alone someone else. Seeing a dude love and care for another person other than himself is hot.

And, kids tend to bring out the silliness in others. Ever see a guy play with his kid in the park or try to teach her mini-golf with ice cream all over their faces? It's freakin' adorable. You can tag along with them during all the fun things they do like zoo trips, pizza parties and playing hopscotch on a sidewalk without looking like a child predator.

Or, you can nerd out at Chuck E. Cheese's and rock the 3-D glasses at the latest Pixar movie without feeling like a total dork. And, the best part? It's not YOUR kid. You can go home at the end of the night kid-free. So next time someone confesses to their amazing child-rearing talents, give the guy a chance. You might even grow to like the little dude.

12 Comments

Surprisingly Not A Bonerkiller: Faded, Crappy Upper Arm Tattoos

I know I should be turned off by faded, crummy tattoos on his upper arm, but frankly, I'm astounded that I'm not. Dare I say it, but I think it's cute.

I'll notice it peeking out from under his t-shirt. I'll smile as I touch it with my finger and playfully ask, "What is this?"

As he pushes up his sleeve, he'll say, "It's supposed to be a family crest. I got it done when I was, like, 19. I thought I was so cool. This one over here? It's my skateboarding crew's insignia. Yes, we had an insignia. Don't laugh. My friends all have it too. It's kinda stupid, I know. I got that one when I was, Christ, 17, I think?" He'll chuckle then rub over the skin wistfully.

I find myself enjoying the mental image of him checking out his fresh tattoo in the mirror. He must've been so proud! Maybe he flexed? Maybe he did a bicep curl to see how it'd look like? Who knows?

These tattoos are so fake-tough, like a leather jacket or a mohawk. As a kid, I'd probably be freaked out about the idea of ever dating a guy with a tattoo, but now I'm an adult and I can laugh about it and realize that it's as threatening as a teddy bear. THEY'RE SO CUTE!

4 Comments

Surprisingly Not A Bonerkiller: What You Wore To Shovel Out Your Car

To set the scene, let's start with me. I am wearing snow boots, jeans with leggings underneath for added warmth, two t-shirts, a sweatshirt, a winter coat, a scarf, hat and gloves. These are all totally normal things to wear when shoveling out your car when it's buried under a foot of snow. Can we all agree on that? Ok, good.

Now, let's focus on what you are wearing to shovel out your vehicle: slippers, no socks, pajama pants with Homer Simpson saying "I am so smart" printed on them, a ratty t-shirt, a winter coat and...that's it! You're not even wearing gloves! Or a hat! Hands down, you are the most ill-prepared snow shoveler I've ever seen.

Besides your outfit being insane, the way you're swiping at the snow on your windshield with the sleeve of your coat makes you look like a maniac, too. You're hopping through the snow like Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream because you don't want to get an avalanche in your slippers. I have an idea: DON'T WEAR SLIPPERS OUTSIDE! I mean, who wears their slippers to shovel out their car? That's crazy!

But, I have to say, you looked really cute flapping around in the snow. And, your pajama pants are cracking me up. At least you looked like you were having fun out there. You didn't even mind that I tossed a snowball at you and playfully mocked your outfit. I approve! I almost asked if you wanted to grab a cup of hot chocolate to warm you up because seriously, you look like you're gonna catch hypothermia in about two minutes. Let's get you inside.  

5 Comments

Surprisingly Not A Bonerkiller: Your Weird Sleeping Habits

It’s that important dating milestone. We’ve gone on a few dates and we’re totally hitting it off and things are progressively inching ever closer to that “Do you want to sleep over?” moment. Well, it's finally happening and I’m following you up the stairs to your bedroom.

Everything is going perfectly, but it’s not until we’re about to fall asleep that things get weird. When you rolled over to mess with something on your nightstand, I assumed you were putting on some nice quiet falling-asleep music or setting your alarm for the morning. Suddenly, the sounds of LOUD CRICKETS fill the room.

At first, I’m confused as hell. “Is that a white noise machine?” I ask, partially hoping that this is all just some mistake that’s been made. Maybe you're a huge nature fan and this is your ringtone? So, I’m laying there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the great outdoors: crickets chirping, snapping twigs, perhaps a wolf howl off in the distance. I’m really not sure I can fall asleep to this.

But then, you snuggled up next to me. My initial fears subsided and I started to doze off. But instead of a normal doze-off, suddenly I’m reliving my boy scout years of sleeping under the stars during summer camp adventures, except THIS TIME there’s a hot girl on my arm. That certainly never happened at summer camp! AWESOME!

Sleeping in your bed catapults to a whole new level because it’s like we’ve been transported to the middle of Yellowstone National Park without the inconvenience of mosquitoes, rain, or grizzly bear attacks. Hell, we didn't even need to pack travel-sized bottles of shampoo! Admittedly, what I thought was a total bonerkiller on your part turned out to be pretty awesome.

So, ladies, bring on your weird sleeping habits. Bring on your white noise machines. It turns out I’m cool with it. Who knew?

1 comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Budweiser Beer Breath

In perhaps one of our weirdest SNABs ever, I have to confess that it's somewhat comforting to smell cheap beer on a guy's breath BUT ONLY IF HE IS AN ATTRACTIVE MAN. Disclaimer: this isn't gonna work if he is a busted NASCAR fan/ hillbilly/ carnival worker.

However, if he is hot and has cool tattoos and funny stories, his cheap beer breath smells like if all the wildest parties I've attended got together and created an orally digestible cologne. Perhaps I've kissed so many boys who've tasted like cheap beer that it's now a Pavlovian response to expect a good time? Who knows?

Like a pair of raggedy old slippers at my parents' house, his beer breath smell feels oddly comforting. Instead of whipping my head back in disgust when it hits my nostrils, I'm leaning in and not hating my life.

Who knew beer breath had that power? This guy smells like a Budweiser and I'm drinking him in. I can't believe the things guys do that I don't find repulsive. It's alarming at this point.

3 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Talk in Your Sleep

I bolt upright in the middle of the night.You said something to me and now I'm half-awake. I hear you say something again. You're mumbling. Please tell me that this is not your way of trying to put the moves on me. What the hell, dude? I'm awake now, so enunciate for the love of God! Oh wait, you're talking but you aren't talking to me; you're just chattering away in your sleep. Awesome.

How am I just realizing now that you're a sleeptalker? I channel Yosemite Sam--or even Naomi Campbell--toward anything that wakes me before the sun is up. As a freelancer, I've worked way too hard to achieve normal REM cycles and I will defend those 7 hours of sleep like my they're my children and they're in danger of being eaten by zombies.

Surprisingly though, hearing you string together words in the middle of the night like you're slurping alphabet soup on acid is actually pretty cute. Aw, look at you happily babbling about things that make no sense! You've got bedhead. Who cares if you woke me up at 4:26am; Look how cute you are!

Hearing you laugh in your slumber is downright endearing. As long as you aren't chattering about a) weaponry b) another woman c) another dude, your snooze talk is A-OK with me.

1 comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Jazz Hounds

Saying you listen to jazz is a shorthand way to say that you are cultured, like eating sushi with chopsticks or listening to NPR in your car. Always looking to convert non-listeners, they are quick to burn me cds of their favorite artists like Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Charles Mingus. In fact, I have a stack of them in my closet collecting dust right now. Thanks, fellas.

Essentially, they are harmless and awkward folk. They own a tea kettle, they wear turtlenecks (when weather appropriate), and they are pretentious. Total wallflowers, they have bookshelves filled with actual books. It's not that bad. 

Incidentally, jazz hounds have the best pick-up lines. One of the first pick-up lines used on me was when a bespectacled young film major asked if I'd ever heard Thelonious Monk. When I told him that I hadn't, he slyly suggested that we go up to his room and listen to him together. Smooth move, jazz hound!

Apart from that college hook-up, as a general rule jazz hounds don't like me. I prefer music with hooks and harmonies, which they think is lame. And, I'm way too spontaneous for them which is ironic because the very thing they profess to love about jazz is the lack of boundaries. In reality, they usually go for bookish, mousy women who have one crazy thing about them, like a giant tattoo of a dragon on their thigh or a body piercing in an uncomfortable place. Yawn.

So, why are they not a total bonerkiller? It's kinda charming the way they prattle on about their favorite music genre. And, they'll take you to Ortlieb's for your third date, which is a nice change of pace from the usual watering holes we frequent. Sure, jazz hounds, we'll take ya. Well, at least until we get sick of your shtick.

6 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Guys Who Have A Drunk Alter Ego

We get a kick out of guys with a drunk alter ego. For those unfamiliar with the concept, this is when a usually reserved dude undergoes a personality transformation when he gets sauced and decides to assign a name to the other drunker, wilder side of him; a Mr. Hyde to his Dr. Jekyl, if you will. For some reason, they always give their other halves manly names, like Derek, Biff, Marco or Steve.

When you first see him at the beginning of the soiree, he's sipping his High Life on the sofa like a gentleman. Eight beers later, he's the life of the party, biting into the side of the can a la Teen Wolf. After he's announced to everyone within earshot that "Steve is officially HERE, you assholes," he kicks over a CD tower and starts jockeying for control of the stereo, forcing everyone to listen to AC/DC for the rest of the night. As long as we don't have to clean up his mess, it's pretty entertaining.

The whole thing is basically some Teen Wolf/split personality shit, except instead of genetics causing the howl session, it's the alcohol he's downing. By the end of the night, you have to slide your spatula under him and flip him off the futon he's passed out on. As you put his arm around you to drag him home, he slurs, "Sorry 'bout that. Steve got out of his cage tonight." Haha. He sure did. He sure did.

0 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: He Might Be Dying Soon (But He Probably Isn't)

I recently met a guy at a bar who talked my ear off about his grave medical condition. Apparently, he was convinced that he was going to kick the bucket in the near future (maybe) and he cited some inconclusive medical tests as evidence. I felt bad for him but I was touched that he would trust me with such personal information. All of my nurturing instincts kicked in. I'd be strong enough for the both of us as we fought this terrible (unnamed, mind you) disease together; I'd make him soup, I'd pet his hair, I'd be his own personal Florence Nightingale.

I asked if he wanted to get together this week and he looked away with his eyes narrowed and focused on a fixed point off in the distance. "With my condition, I can't get close to anyone right now. All I can offer you is friendship." I assured him that I understood. With that, he put his hand on mine and nodded. We exchanged phone numbers and I gave him a hug. 

Then, I realized the genius of his plan. He is probably telling every girl in this bar that he's dying so when they take pity on him, he lays it out there that he isn't looking for a commitment. Hey, we thought guys with puppies were irresistible, but a dying guy with a vague diagnosis? That's roughly a dozen times hotter than a puppy. I fell right into his trap! I'm such a sucker.

Well played, dying dude who's probably not dying. Well played.

p.s. - That picture is from when Charlie pretended like he had cancer so that the waitress would go out with him. It was just like that.

5 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Have A Mugshot

Normally, a mugshot would be a turn-off, as I try to make dating felons a rarity. But with you--a good boy gone bad--it adds an element of danger. You're a badass! You've been in bracelets, which is cop slang for handcuffs (according to The Wire, that is). Me likey.

You're a tough guy now: You stay up late, you eat ice cream for breakfast, and you flip the bird. What's next? Are you going to start smoking, asthma be damned? Are you gonna shoplift your deodorant from CVS? Are you going to draw vulgar pictures on public bathroom walls?

Who knew such a round fella could have so much edge?

You can't see me, but I have my thumb by my ear and my pinky by my mouth, mouthing the words "call me" right now.

5 Comments

Congratulations! You Have Been Chosen To Be Our Next Slumpbuster!

Dear Sir,

We are very pleased to offer you the position of our next slumpbuster. After considering many qualified applicants--an angry mid-level manager, a flaky artist, and a socially inept tech guru--we felt that you would be the best fit for ending our uncomfortable dry spell.

We were impressed with how uncomplicated you are. You've held the same job for 12 years, you've had the same best friends since high school, and you've hung out at the same bars since you were 21. You're predictable! You will be easy to avoid should this arrangement turn unfavorable to either party.

Your shady criminal history makes you the perfect candidate for a position like this. We think you mentioned something about a DUI four years ago in your interview? Oh well. But, it was the way you paid for cab rides, bought us beers, and sweetly held our hand that really cinched the deal. Good work.

Of course the position is unpaid, but we will be happy to provide a reference for your future endeavors. We pride ourselves on our confidentiality and can assure you that we will never tell our parents or co-workers about this arrangement.

Thanks and we look forward to doing whatever-the-hell-this-is until we meet someone we can tell our loved ones about!

Warmly,
SK MGMT

2 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Have A Secret Poetry Blog

No one, I repeat NO ONE is more surprised than me that I'm not turned off by your secret poetry blog. Normally I roll my eyes at "tortured soul" artist-types, but for some reason, I'm into this. I will never bring it up to you that I've seen it and I will never tell anyone else about it. I'm in on this secret world of yours and in a weird way, it makes me feel closer to you. (That's so creepy, right?)

I only found it because I was lurking on your MySpace page--because we all know it's impossible to stalk anyone on Facebook--and I dug through your old MySpace blog entries. Two and a half years ago you wrote a post about how you have a new poetry site. I clicked on the link and there they were: your poems typed into concise, neat paragraphs. You don't list your name as the author but instead you chose a wacky pseudonym like Dr. Riffraff or Professor Unlucky. I don't even mind that it's on a boring Blogspot page layout that comes as the default setting!

You haven't invested any energy into the look of the thing: no links, no pictures, no nothing. No one has ever commented on a poem, but there they are, streaming down the page like an army of marching ants.

I like that you have this secret part of the Internet. I imagine you late at night, curled up on your bed, typing your poems out for no one in particular. Reading through them is like being able to flip through the pages of your journal. It's a thrill to get a peek inside your brain. Keep it up, my little poet. I find your secret poetry blog strangely alluring. Who knew?

3 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Live In Delaware

Normally I dislike Delaware the same way I dislike guys who wear dad jeans: unconditionally. It might be because every trip I've ever taken to our nation's first state has been an absolute disaster. *Cough--remember that time I got lost in Newark at midnight by myself?--*cough. It also could have something to do with the fact that it seems like the entire state is always under construction.

As a general rule, I often steer clear of boys who don't live or work in the city. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I ditched my car for a SEPTA pass some time ago, or maybe because I found that out-of-city dating cramped my style. But you, Mr. Delawarean, you are makin' this happen. I met a nice boy finishing his master's degree at UDel, and I'm suddenly feeling less and less disdain for our nation's second smallest state.

My apologies, Delaware: you may have the longest red lights on the planet and are only the size of South Jersey, but you've somehow managed to eliminate sales tax at the Apple store and currently house, educate and employ the boy I like. So, let's take the R2 and hang the eff out.

0 Comments