Forget Paris. Romance is a Sunday.
I love sundays. Sundays are the absolute best. Forgetting about the trepidation of work following on Monday and just making the day an absolute non-productive/all relaxed span of time. I plan on making this true forever. Even in the future. And sharing that slow and quiet stretch with whoever I end up with. I look forward to domestic bliss in a way completely unbefitting of being the city mouse who likes tall buildings and the siren song of ambulances when he goes to sleep.
Because we can claim Sunday as our own. In the morning, in our house. White walls and old paint, our kitchen table will be oak and across it will be spread layers of newspaper, newly dropped off, for us to comb through and share. As we read and sip our coffees the sun will shine through the windows overlooking our snow covered yard. The morning light will hit the sill and the bright columns of colored light will intermix with glittering dust particles. Our robes will be clean, our toes will be warm and I see no reason why we can’t go back to bed if we want to.
But we won’t. We’ll get dressed and take the dog on a walk, maybe into town. You’ll go to that used bookstore where you like to run your hand along the spines of books as you walk down the aisles and take great intakes of breath smelling the yellowing pages and aging covers. I’m going to stop in at Ed’s and have my hair cut and listen to him talk about friends from the army and baseball players long forgotten. We’ll meet back at the square next to the statue and begin a slow leisurely walk home as the sun dips deeper toward the trees that line the horizon on all sides. Maybe we picked up a movie that we can half pay attention to as we sit and decide what we want for dinner. After this, we can sip tea and watch the streetlights buzz on. Then to bed and after what transpires there I want to read a book I’ve always loved as you slumber beside me, one hand outstretched and laying against my chest.
Oh my fucking god, that’s going to be so fucking AWESOME. FUCK PARIS.
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DEALMAKER: You Have a Beard
Perhaps it is written into my lady DNA from centuries past. Whatever the reason: if you have a beard, I am 50% more likely to bone you. If you’re doing even one other thing right, your odds are now stupid favorable. Without even trying, your beard makes me think you have good taste in music, that your schlubby clothes are indie rock cool, and that you have the air of a potent, but gentle lover. Let’s do this, Mountain Man.
(via lindsaykatai)
421 notes (via dealbreaker & lindsaykatai)
You don’t like burritos. Or any other Mexican food, for that matter.
There were a lot of things I was willing to overlook when we first started hanging out. Your glasses that turn into sunglasses in the sun, your constant joke about the size of your wiener, those jeans with the funny little embroidery on the pockets.
But then you dropped a bomb. “I don’t really like Mexican food.” Complete silence from my end - “Not even Burritos?” “Not even burritos.” Well, you might as well have just punched me in the throat and called me fat. What the hell is wrong with you? Even the pickiest of eaters like burritos. They’re versatile. They’re delicious. THEY’RE FUCKING BURRITOS. Look, I’m really sorry if you only like cheese pizza and french fries. I mean, they’re tasty, who doesn’t like pizza? But I really didn’t expect a grown-ass man to eat like a 7-year old. I can give you graphs and charts and statistics to prove that you really SHOULD like burritos. What’s that? You’ve only had them once or twice? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK? I tried mayonnaise for AT LEAST a year before I decided I hated it. And you’re basing your disdain on a couple of bad experiences. I’m not about to force you to try anything you claim not to like, but I simply just can’t roll with a dude who doesn’t like my all-time favorite food of all time. Give me a call when you’re ready to hit up Chipotle.
Written by theveryangrykaterpillar.
530 notes (via dealbreaker)
