Hey, remember when I said at the end of the last post that I don't understand boys? Guess what-- that still totally holds true an entire day later.
As soon as I decide I'm done with the "boy sitch" and I'm going to move into a convent and hang out with nuns for the rest of my natural born life, the boys come a runnin'. Is there some sort of pheramone I'm giving off? In my head it goes like this:
Me: I'm done! I don't understand boys and I'm moving to the Island of Lesbos. (note: serious, Wikipedia it.)
Boys: Code Lesbos! Everyone swarm her with your adorable boy ways!
You know what, fine. I give up. Mark my words, every male who is not related to me, I don't fucking get you. I'm going to stop trying to understand your crazy ways and just keep on doing whatever it is I'm doing. If you want to date, hang out or whatever with me, I'm going to need a notarized letter, a copy of your birth certificate and at least one real date* before any sort of deal is sealed.
From now on, the only thing I will understand about boys is their love of zombie movies and making out. Everything else I'm going to chalk up to being horribly, horribly lost in translation.
*Note: One real date consists of a period of time where I dress up nice and you try to impress me by being witty, funny, cute, adorable or any combination of the four. It does not include offering to "hook my ride up" with new headlights, trying to get fresh before the check has come or letting me tag along with your friends while you're at a bar.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
zombie movies and making out. now i remember why we became friends. we also like beer in between making out.
Drinking beer in between breaks in a heavy duty make-our session is exactly why nobody wants to make out with you, ALEXANDRIO. I'm glad you're using your nickname for good and not evil. (Maybe a little evil is okay.)
Post a Comment