Why You And I Just Are Not Meant For Each Other

First, it’s the gas. While one or two might’ve maybe thought “Whoopsie” was charming, no one likes smelling someone else’s poop fragments, and you won’t either. So, that’s something. But there are other things.

I don’t park close to bars and restaurants. I prefer side streets where my car can have peace. I’ll always be this way and you’ll always have to walk and that will annoy you, as it should. I can drop you off of course, but then you’ll be alone at the bar or restaurant or wherever we go. Though, the more you read this, the more you might cherish those solitary moments.

Which segues us nicely to the self-deprecation. I used to think we wanted the Everyman. The one who made fun of himself in that droll referential way. The unaware brute who announces to everyone at the party that he just had new marble countertops put in his kitchen, and they were, you know, imported from Italy, I thought we were supposed to roll our eyes at that guy. I thought he went home with a generic wife. Now I understand, that is not the case. And I’d do it all over again and be him, if I could. But I can’t. If you choose me you’re left with a poor decaying sack of water and meat and bones.

Which brings us to money. Maybe you thought, “Hey, bud, it doesn’t matter: the farting, the parking, I don’t care. I like a fun guy who can make me laugh. All that matters is what’s in your heart.” But that’s nonsense. You like money. We all do. It’s okay.

Then there’s the biggest issue of them all. The thing we don’t talk about but can’t avoid. The hair. I’m not bald, but I’m not Sean Hannity either. Though you might be saying to yourself, “Hey, buddy, I don’t want Sean Hannity.” But to that I’d ask, you’d rather have Rush Limbaugh?

And here’s another thing, I give away too much, too early, which could make you think I want to marry you. Even if I never want to be married, which is another problem we won’t touch.

Then there’s the thing of asking people personal questions in that joking way at parties. I’ve gotten away with it so far, the boyish routine. But how long will that last? It shouldn’t take up much of my 30s, which I’ve already wasted too much of. Which brings us to maybe the most important thing. The trials of a being with “a writer.”

Granted, nothing significant has been published – which is another thing to consider – but if we do fall in love and things start to get out there it’s likely you’ll appear as a character. And while I never try to be hurtful, I’m positive you won’t view your composite as heroic. No matter how much the critical lens is focused on myself, I’ll be writing in a less than complimentary fashion. Which won’t endear you to me. Unless it does so in an unhealthy way, and neither of us should volunteer for that.

That’s not all of it, of course, I could keep going. The not knowing how much to tip, the sensitivity to the smallest of words – or the absence of others – the not wanting to go out that much, or at all. I’d be happy to order in, rent a movie and drink whiskey-based drinks every Saturday night until the end of time. Perhaps the wildest night we have is when another couple comes over and we play Apples to Apples.

And I want you to have fun in life. I want you to dance and sing with the man of your dreams. He’s out there, I know it. He has your countertops picked out. They are such a tasteful marble.