Nirvana

He's dreamy. He's mellow. He's soooo....profound....if you've been smoking the same stuff he has, that is.

He thinks you're beautiful down to the very last freckle. You know, the cool-looking, weird-shaped
little purple ridgey one that you hoped no one would see, let alone write a song about,
then perform at a gig that nobody showed up to--save forty of your mutual closest friends.

You like the fact that he thinks about issues deeply. But what you fail to realize is that he is not merely
contemplating his navel, but is staring with a stoned glaze in his eye at the piece of blue bellybutton lint
that has been trapped in there indefinitely until the next time he remembers to shower. If it seems like he's
staring for what seems like ages, it's only because he's wondering if lint truly posseses the urge to be free.

True he's into cool music, but he never remembers where he put the CD that on any given moment you will be looking
for. He says, Peace, man, but what he means is piece, man--like in piece of cake, or something man, I'm just starving.

Trying for a commitment with this kind of a guy is a losing proposition since even if he tells you he wants to be
with you forever, there's never any guarantee that tomorrow he will remember what he said or even who you are.
You increase your chances of being one of the surviving imprints on those ol' brain cells if you position yourself
well, in a key location en route to the fridge, thereby increasing your chances of building a strong association
with a dominant motivation such as food. You double your chances if you actually go get it for him--
sofa-side delivery service always hits the spot.

Not that he won't get up to get things for you EVER--just don't count on him to remember to come back any time soon.

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