What can I say? I am not perfect nor do I wish to be. I love to have time to myself, but I really don't enjoy being single. I like to be fussed at for leaving dirty socks all over the place and for cutting a huge hole out of the middle of the brownies and eating the middle piece. I am very fond of the dirty looks I used to get whenever I raised an objection or decided to defend myself against an unworldly accusation. I really do miss all those things. I especially miss the monthly moody spells where I get into trouble for no damn reason whatsoever, often just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, meaning my own house. Although most of these things sound bitter, I assure you they are not. They are hilarious. I love them. I have termed marriage to be the most unpredictable predictability and yet at the same time the most predictable unpredictability. Anyone who has been married and thus divorced understands EXACTLY what this means.
I am not much of a cook. First off, let’s define cooking. I don’t feel that the robotic process of “open can, pour goo into pot, turn up heat and stir occasionally” to be cooking. Cooking is quite different, and to any man lucky enough to receive actual food, there is a fundamentally huge distinction between simply heating and actually cooking that defies expectation each and every time. Cat food is overrated anyway, although the chicken flavor is quite good.
I am what I am, and I do what I do. There can be no introspection without finding an open mousetrap in me somewhere. I look at this way, and I never convinced my former wife of it despite my greatest and most daring verbal attempts: The clothes I take off at night and pile beside me on the floor as I get into bed is the emergency pile. If the house is burning down at two in the morning, I am not the one standing embarrassed in my underwear on the street corner watching burning embers get hosed down by the firefighters.
You see, there is method to my sloppiness. Only a man as lazy as myself could probably truly understand this.
If you are looking for a committed friend who will be true, never take advantage of you and always tell you truth, you have come to the right place. If you are looking for a man of a thousand “yeses,” you have stopped at the wrong shop. Just don’t ask me if that dress makes you look fat. Of course I am going to lie on that one.
I am not much of a cook. First off, let’s define cooking. I don’t feel that the robotic process of “open can, pour goo into pot, turn up heat and stir occasionally” to be cooking. Cooking is quite different, and to any man lucky enough to receive actual food, there is a fundamentally huge distinction between simply heating and actually cooking that defies expectation each and every time. Cat food is overrated anyway, although the chicken flavor is quite good.
I am what I am, and I do what I do. There can be no introspection without finding an open mousetrap in me somewhere. I look at this way, and I never convinced my former wife of it despite my greatest and most daring verbal attempts: The clothes I take off at night and pile beside me on the floor as I get into bed is the emergency pile. If the house is burning down at two in the morning, I am not the one standing embarrassed in my underwear on the street corner watching burning embers get hosed down by the firefighters.
You see, there is method to my sloppiness. Only a man as lazy as myself could probably truly understand this.
If you are looking for a committed friend who will be true, never take advantage of you and always tell you truth, you have come to the right place. If you are looking for a man of a thousand “yeses,” you have stopped at the wrong shop. Just don’t ask me if that dress makes you look fat. Of course I am going to lie on that one.
Pajamas might be an option.
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