“There’s my Heather!” He said as I went to join him in bed at 2 o’clock in the morning. He opened his arms to welcome me, only I had stopped in midair, somehow, as if weightless and found the western most point on the bed in which to spoon the seam of the mattress and leave him cold in the east. You see, my name is not Heather.
Our friends spent last weekend with us, one being Patrick. The other being his beautiful wife Heather. Sure, he was sound asleep but am I to find solace in this explanation for the major Freudian slip? “I was only dreaming about her.” If I could’ve found a way to sleep further away from this man at this point, I would’ve been on the floor. I contemplated the couch. But the cough syrup was taking over and I couldn’t negotiate those stairs, so I dug my angry fingers into the seam of that mattress and held on for dear life. Then I tightly closed my furious eyes, flipped through my mental filmstrip of every good looking man I had ever seen, and tried to choose my suitor for dreams.
Brad Pitt? Nah, I pictured a small, black child dangling from his neck. Too much baggage, I thought.
Matt Damon? He was great in Good Will Hunting, till I found out that he and Affleck trained for Boston accents. With them being from Boston I found this odd. They were probably privileged kids from the ‘Nath’ Side, which made their destitute characters less believable, thus negating the entire movie for me and kindly escorting Matt Damon from my dreams. You too, Ben. Out.
Matthew McConaughey. If he were to turn mute. I just want to pat him on his beautiful head and say “Shhh, baby. You don’t need to talk.” I could stare at that man’s body for hours, but honestly, you’d never be able to touch it because he never stops working out. In between crunches, he’s smoking dope and flapping branches around on the beach, trying to take flight. Occasionally he breaks for a naked bongo/bong session with Woody Harrelson. Far too busy and far too stoned for me.
Josh Duhamel. He’s with Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. She Black Eye Peed her pants on stage once. He’s still with her. I need a man with standards.
The boys from Sex and the City. Aiden, sweet, sweet Aiden. He’s a little busy dating his mom, Bo Derek. She’s like a 20 now.
Chris Noth is awesome. Big nose and all, but I'm constantly mad at him. Don’t know why. I'll wait till the movie comes out.
Any of the boys I so totally crushed hard on when I was younger are either gay (Chad Allen), bloated (Corey Haim), or not so cute as a man (Fred Savage). Anthony Michael Hall doesn’t even look like himself anymore. Luke Perry from 90210? He was old enough to be my dad when he was pretending to be my age.
I guess I'll just roll over and spoon Patrick, I mean Tim. I can’t stay mad at him. I just can’t. There are far worse times to call me by the wrong name. And when that day comes, well, I hope they let me blog from prison.
Our friends spent last weekend with us, one being Patrick. The other being his beautiful wife Heather. Sure, he was sound asleep but am I to find solace in this explanation for the major Freudian slip? “I was only dreaming about her.” If I could’ve found a way to sleep further away from this man at this point, I would’ve been on the floor. I contemplated the couch. But the cough syrup was taking over and I couldn’t negotiate those stairs, so I dug my angry fingers into the seam of that mattress and held on for dear life. Then I tightly closed my furious eyes, flipped through my mental filmstrip of every good looking man I had ever seen, and tried to choose my suitor for dreams.
Brad Pitt? Nah, I pictured a small, black child dangling from his neck. Too much baggage, I thought.
Matt Damon? He was great in Good Will Hunting, till I found out that he and Affleck trained for Boston accents. With them being from Boston I found this odd. They were probably privileged kids from the ‘Nath’ Side, which made their destitute characters less believable, thus negating the entire movie for me and kindly escorting Matt Damon from my dreams. You too, Ben. Out.
Matthew McConaughey. If he were to turn mute. I just want to pat him on his beautiful head and say “Shhh, baby. You don’t need to talk.” I could stare at that man’s body for hours, but honestly, you’d never be able to touch it because he never stops working out. In between crunches, he’s smoking dope and flapping branches around on the beach, trying to take flight. Occasionally he breaks for a naked bongo/bong session with Woody Harrelson. Far too busy and far too stoned for me.
Josh Duhamel. He’s with Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. She Black Eye Peed her pants on stage once. He’s still with her. I need a man with standards.
The boys from Sex and the City. Aiden, sweet, sweet Aiden. He’s a little busy dating his mom, Bo Derek. She’s like a 20 now.
Chris Noth is awesome. Big nose and all, but I'm constantly mad at him. Don’t know why. I'll wait till the movie comes out.
Any of the boys I so totally crushed hard on when I was younger are either gay (Chad Allen), bloated (Corey Haim), or not so cute as a man (Fred Savage). Anthony Michael Hall doesn’t even look like himself anymore. Luke Perry from 90210? He was old enough to be my dad when he was pretending to be my age.
I guess I'll just roll over and spoon Patrick, I mean Tim. I can’t stay mad at him. I just can’t. There are far worse times to call me by the wrong name. And when that day comes, well, I hope they let me blog from prison.
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