Hit the nail on the head.
Gorgeous women annoy me.
Not all gorgeous women. Some gorgeous women I like a lot. Gorgeous women who like me, for example, I can't help but find attractive. Gorgeous smart women, I like a lot. But the rest, I can't stand.
The problem, as I see it, is that a sad percentage of gorgeous women just settle for being gorgeous. They get to sixteen, go, "Well I'm gorgeous, people like me, that's it," and just stop. I mean, they've got nothing on the girls who struggle onward with zits and bad dates, the girls who fight life every step of the way so by the time they're twenty they're funny and smart and cynical and utterly, utterly desirable.
That's what I like.
An excerpt from Syrup by Maxx Barry.
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In unrelated news, let me paint you a picture.
You're tired. She's tired. Doesn't matter if the two of you were working together all day and all night, or if you just met up after parallel exhausting days in the world. The point is you're both here now.
You wolf down some pizza and possibly a beer, which only makes you sleepier. The carbs slowly digest in your stomachs, giving you both warm, slightly aching, "food babies". The alcohol goes straight to your slightly dehydrated and completely overworked brains. A few glasses of water drown the possibility of a hangover.
This is supposed to be quality time. No one else is home tonight. The two of you should be having sex, playing elaborate naughty games, or at least making out. But tonight you both feel like old, old people. Office job old. Mortgage old. Bald spot old. Realizing you have to get up in the morning old. Not even a hot shower together makes you feel your actual age.
So you brush your teeth and get into bed. Under the sheets, breathing slowly against each other, arms and legs every which way...one or both of you realize this is kind of nice.
You breath deep. She sighs. A stray fart signals ultimate relaxation. No one knows who did it, neither of you care to accuse the other because, truth be told, it could have been both.
Sleep comes at last, when you least expect it. Tomorrow will be good.
Do you know what I mean? That's what I miss.
Not all gorgeous women. Some gorgeous women I like a lot. Gorgeous women who like me, for example, I can't help but find attractive. Gorgeous smart women, I like a lot. But the rest, I can't stand.
The problem, as I see it, is that a sad percentage of gorgeous women just settle for being gorgeous. They get to sixteen, go, "Well I'm gorgeous, people like me, that's it," and just stop. I mean, they've got nothing on the girls who struggle onward with zits and bad dates, the girls who fight life every step of the way so by the time they're twenty they're funny and smart and cynical and utterly, utterly desirable.
That's what I like.
An excerpt from Syrup by Maxx Barry.
-------------
In unrelated news, let me paint you a picture.
You're tired. She's tired. Doesn't matter if the two of you were working together all day and all night, or if you just met up after parallel exhausting days in the world. The point is you're both here now.
You wolf down some pizza and possibly a beer, which only makes you sleepier. The carbs slowly digest in your stomachs, giving you both warm, slightly aching, "food babies". The alcohol goes straight to your slightly dehydrated and completely overworked brains. A few glasses of water drown the possibility of a hangover.
This is supposed to be quality time. No one else is home tonight. The two of you should be having sex, playing elaborate naughty games, or at least making out. But tonight you both feel like old, old people. Office job old. Mortgage old. Bald spot old. Realizing you have to get up in the morning old. Not even a hot shower together makes you feel your actual age.
So you brush your teeth and get into bed. Under the sheets, breathing slowly against each other, arms and legs every which way...one or both of you realize this is kind of nice.
You breath deep. She sighs. A stray fart signals ultimate relaxation. No one knows who did it, neither of you care to accuse the other because, truth be told, it could have been both.
Sleep comes at last, when you least expect it. Tomorrow will be good.
Do you know what I mean? That's what I miss.