Last night, I began receiving unsolicited dating advice from a woman in her late twenties who was
“I have two cats.”
My buddy jumped in to emphasize that I have — not one cat — TWO cats. She reacted predictably.
“Well, you might want to not lead with that.”
“Sure. What if she’s allergic or doesn’t like cats?”
“Oh, then I’d have them euthanized.”
“Ah, good answer.”
“Your sarcasm detector is broken. I would never get rid of my catSSSSSSSS because some pussy support unit was oversensitive.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re single.”
“Again, I don’t care. Single life suits me just fine. What if your man said he would only consider marrying you if you traded your beloved schnauzer for double-D implants?”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Right. You certainly have something annoying that he is willing to overlook because he loves the rest of you more than he hates the annoyance. Otherwise, he would not have bent a knee.”
“No. Actually, he loves all of me including my flaws.”
“He tolerates your flaws. My cats are not my flaws. They are two of the finest things about me. They’re clean, quiet, and wonderful company. I’m crass, intolerant, and opinionated. I eat too many peanut butter cookies and drink too much wine and bourbon. My woman is going to have to deal with that or take me in small doses.”
“Well, it’s no surprise you’re having a difficult time finding the one.”
“You’re missing my point again. I’m not searching for the one. You found your one, which is great for you, for now. After you have your heart kicked around like a rugby ball for decades, you’ll understand my perspective. Single life unteathers the soul. Opportunities abound.”
She didn’t buy it. They never do. Ah, young love. It’s cute as a toddler, until shit starts flying.
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