Those possessing any other physical or intangible traits of said female’s most recent ex-boyfriend need not apply, i.e. callused hands, wandering eyes, shotgun laugh, uncanny ability to make a four-course meal out of whatever happens to be in the cupboard.
Hey. I’m writing to say I’m sorry.
One was short with thick, combed brown hair; the other was a tall, bedheaded blonde. But that’s not important. What’s important is that one loved me—fervently, earnestly, transparently—and the other didn’t.
These days, the sexual bases are starting to look less like a diamond and more like a convoluted maze of Tinder rejections, vodka-Redbull cocktails, and morning-after bedbug paranoia.
Seriously, let’s not even start. Let’s complain how late it is, how tired we are, how hard it is to find parking at 2:47 a.m. on a Thursday. Friday, actually.
Ah, Muni: San Francisco’s public transit system and favorite four-letter word.
An ex-lover is like a comfortable pair of jeans: soft and familiar, a reliable standby when you want to feel like your old self again.