I’ve always found a light shade of summer freckle on a man to be an attractive feature. Pair that with an effortless baseball cap and I’m probably halfway to love.
It’s as if I’ve formulated this notion that if you’re a freckled man, you’re an approachable man, you’re a good man; worthy of my planting a kiss on the impression the sun has left on you.
If only all that were true.
- trick a poor soul into giving you his number
- have some nice banter with him but don’t come off as too interested
- make plans with him
- suddenly switch to crazy bitch mode
- get your phone number blocked
- use his number to research him on the Google and find him on Facebook and then on all other social media websites you both use
- send him polite but condescending messages on each of his social media platforms. things like “good job”, “nice”, “classy”, and “asshole”.
- ok, maybe that last one is lacking the polite factor
- the message on Facebook should scare him the most, seeing as he’s now aware that you know his full name, date of birth, place of work, and what he did on june 5, 2011
- allow him to do damage control via Facebook messenger and try not to get too offended by his fear that he now has a real live crazy stalker person on his hands. your gig is just that believable
- play innocent
- confuse him
- watch as each and every one of his social media profiles seemingly disappears off the face of the earth
and there you have it. we’ve done the research for you so that you don’t have to but feel free to try your own methods. this is science after all.
The dead beetle’s shell had broken and expanded like wings. Maybe it was kind of beautiful. I doubted anyone else passing by the stairwell would think so. I watched as with each passing day it spread its wings further and further. It reminded me of the cheerio by the elevator that I had been nodding to every morning for months. I wondered how long it would be until the beetle spread it’s shell-wings and flew away. That day would somehow feel momentous. I would probably pause for a moment, think of how I should react, and them move on down the stairs without a conclusion. I never really know how to react when small momentous occasions I build up for no apparent reason actually come around.
I said farewell to the beetle and exited the building, greeted by the cold I didn’t really feel. All I felt was the breeze in my crotch area that reminded me that I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I was suddenly self conscious about what my butt looked like in my leggings without underwear on. It was a good thing I was only going next door, where my butt would be concealed by the couch I would be sitting on in the coffee shop. I was a bit ashamed that I was joining the culture of young adults sitting at coffee shops with their laptops open. I looked at the older man across the room who had nothing but his coffee cup on the table in front of him. He was observing us. We locked eyes in a way that was more dramatic in my head than it actually was in real life and then were cut off by some type-A college student who spoke in a billion octaves too high for an actual human who was asking him for the extra chair at his table. The study group was apparently thriving.
A girl sat down near me on the couch and opened her laptop. Her computer background said “fly” in big fancy letters across the screen. I thought that was dumb and cliche and looked down on her for being so generic. Then I kind of felt like crying because I was the numb kind of exhausted where you don’t really know who you are and if you ever really knew who you were or ever really existed in a sense that wasn’t so boringly generic. My iced coffee was sweating. It tasted like bourbon.
It’s the work crush. The one who suddenly catches your eye as he walks out to lunch and into your heart. Had you noticed him before? Maybe not. Maybe you were too busy learning the responsibilities of your job to partake in such frivolity. But suddenly he’s all you think about during the moments you come up for air amid the day’s work.
It’s the work crush. The one you daydream about while pretending he doesn’t make an appearance in your night dreams as well. You tell your friends he’s just a work crush; an innocent kind of pastime who you would never even consider touching in your real life. In reality it’s probably not healthy to be as obsessed with a person as you are with your work crush.
It’s the work crush. The one who motivates you to actually put together an outfit instead of wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings for five days in a row. It’s the one who has you reconsidering what a waste of effort liquid eyeliner is.
And when the work crush approaches you with a work related matter, he’s the one who gets the most thorough and expansive response as you hold back your hyperventilation.
“…Then I kind of felt like crying because I was the numb kind of exhausted where you don’t really know who you are and if you ever really knew who you were or ever really existed in a sense that wasn’t so boringly generic. My iced coffee was sweating. It tasted like bourbon.”
I’m slightly opposed to the idea that a story needs a beginning.
Where does something really begin?
One can say a character’s story officially starts at birth;
but even that isn’t really a beginning.
So here I will tell you some tales,
and I will put you somewhere to start;
but as a reader,
don’t take this to be the beginning.
You know better.