*blue balls not included.
Yeah, yeah, hate. I read Dear Abby through Yahoo! Entertainment page every morning (because, what? newspapers? what are those?). At least I don’t read Perez Hilton or OK! Magazine. For seriously, I don’t get the obsession, as much as I don’t get the people who stand for hours outside the Hyatt Hotel in downtown anxiously waiting (and annoying me) for autographs when teams are in town. Don’t. Get. I mean, I get what it’s like FUCKING a professional athlete, but not the autograph thing. And as far as I’m concerned, these athletes are a helluva lot more approachable in a bar. With alcoholic drinks. Where it’s WARM. Where was I…
We also know my hatred of cougars. But that’s besides my point today.
Today, Ms. Abby spreads some more love of the cougar persuasion — by offering mail from male (heh. see what I did there?) readers, in response to a prior column about, yes, older women and younger men. THIS one stood out (OK, and it warmed my heart a little bit. Again, I hate you.):
DEAR ABBY: On my 25th birthday, I met a woman who was 10 years older than me. We were both just looking for someone to have fun with. Six months later we were married. We were still together 45 years later when she passed away. I wouldn’t trade our years together for anything because we were friends and able to talk about anything to each other. We learned to enjoy simple pleasures, and that made all the difference. If you find someone you are comfortable with, don’t let the calendar get in your way. — STILL GRIEVING IN KILLEEN, TEXAS
FUCK. YEAH, “Still Grieving.”
That is what the hokey-pokey is all about.
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This blog is about pursuit: a transplanted Clevelander (me) in a new city (that's you, Pittsburgh!), pursuing the role of a self-employed copywriter, becoming a roller derby badass and somehow merging all my to-do items into one ever-growing Bucket List.
And of MY boyfriend. His blue balls started this mess.
