I was a philosophy major in college and every girl I dated
wondered why.
My grandfather was a cold man: He shook my hand at my high
school graduation and I got frost bite. His cards were always signed With Mild Consideration, and his cause
of death was Emotional Infarction.
I dated a painter back in college. You know the type:
emotional, messy, with brushes and paints strewn around. It didn’t work out. She
never offered to paint me in the nude so I got drunk and told her one night how
this pissed me off. She said she was a house painter and that if I paid any
attention to her, I would know that. What am I a detective? I don’t go snooping
around people’s jobs all day and listen to them talk about their work. And
besides, how is a den different from my beer belly?
No comments:
Post a Comment