You want kids? Want to travel? How much? You like foot rubs? Rough sex? Earlobe biting? Neck kissing? How about linguini with clam sauce?
As I age like fine Parmesan, my priorities change. Yours too? Here’s a biggie: sleep! That sets up my entire day. If I sleep like shit, I’m in a haze the entire next day. I see people wearing earplugs and blindfolds. I hear white noise generators (a true indication that it is her last date with me). I’m buried in pillows, blankets, and (dis)comforters. She wears a one-sy with socks. She sleeps naked. All sorts. Find one that matches yours, and you’ve got a keeper.
What about life values? Some people want to be wealthy more than they want to be happy. They’ll do what it takes to get more and pay less. That’s stressful. I dated a woman who wanted to review my finances before proceeding (read: allow me to enter her). She was well-off. Good for her. Was she worried my broke ass was trying to marry her and take half? That’s fucked up. I grabbed her tits, kissed her goodbye, went home, and had sex with myself. My cock doesn’t care about my FICO score.
Pets are important to me. Therefore, her pet’s compatibility with mine matter. When I run into ex-bedmates, I’m often asked, “How are your cats? Do you have like fifty now?” Those times, I often wish I held a kick-a-wiseass-in-the-cunt card. Can’t find one, so I give a fake chuckle then sneeze on her.
I also dated a woman who owned a horse-sized dog. She came right out and told me her dog would eat my cats. I was three months from my last penetration, so I said, “Oh, silly, we could figure a way for them to coexist.” Turns out we did figure out a way—we stopped dating.
Perhaps church is important to you. I hate church—I have since Sunday School. Let’s just say I was a jilted altar boy. Rejected because Father Joe found Little Jimmy’s rump more appealing than my sweet Italian meatballs. Hurtful. Anywho, I can’t date someone with supernatural beliefs. If she believes in fairies, we live in different worlds. When shit hits the fan, she’s going to close her eyes and beg her invisible friend while I look for a shovel. That’s not going to work.
We have elections coming, and some ladies are into politics. After watching the absurd silliness of Donald Trump become supported by a large number of mush brains, I’m losing faith in democracy. If she supports that obnoxious orangutan or trashes The Great Obama, she won’t make it a minute past happy hour with me, no matter how shapely her backside.
Offspring are important. I get it. I was raised with three dozen. (I shit you not. Mom was a foster parent.) That may have jilted me and shoved me toward my vasectomy, but I understand parental pride. Kids are like kittens—cute and fun until they make noise and messes. I’m not interested in child-rearing. It’s pointless to me because they rarely listen, and if they do, I’ll be gone before they’re mature enough to put my advice into action.
So, that’s one of the first things we should ask on date uno: “What’s important to you?” Here’s hoping baseball, Comedy Central, and orgasms are high on your list.
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