Okay, we’re back to the Blessed Disappointment, whining and railing. I’m afraid I’m making less sense but still more than the process of online dating itself. This week, some observations on a common male profile–the guy still stuck in his musical dream. (okay okay, maybe I’m the girl still stuck in her on-the-stage dream. But hey, I didn’t say it had to be fair and balanced.)
Fall means reg’lar, it smells like apples, hot coffee and hot tea. Soon (like maybe tomorrow) it will smell like rain. That’s Portland for you.
Most of these [Google] results were asshole tests—no we’re not talking hemorrhoid diagnostics. I guess people need to find out if they are assholes. I mean that seems natural; I know plenty of assholes and I don’t think they know they qualify.
He’s fervently clutching every damn bag he ever ran across, while espousing a devil-may-care approach to life. He calls himself sensitive and talks about intimacy but he’s ever so well defended against it.
My fun is in highlighting annoying, weird, crazy stuff that really happens. (Actually, I’m more focused on routine misses and reveals.) Since I’m almost at the end of my patience for this week, let me just get this off my chest:
It was a hopeful sign of family Sunday mornings to come: mornings filled with stinky fish and family love.
I have no objections to pictures of you on your Harley or in front of your Taurus with the dog tied to the roof rack. That’s just truth in advertising. But a photo of just the car/dog/cycle?