Love isn't Blind, It's Cross-Eyed

I’m staring at gorgeous woman right now. She doesn’t know that I think she’s gorgeous, or the fact that I’m thinking about her at all, and that I’m writing down exactly just how gorgeous I think she is.

What is it that let’s me think she’s gorgeous? Her hair, a silky black that just reveals the brightness in her face, the kind that looks like it always smiles, and when it’s sad, it rips your heart into a thousand pieces, and makes you pick them up with a poking stick.

Her glasses hide the wonder behind her eyes, while accenting the possible intelligence, and notice I said possible. She looks it, but there are a million things that could be wrong with her brain. She may enjoy pre-teen slasher flicks. She may love reality television. She might think Johann Sebastian Bach is a fashion designer.

Honestly, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in the longest of longest times. She is beautiful because she seems so real. She’s wearing hardly any makeup. The red windbreaker with black and white stripes does not match her gray Superman shirt. He’s posing upright, with his symbol behind him. The fact that she’s wearing it alone is enough to make me giggle, hoping she’s close to my age.

Her shorts show off her legs, which are thick, but not big, and that’s got me in a tizzy. She doesn’t have the supermodel body. She’s not a toothpick that thinks it’s too fat. She’s real, she’s normal, she has a little bit of extra weight, and I love the tummy that she has. It just accentuates her tangibility. She’s smiling, and it’s a geeky smile, with only her top teeth showing, and I freaking love it.

With my luck, she’s probably lesbian. That’s all I seem to attract these days. I’ve made out with lesbians before, and it was a wonderful experience. Not because I got to make out with lesbians, but they seemed to know exactly how to kiss, when to shift their lips, when to bring their tongue’s into play. I guess I did something right because they never asked me to stop or leave the room. I don’t know. I try not to ask, but sometimes a guy’s just got to know.

My other luck would have her being between eighteen and twenty-two. I do not get along well enough with younger people. I’ve always been more of an old man in a young man’s body. An old soul is what my grandmother said I have. Some friends concurred. I am what I am, who I am, and I’m going to do what I’m going to do. Right now, I’m waiting for Supergirl’s friend to go to the bathroom or something, but there’s this gnawing in the back of my head that she’s too young for me; of legal stature, absolutely, but as far as mental maturity goes, probably not. That cloaked gnawing usually presents itself to be the truth.

I’m shooting that she’s lesbian though.

(Damn you Mocha Fraps)