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buttplug
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So, everyone was sitting having a good time at this semi half indoors beach party.
"He thinks you hate him" a friend of mine informed me.
"What?" I leaned forward to try to hear her better over the volume of the music.
She put her mouth close to my ear. "He thinks you hate him" she repeated, and the pitch of her words vibrated my eardrums agonizingly. I winced, partly from pain and partly from what she had said. What, exactly, is this idiotic pattern that keeps coming up in my interactions with some guys? I'm aware that I'm not the most pleasant individual in the world, but just because when I speak to a man I don't preen and giggle and offer to shove his nose into my cleavage doesn't mean I hate him.
Would someone kindly send me a guy to speak to who has balls? Preferably ones that have already dropped, if you please.
"Why does he think that?" I asked her, after dragging her from the loud area into the pool room so I could hear her better. (That’s "pool room" as in "a room with a pool table" – not "a room with a pool." Just thought I'd clarify that. I would have said "billiards," but let's be serious. Using a word like "billiards" to describe pool in such an establishment is as silly as pointing out the beluga caviar samples over by that guy with the green mohawk and the underage bimbo puking in the garbage can. It's divine, babies.)
"I don’t know," she replied, shrugging. "I think he's just self-conscious."
"Well, I’m sorry. But there is absolutely nothing I have done to give him the impression that I hate him. So there is nothing I can do about this situation anymore."
She agreed, of course. It's quite logical. And I felt less like I was going insane when she said so. The closest thing I've found to the mental stability I desire in a potential mate is my married cousin.
Analyze it. I dare you.
And then she told me, "But you know, you are too picky."
Too picky.
Hell, I find a wide variety of physical types attractive, so all I want in a partner is an intelligent, humorous person who is financially stable and likes children. And who has traveled internationally. And can do 50 pull ups in one set. And do that breakdancing move where you spin on the top of your head. And who owns the entire set of Bob Dylan albums…on vinyl. And speaks three languages fluently. And can fix a car. And can recite the periodic table from memory. I mean, duh.
Oh, and someone who can put up with me.
Yeah. I suppose that's asking a bit much.
"He thinks you hate him" a friend of mine informed me.
"What?" I leaned forward to try to hear her better over the volume of the music.
She put her mouth close to my ear. "He thinks you hate him" she repeated, and the pitch of her words vibrated my eardrums agonizingly. I winced, partly from pain and partly from what she had said. What, exactly, is this idiotic pattern that keeps coming up in my interactions with some guys? I'm aware that I'm not the most pleasant individual in the world, but just because when I speak to a man I don't preen and giggle and offer to shove his nose into my cleavage doesn't mean I hate him.
Would someone kindly send me a guy to speak to who has balls? Preferably ones that have already dropped, if you please.
"Why does he think that?" I asked her, after dragging her from the loud area into the pool room so I could hear her better. (That’s "pool room" as in "a room with a pool table" – not "a room with a pool." Just thought I'd clarify that. I would have said "billiards," but let's be serious. Using a word like "billiards" to describe pool in such an establishment is as silly as pointing out the beluga caviar samples over by that guy with the green mohawk and the underage bimbo puking in the garbage can. It's divine, babies.)
"I don’t know," she replied, shrugging. "I think he's just self-conscious."
"Well, I’m sorry. But there is absolutely nothing I have done to give him the impression that I hate him. So there is nothing I can do about this situation anymore."
She agreed, of course. It's quite logical. And I felt less like I was going insane when she said so. The closest thing I've found to the mental stability I desire in a potential mate is my married cousin.
Analyze it. I dare you.
And then she told me, "But you know, you are too picky."
Too picky.
Hell, I find a wide variety of physical types attractive, so all I want in a partner is an intelligent, humorous person who is financially stable and likes children. And who has traveled internationally. And can do 50 pull ups in one set. And do that breakdancing move where you spin on the top of your head. And who owns the entire set of Bob Dylan albums…on vinyl. And speaks three languages fluently. And can fix a car. And can recite the periodic table from memory. I mean, duh.
Oh, and someone who can put up with me.
Yeah. I suppose that's asking a bit much.
