Like It.
My name is Ainsley. I am a small but powerful magnet.
jerkethic.com for more words.
ainsleydrew.com if you want to get all personal-like.
Further stalking available via the Internet.
Dec 29th, 2011 @ 10:00 am
This has got to stop. Right now, it ends now.
Last night I dragged my still-sick and sleepy ass out with Elizabeth because, like L’Oreal, she’s worth it. We went to a moderately trendy restaurant with a bar. The lighting was flattering, the music was pitch-perfect 1940s jazz standards, and the hostess - like any hostess in a New York City establishment - was a model. It was a sitcom-worthy setting. Elizabeth drank a few Manhattans from classy champagne coupes.
At some point, I took a look around. Almost all of the gentlemen in the joint had similar characteristics. Facial hair. Pointy shoes. A look of impenetrable aloofness that translated to me as having the shit kicked out of them on a grade-school playground sometime in the late 1980s. Of course, there was some plaid.
Even though I’m attempting to reclaim and refurbish my virginity for marriage, I wouldn’t have even made-out with any of the male patrons. It would have been like swapping spit with a dumpster-diving walrus. I wanted to say to each and every one of them, “You are not John Oates.” And then attack them with a Lady Bic.
Gentlemen, if you’re at least a foot taller than me, I don’t require much, but for cryin’ out loud, please have your waist size be at least as large as my own, and stop looking so painfully self-aware. There’s nothing sexy about a man who values his fashion sense over his sense of humor. If you can’t laugh at yourself, life will pinch your sensitive parts more than the fly of those skinny vintage corduroys you picked up at Buffalo Exchange.
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