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
no 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 posses 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.