Question: How do I know if a girl loves me or not?
If one night you go out drinking and end up back at her place, pass out together on the bed with your shoes on, and wake up a few hours later only to discover that you’ve peed the bed, which she takes in stride, changes the sheets, and then the next morning has a laugh about it, later leaves some pamphlets from the local health clinic about child bedwetters in your mailbox, and eventually after a few weeks tells your friends but never, ever tells hers: She loves you.
If she knows what song is coming next on the mix CD you made her: She loves you.
If she hides your shoes when you’re late for work, and from a supine position on the couch plays “Hot/Cold,” and, finally, after 15 minutes of you ignoring her screaming, “Boiling! Burning up!” every time you stalk angrily by the dishwasher, gets up, flips it open to reveal the shoes, sitting there among the plates, and hands them over with a kiss and a giggle, and then laughs some more as you tie your laces in a silent rage: She loves you.
If she calls you at work that day to ask, “How are those shoes working out?”: She loves you.
If when you get home you try to hide something of hers, she finds it immediately, shaking her head, and when she pulls whatever it is—oven mitts or stretch pants—from behind the couch, she looks at you and without any attempt to hide her pity, says, “I love you”: She loves you.
If you’re Gael Garcia Bernal: She loves you.
If you’re not Gael Garcia Bernal, but you’re willing to sit through a “GGB” marathon and agree for 10 consecutive hours that he is indeed the most beautiful and talented man alive—and so down-to-earth, too!—and afterward agree that his portrayal of Che Guevara would have earned an Oscar nod were it not for the implicit politics, agree that taking Spanish classes is a great idea, or salsa, or tango, whatever, agree, agree, agree, and that night lying in bed after sex that ends with her screaming, “Si! Si!” wonder aloud, “But you’re happy with me, right?”: She loves you, man—no one can compete with that Latin bastard. Forget about it.
If she puts up with an entire Stars of the Lid album on a long-distance road trip: She loves you.
If she dances with your friends: She loves you.
If at Halloween you’re invited to a TV- and movie-themed party and she dresses up as Winnie Cooper and you dress up as Paul Pfeiffer, mainly because you already have the glasses, and at the party some guy who’s a dead ringer for Fred Savage saunters up, peels off his mole, and says, “Get lost, Paul, Winnie’s mine,” and you’re left standing there while the two of them go off dancing to the soundtrack from Forrest Gump, and when two hours later she finds you sitting by the punch bowl explaining for the umpteenth time that, no, you’re not supposed to be Woody Allen, she holds up a tie stolen from a passed-out Alex P. Keaton to her petticoat and redubs herself Annie Hall, and you Alvy Singer: She loves you. And, to be honest, I sort of love you, too.
If she’s a zombie: She loves you, but only for your brains.
If she says, “I love you” on the roller coaster, right after you’ve puked down your shirt: She loves you.
If you go to a karaoke bar with friends and do a duet of “Endless Love,” and she insists on doing the Lionel Richie part if only so she can really belt out a big “Ooh whoa” near the end, and when you’re done she announces you to the crowd as “Miss Diana Ross, everybody,” and then gives you a high-five: She loves you.
If she plays pointedly with strangers’ babies at the park, intermittently looking over to you with an expression that says, “See?”: She loves you.
If her parents love you: She loves you, probably.
If her parents hate you: She might love you, too.
If she’s the youngest of four sisters, two of whom are lesbians, the third a nun, and the first time you meet her father he pulls you away from his wife’s gingersnaps and homemade iced tea to check out the vintage “titty mags” he keeps hidden underneath a bench in the six-by-four corner of the basement he calls his workshop, the only place in the house not painted lavender and decorated with images of kittens and/or sunflowers, and every few pages he points out a particularly luxuriant pubis, and when you concur—“Sweet”—he smacks you heartily on the back and before you know it he’s calling you “Son” and have you ever fished for pike up north? Because he’s got a cabin. What of this? Well, her dad sure as hell loves you. Welcome to the family!
If she ever says the words, “I hate you”: She loves you. Or she did at one point, anyway.
If she loves you, if she really loves you, you’ll know it. If you can wake up to her staring at you and it’s not even mildly creepy, if you catch her smelling the shoulder of the hooded sweatshirt you lent her for an autumn walk at the beach, and not for B.O., if she makes you a pancake in the shape of a shark, if she calls you drunkenly at four in the morning “to talk,” if she laughs at your jokes when they’re funny and makes fun of you when they’re not, if she keeps her fridge stocked with Guinness tallboys for when you come over, if she tells you how she wishes she were closer to her sister and that her dad makes her sad: She loves you, of course she loves you.
And with a love like that, you know you should be glad.
I understand sarcasm is hard to distinguish "online"
but my common sense has equipped me long enough to distinguish the difference between “sarcasm” and just being a “flaming asshat who is mayor of asshole island and resides on assfuck street with his friend asinine.”
a good date is when a guy takes you to an ice skating rink at closing hours and has a friend that works there who owes him a favor, lets you all in to skate alone. even turns on the disco lights and music.
a great date, is when you’re skating alone with this guy and because of your clear lack of skating ability, you fall and bust your ass all over the ice, he notices how evident your embarrassment is and decides to dramatically trip over his own skates and fall on his ass right next to you. and you both sit on a cold ice surface, bruised, alone, with disco lights pinging off every wall while listening to the Spice Girls.
The only problem is, I don’t have anything to wear. Literally. Before being asked to get courted to an open mic night, I decided today was the day I was going to wash probably, almost a month of dirty clothes that has almost gobbled up my entire room. Along with Rufio & I’s existence. All I have is the clothes i’m wearing now, without pants.
Not only that, just one washer and dryer. Which to add, the dryer shouldn’t even be called a ‘dryer’ its more of a ‘tosser of clothes that remain soaking wet but i’ll just make noises to make my owner believe something is being dried.’ I’m one of those people who actually have to hang their clothes outside in order to dry.
Now my only option is to put on soggy pants that might chafe my thighs and hobble down to the laundromat and feed it more dollar bills than a stripper. All for the sake of a night with free booze, good music, and dinner with a gorgeous man. Being a woman is hard work. Especially in damp jeans that ride up your ass like butt floss.
In relationships and friendships. I surround myself with individuals who share no interests that I have, let alone share a common appearance (tattoos,ect). And people always ask me, “how do you even get along?”
Easy. We both welcome differences. I’m easily bored, my personality is also nomadic. How I am this year, might not be who i’ll be two years from now. So having the same person with the same interests doing the same fucking thing that i’m doing gets old. Rather quickly, actually. For me that is. But finding someone who has remotely nothing in common with me I consider a diamond in the rough. Seeing two people on opposite sides of the spectrum being able to sit down for coffee, or even love each other knowing the only thing they have in common, is that they both want to be in each others company. Its bliss.
Especially when they turn out to be an incredibly rad person that you can learn from. I love learning from people. Things I might not have even thought to do, cook, read, watch, what have you. It’s like being in that individuals personal library. And being allowed to check out whatever book they have on the shelf. Endless material that you’d might not have discovered if you stayed within your comfort zone. You both feed of each other, and probably for some, they make you a more rounded person, if not better.
I think all of my relationships with people, platonic or not, have done that for me.
He is in need of a father figure. Somebody that will take him to the dog park and teach him how to defend himself against those bully ass leaves that tumble by way too quickly and attack him like silent ninjas with katana swords in both hands. A man that will show him real sports, not my sports, which consists of trash can basketball and the occasional aggressive game of hopscotch. Someone who will help him grow a mustache. And pick up women.
Yes, I need a boyfriend purely just to become the step father of my dog. I did just say that.
But whenever I’m on the Metro with a bunch of people, I silently look around and ponder to myself, “I wonder what their facebook profile picture is..”
AND I WONDER THIS IN THE MOST NON CREEPY WAY.
I just always assume that peoples identity online is different from their real life one. So if you’re the button up stock broker who is sitting across from me or the business suit female lawyer that’s directly next me, this is what I’m doing. Making up your online alter ego on Facebook.
This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout “Save us!”… and I’ll look down and whisper “No.””—