You guys, Waffles Guy is trying to cocktease me! We’re going out again tomorrow, and I’ve been flirting, but he’s all “We’ll see,” and “Time will tell.”
Oh! Oh, honey! That’s adorable! But…hm, how can I phrase this politely…?
I look like Tina Fey’s and Zooey Deschanel’s chubby love child. (I call it “Fey-schanel.”) I have big boobs and bigger daddy issues. I’m pretty sure I can catch a dick anytime I want.
That’s not bragging, because it would be the wrong dick — there’s no ego trip in knowing a random dude would shove himself into me halfheartedly in a townie bar’s restroom. But I believe it’s within my scope of feminine wiles if I were so inclined. (Even better, lemme take my cleavage to Comic-Con and quote “Firefly.” I’ll be married by the end of the day.)
Besides, I’m not hinting at SEX, Presumpty Dumpty. I would just enjoy some kissing. I’m actually terrified to have sex, because it’s been so long I’m worried I’ll be terrible at it, or freak out mentally. So I’m perfectly happy to put off intercourse, but it’s pretty important I know I turn you on, and that your hand gets in my panties pretty soon, ‘kay?
Good talk. I’d high-five you, but I shouldn’t be able to, because WHERE have we just decided your hands should be…?
For the most part, I don’t bother with any of that Spanx bullshit — I just make people deal with my fat. But this is delightful, and that IS a bomb-ass Princess-grade dress.
(For the record, I would wear the SPECIALEST of undergarments for Stephen Colbert once he takes over. And then I would just sit there in my fancy Underoos while he read to me from Tolkien novels, because his wife is adorable and I couldn’t/wouldn’t homewreck that.)
Offering my unique skill set in support of a friend’s business venture:
“I’ll work for you for free, peddling your wares at farmers markets. I’ll wear low-cut shirts and ‘girl-next-door’ you into an empire. You’ll basically be Hef.”
Upon reflection, I think my appeal is more Feyschanel than girl-next-door. But that would totally still move product.
For someone who’s so into words, you’d think I’d be less anxious about merely introducing myself to some dude on a dating site.
I have no line. It’s like, “Hi. I’m saying hi.”
This is what I get for mocking guys with prosaic intro messages. Because really, every “hi” is just short for “Hello. I share your affinity for burritos, and I would like our genitals to become acquainted in the not-too-distant future.”
I’m not UNattractive, but I’m not, like, autopilot hot — I’m not one of those absurdly gorgeous women who can just say “hi” and have a guy fall at her feet. I’m like Tina Fey hot — I’m cute and I have good hips, but I still have to rely on my wit. Except I can’t FIND my wit, because I am so tremendously awkward.
It’s cool. It’s like any other piece of writing: just keep drafting, saving, revising, until I end up with something that doesn’t make me feel like a talentless hack. (Except in this case, my photo is with it, and my personality in the form of my profile, so if he doesn’t respond, I will also feel hideous and boring. So that should be fun…)
I think the reason I’m not buying Tina Fey as the Garnier haircolor spokesperson is that I like to think of Tina Fey as a magical unicorn of a woman who is so awesomely self-assured that she doesn’t give her hair that much thought. She’s too busy being smart and funny, and a hero to nerd girls everywhere.
This is absurd, because I do realize her hair doesn’t just look like that when she rolls out of bed. Nerd girls deserve fabulous hair, too. And I’m glad a gorgeous, smart, funny lady is selling me something for once, but it’s just not working for me.
I may also just have Garnier trauma after the Orange Hair Incident of ’06. You could get Jesus as your spokesperson and I wouldn’t believe Him. But since Tina Fey is basically my Jesus, I guess it’s the same idea.