Someday, when I come to understand men, I’m going to quit writing this blog and turn my attention to writing a book about men, which will probably be called something like Ah, Men, It’s All So Clear Now that I’m 127.
Do I not spoil y’all enough? Do I not run my fingers through your hair often enough and tell you how cute you are? Do I not show you my boob freckle right here on the internet?
Well, it doesn’t matter. Today, I am renouncing you. I am through with men. Hell, I am through with women. I am through with sentient beings all together.
I’m leaving you, if you care, for NM’s Spanish potato dish I do not know the name of. But it was amazing. It had potatos. It was in a dish. The potatos were thinly sliced and there was some green pepper in there and the whole thing was held together by eggs. My first thought was, “I would debase myself shamelessly for the person who would make this for me every day.”
But then I thought, that’s ridiculous. That’s like meeting a person with sparkling brown eyes and big dimples and trying to fuck their mom.
No, don’t go after the person who provided the object of your desire. Go after the object of your desire.
So, Spanish potato dish, whose name I don’t know, I love you and really hope that you will move in with me and spoil me as completely as you spoiled my taste-buds last night.