Ooh, such a good mood today! I'm listening to Sloan, singing along, and dancing around in my chair. Happy happy happy, as GooglyMinotaur would say. Seasonal Affective Disorder, I hardly knew ye.
During a heated argument with a friend (we'll call him Tex), I suggested that his making dinner for a first date was a bigger deal than going out for dinner is. You might think otherwise, but it's more meaningful to make food than to buy it. Plus, you're showing off your cooking talents (or lack thereof) to a potential lovebird. When I realized that he had trekked to the fancy supermarket to buy strawberries, that sealed the deal. "You know what that was?" I yelped to Tex. "That was a sex dinner!"
In other words, it was a meal that was meant to show that this was not merely hanging out with a friend, but that it was a date. Tex seemed offended at my nomenclature, but isn't "sex dinner" an amusing phrase? You can use it if you'd like. The night does not have to culminate in activities worthy of Barry White's endorsement, by the way.
(Oh god, my brothers and mom are probably reading this. They probably think I invite people over for sex dinners all the time. This is not the truth! I do enjoy making appley treats and cookies and the occasional stir-fry for suitors, but never have I traveled to the fancy supermarket for food. I won't lie to you; I've invited people over for dinner, but with only the purest culinary intentions. )
I keep dreaming about my grandfather. At night, he's still alive and healthy, eyes bright blue behind his rosy glasses. This year's Christmas will be the first without him, and it looks like our celebration will be only me and my parents. We've done that once or twice before, but it was always because of inclement weather. He used to do the cutest things during the holidays. When I was a baby, he dressed up as Santa Claus, which confused me. He knew that I loved Hershey's Kisses, and so when my mother left a toddler-me under his care, he fed me a whole bag. That's the kind of grandfather he was. He used to own a small house on Fletcher, and the building still stands. An apartment was up for rental shortly after my grandfather died, and I desperately wanted to live there. I couldn't afford the rent, but I looked inside the apartment anyway. I was amazed by how small it was, how four people had lived there. I hope to never stop seeing him in my dreams.
During a heated argument with a friend (we'll call him Tex), I suggested that his making dinner for a first date was a bigger deal than going out for dinner is. You might think otherwise, but it's more meaningful to make food than to buy it. Plus, you're showing off your cooking talents (or lack thereof) to a potential lovebird. When I realized that he had trekked to the fancy supermarket to buy strawberries, that sealed the deal. "You know what that was?" I yelped to Tex. "That was a sex dinner!"
In other words, it was a meal that was meant to show that this was not merely hanging out with a friend, but that it was a date. Tex seemed offended at my nomenclature, but isn't "sex dinner" an amusing phrase? You can use it if you'd like. The night does not have to culminate in activities worthy of Barry White's endorsement, by the way.
(Oh god, my brothers and mom are probably reading this. They probably think I invite people over for sex dinners all the time. This is not the truth! I do enjoy making appley treats and cookies and the occasional stir-fry for suitors, but never have I traveled to the fancy supermarket for food. I won't lie to you; I've invited people over for dinner, but with only the purest culinary intentions. )
I keep dreaming about my grandfather. At night, he's still alive and healthy, eyes bright blue behind his rosy glasses. This year's Christmas will be the first without him, and it looks like our celebration will be only me and my parents. We've done that once or twice before, but it was always because of inclement weather. He used to do the cutest things during the holidays. When I was a baby, he dressed up as Santa Claus, which confused me. He knew that I loved Hershey's Kisses, and so when my mother left a toddler-me under his care, he fed me a whole bag. That's the kind of grandfather he was. He used to own a small house on Fletcher, and the building still stands. An apartment was up for rental shortly after my grandfather died, and I desperately wanted to live there. I couldn't afford the rent, but I looked inside the apartment anyway. I was amazed by how small it was, how four people had lived there. I hope to never stop seeing him in my dreams.
Labels: emo spice
0 Responses to “brok martin is dashing”
Post a Comment