Monday’s child has learned to tie his bootlegs
It never mattered to me what he looked like. The generic, he you understand. There has never been a stock type or the looks of a movie god living in my mind. That’s not how Some Girl works.
The conversations went something like this: smart, taller than me (I mean I am 5 feet tall, anyone shorter than me would be a midget, although I have recently learned that I am only taller than the average pygmy, which of course means that there are above average pygmies out there that are taller than me (I am shorter than a fucking pygmy. Some say it’s cute, I’m going to agree because otherwise what am I?), witty, makes me laugh, stable, sane, confident, just a little square, attentive to detail, and a moral person.
The appeal has always been the moral fabric rather than the genetic fluke.
And see how they run: The Film Executive, The Sergeant, OOG, Some Boy (the only constant among them is that they are not around any more. Sure some for good reasons, like having another girlfriend or for being psychotic, but others) I just wasn’t that appealing to them.
Maybe I should have been pickier and based my judgments on other factors. Like whether or not their belt matched their shoes. Maybe I shouldn’t have branded myself as an inflatable doll (I’ve been trademarked). Perhaps there was a better way of going about things to make life just a little smoother. I suppose I always thought that I would be able to count on someone who I trusted because they told me what I wanted to hear.
The latest in the series (serialized boys) has his moments. As I speak to him, moments before I tumble into sleep each night, I wonder what is so appealing about this one. And then he makes me laugh and I forget that buzzing noise and I just get to be.