A. Lovington

I Believe in Sunshine - Without Somebody...

"Hey, why not? You're good looking, seem cool, but obviously this website caters to those with the sort of psuedo-ADD instant gratification mindset, so if I don't dangle some sort of interesting euphemistic carrot immediately in front of a woman's face, she's got a dozen more waiting in the wings to put on their song dance number for the talent show. Call me a capitalist, but I'm all about cutting corners too. Who needs this fake ettiquette exchange of insubstantial small talk? Why not just get high, have great sex you couldn't do with a friend for feel of akwardness, and go about feeling satiated, and having delved into a little fun before we all hit menopause and quit giving up about the miracle of being alive?"

I have harboured resentment for you flip flops. Not on others, just myself and potential mates. I hate shoes that are an onomatopoeia. I hate how helpless you are in them if you're attacked. I hate forced attention of body parts which are generally gross. You can't play kickball, run or climb in them. I would sooner stand barefoot in the sand, or wear shoes. I had a pair once for a public shower but I ended up just throwing them away and bathing myself in the sink. With my shoes on. I am the last of my kind. Velcro forever.

I went Whale Watching once off the Coast of Reykjavik. If you stood perfectly still, you could brave it's choppy waves; winds that'd blow a 10lb hog into a gallon jug. But the minute you moved, you were done for, sea sickness so intense I felt like I had vertigo. I tumbled downstairs and became wedged in a 6 inch gap between the wall and a toilet. Thrown constantly back down every time I managed to stand, I was reminded that Iceland has the worst pizza bar none. I threw up like 8 times. My girlfriend was trapped in the only other available bathroom until we reached the shore. There were a dozen angry tourists who had vomited all over the deck glaring at us when we finally came out.

Works

If you truly have a sincere heart and mind, people will sense it. It's almost an energy, a bubble around you that once someone is close enough it is tangible. You will be liked, be you physically attractive, be you not. The simple act of being yourself and engaging is hot. It's up to you with how you handle that talent. Most folks gladly operate in spontaneity. Often to plot a course is to clip a nightingale's wings. Let it fly around. Do its thing. Sing you its song when it wants. Why isn't that ok? Because man would no sooner cage that specimen. Study it, appreciate it. Learn its song, and feed it a reasonable variety of seeds. But that won't make a bird sing, it'll make it migrate. We as men prewired to domesticate all these beautiful wild creatures whose true beauty cannot be seen unless they able to roam free? The moral: Don't treat it as a loss. You've won already. That bird sang you its song, you fool! The world is full of birds and birdwatchers. Stop putting out extra bird seed to make it fly back again. Don't drunkenly try and whistle its tune on the back patio at dusk. Especially if you've just eaten chips It'll come if it wants, or never again. It's feral. It was never your concern. Not everybody gets to hear that song. You were cool enough to get to listen. Let it fly. Get back to being charming and productive.

Every time I do laundry, I come across an article of clothing that belonged to my grandfather. I am then reminded of the time that when I lived with him, he often berated me for "Doin' the warsh at all hours of the night" and demanded we combine our laundry to keep the water pump from overuse. Inevitably, our wardrobes became interchangeable, and I never said anything out of respect of an old man that appreciated my impeccable taste in vintage polyester and flannel.