The term “young lady” changes meaning as I age. I’ve revised my calculation to this: If she could be my daughter, she’s young and, to her, I’m old. There’s no judgment associated. Let’s call it classification, shall we? She’s not a different species, because I could still mate with her. So, if she were to refer to me as a dinosaur, that would be a false classification. Humans can’t fuck dinosaurs. Never could. Not even West Virginians.
Where am I going with this?
Just want to set the proper mental scene for you before I tell the sad story of an abandoned dinosaur, I mean puppy—me. You see, I met a young lady with unoccupied seat next to her next to me in my office (bar). I took advice from all the relationship help audio books I have been consuming, and initiated idle chit chat. She responded, although somewhat guarded. I slid closer, attempting to convince her of my innocent lovability.
She was new to the area. I was old to the area. I offered to escort her on a tour of fine sights and establishments in the form of dive bars with cheap beer sold in dirty glasses. I took a chance there. She was wearing sneakers, so I inferred a local IPA would do. My wallet sighed relief.
I usually begin feeling out prospects with the following:
“How are you finding the dating scene here on the left coast?”
“It usually goes like this. I meet a new guy. We hit it off well. We hang, we drink, we dance. Then, he disappears. No number exchange. No reason. Poof!”
“Ah. That is strange. Look, I won’t do that to you. Promise.”
What this dinosaur/puppy should have considered, however, is the likelihood that she would use this opportunity to get back at boys who ghosted her. She took me from my cage, tickled my chin, and played fetch (beer). Then, just when I was pee-puddle excited to have a snuggle buddy, she placed me back in my dog pound cage and drove away.
Didn’t even get a chance to lick her.
Before you start a Go Fund Me campaign to keep me from the doggie ovens, rest assured that my calloused heart is fine here alone. I’ll not whimper, whine, and claw at my cage. I’ll simply wait patiently for the next adopter with the emotional vacancy to consider me.
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