-Why I’m Single-
Absent-mindedly fondling my breasts while driving in a torrential downpour and wondering why Boston Market never took off.
Picking my nose at a red light, I look over to see an attractive man staring at me, amused.
My ex-boyfriend might have a Wikipedia page and three thousand more followers on Twitter,
but my rants against sexist columns in the Daily Collegian have been published in the Daily Collegian, and ignored by hundreds of UMass males who go to BarStoolSports.com every day to rate, on a scale of one to ten, a picture of some girl’s breasts.
I went on a sandwich date and we had nothing to talk about.
My date said “I hate it when the sandwich contents falls out the back of the sandwich when you bite into it.”
“We’ve all been there,” I said.
Sometimes I think I look like a little boy and I wonder if the men who are interested in me are pedophiles, and then I don’t want to date anyone at all.
I hate it when people point out that I’m shorter than the average woman.
The next time someone tries to get cute with me by teasing me about my height, I’m going to call them a motherfucker, which is a word I’ve always wanted to use but it never seems appropriate. I hope I can deliver it well. I’ll say:
“Motherfucker, I’m not short. You’re just tall, and it’s really fucking bothering me.”
Sometimes I stutter because I think about what I’m saying as I say it.
Sometimes I don’t stutter but I end up saying something that makes no sense.
I once worked with someone who had noticeably impressive calf muscles.
I meant to ask him: “Do you do a lot of bike riding?”
But I said: “Do you ride a lot of bikes?”
That was a weird moment.
But I am making an effort.
An effort to dress less like a lesbian and more like a closeted lesbian.
This will please my mother.
I am waiting for the melatonin to kick in, at which point I will dream about entering the dragon’s lair, or something equally shitty.
I dream that I’m about to receive a ham and cheese sandwich from a woman on a motorcycle, and I wake up with my arms extended over the side of the bed where a partner could fit, where a sandwich vision fades into half an empty bed