So here we are again, back at Square One.
The good(?) news is that, this go-round, I was only able to fight my way through to about Square Two, so the knockback isn't quite so neckbrace-inducing as it otherwise could have been. Things don't start to get tricky until about Square Four and from then on, the whole system of polygons and numbers can get a bit overwhelming. I know a guy who dislocated his pelvis trying to make the ill-advised leap from Triangle Eleven to Dodecahedron Nineteen. The problem is, there's no guide to tell you where you're going. There's no Euclid of interpersonal relationships to sketch out the way for us. We're left alone to grope in the dark, falling into every manner of trapezoid when all we're really after is a little rhombus.
Well, see, I'm punning again, so there's evidence that I'm doing better than I thought I'd be doing so soon after yet another setback in the state-mandated basic skills grade-level-appropriate subject test in romantic coupling. From what I understand, a lot of funding for very necessary things is determined by the results of these tests, mostly in the direction of florists, department store cologne counters and condom manufacturers. So far they've all gone begging.
Don't fret, gentle readers. I'm not going to wind up and unspool at you another One Giant Metaphor Post of Apocalyptic Seriousness that kicks around in the dust looking for shoots after the locusts have gone. Was I the dumpee instead of the dumper in this scenario? Turns out I was. With all that implies. But really, what more can I do? Be more awesome? Can the sun be more sunny? You radiate and you radiate and you radiate and then, later, you realize the other person is crippled with polymorphous light eruption. Nothing is less sexy than a partner who makes you itchy. Nobody wants to date a wool coat. Except perhaps very lonely necrophiliac sheep. Which, I'm sorry, is a metaphor too far, even for me.
Again, though, don't fret. I'll feel sorry for myself for a bit, sure. But in all these situations, I like to find what President Blackman likes to call the "teachable moments." Collectively from my experiences, I think I can say I'm developing a better idea about what it is women are looking for. Generally, they want honesty (penis size), sincerity (penis size), emotional availability (penis size) and penis size (girth). Three of those I can probably do. The fourth one... well, if it's dark enough, I guess I can use my fist.
Not on the first date, though. The fist is way down the line. I think it's Oblate Spheroid Ninety-One. But then, like most things, it depends on the girl.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
I feel like you got all Mimsy Were the Borogroves on me, with all the high-folutin' illiterations miring me in a Euclidian fog and unable to find the way out from all the perverted sheep and scary, yet fascinating, fists cavorting about.
So, ummm, sorry? Congratulations?
I feel bad because I laughed a lot at this post. Especially the wool coat and the necrophilic sheep. And President Blackman. Which makes me feel like a bad person with a sick, immoral mind.
I shouldn't laugh at jokes about the president and race, or lonely sheep and necrophilia - should I?
Kay-Z: I didn't really follow the reference, but luckily there's Wikipedia to light the way. So even though I didn't know what it was beforehand, it was, it turns out, exactly what I meant.
KnK: It's OK, this wasn't a test. At least not in the ways you worried about. In the ways that it was, I have no authority to judge you.
I didn't realize authority was needed to judge other people.
i may have been doing it wrong all these years, then.
Post a Comment