He wears jeans, sneakers, and a tan checkered button-down shirt.
He’s probably boring. I think I should say hi. Probably, he’s boring. Law school. Maybe engineering. Today should be the day I say hello. But I bet he’s boring.
I’m writing/listening to Michael Jackson at the small cafe near my apartment, catching quick glances at my ‘cafe crush’ (the guy who comes in as frequently as I do, orders a latte, as I do, and stares intently at his laptop, as I do.)
“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt. “
There are those who hate Valentine’s Day so much they use it as an excuse to drink their ego out of the driver’s seat so they can hand the keys to their id. Then when the inevitable I’m-so-miserable-and-alone drunken meltdown occurs, it seems organic, and friends feel obliged to give the woe-is-me gal what she wanted all along: a pity party.
My Sunday morning ritual goes something like this: roll out of bed, make coffee or tea, run downstairs in my sweats to grab my Sunday copy of the New York Times, curl up on the couch with mug in hand, and read. I read the front page headlines and halfheartedly breeze through something about real estate and business. Then I devour the style pages, the arts section, the editorials, and the Modern Love column, saving the most controversial part of the paper for last: the wedding announcements. Read the rest of this entry »
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There is something about me..