sometimes, I surprise even myself.
between me, Meggers, Bertolli and Richelle, the last thing we need is an excuse not to date somebody. Seinfeld said it best:
She had man hands.
He's a regifter.
She's a two-face.
She's got the jimmy legs.
She's a virgin.
She just took credit for my salad.
She's one of these low-talkers.
He's a high talker.
He's a bit of a close talker.
She went out with Newman?
She's too tan.
She's too good.
She wasn't my type.
and we can definitely add our own to the list.
he wears gloves. he's not funny. he has weird friends. he made me eat vegetables. he made a double comeback. his heart just isn't in it. he likes bad music. he had a booger in his nose. He won't chew gum. He wears gargoyle shirts. He has baby hands. He has a weird laugh. He only wears free t-shirts.
But recently, I've grown.
Me: I hate his jeans.
Richelle: Jeans are fixable.
Me: You're right.
Richelle: How bad are they?
Me: I've met plenty of guys with good jeans and bad attitudes.
Maybe there's hope for me after all.