Some may call me the gangster of love...
Apt, because from time to time I shoot love in the foot and leave it bleeding on the asphalt. Then, like the goomba I am, I skipped merrily away to a pat on the head and a new assignment.
Once, in a castle far, far away I knocked a guy's drink onto him while flailing my arms(they call it dancing there). Twice. Once was clearly not enough, so Fate decided to add insult to injury after the poor guy made the mistake of dancing with me and a precariously placed solo cup.
It was then decided(after profuse apologies and a make-up drink) that we should probably sit(with my arms at my sides. at. my. sides.) Among the leather couches of the ornate chamber, we had an atypical "fraternity gathering" discussion. Perhaps, for the first time, there was a genuine sense of getting-to-know-you and not getting-into-your-pants. I was taken aback. Someone was actually assessing me based on what I read on my commute and how I felt about family law. I then discovered the cause of difference: he was a GDI, not pledged to any of the local kingdoms with whose lords I had had encounters.
My ladies-in-waiting(go with it) were anxious to leave after it was discovered that a court jester(read: drunk kid passed out in his own vomit) was causing "difficulties" outside. I did not want to relieve myself of this person's presence, and fortunately he remedied the situation by suggesting we all go back for "a drink".
An apartment of scotch and beer. and a black, fluffy cat. Conversations and the understanding that one of my dear friends had to be taken home.
Though pins exchanged and facebook friendship resolved, such things come with the understanding that the likelihood of a second encounter matches that of a person spilling someone else's drink on him. twice.
Though I suppose the blue moon does appear eventually.
And now, with only myself to judge, I read the New York Times every. single. morning.
Apt, because from time to time I shoot love in the foot and leave it bleeding on the asphalt. Then, like the goomba I am, I skipped merrily away to a pat on the head and a new assignment.
Once, in a castle far, far away I knocked a guy's drink onto him while flailing my arms(they call it dancing there). Twice. Once was clearly not enough, so Fate decided to add insult to injury after the poor guy made the mistake of dancing with me and a precariously placed solo cup.
It was then decided(after profuse apologies and a make-up drink) that we should probably sit(with my arms at my sides. at. my. sides.) Among the leather couches of the ornate chamber, we had an atypical "fraternity gathering" discussion. Perhaps, for the first time, there was a genuine sense of getting-to-know-you and not getting-into-your-pants. I was taken aback. Someone was actually assessing me based on what I read on my commute and how I felt about family law. I then discovered the cause of difference: he was a GDI, not pledged to any of the local kingdoms with whose lords I had had encounters.
My ladies-in-waiting(go with it) were anxious to leave after it was discovered that a court jester(read: drunk kid passed out in his own vomit) was causing "difficulties" outside. I did not want to relieve myself of this person's presence, and fortunately he remedied the situation by suggesting we all go back for "a drink".
An apartment of scotch and beer. and a black, fluffy cat. Conversations and the understanding that one of my dear friends had to be taken home.
Though pins exchanged and facebook friendship resolved, such things come with the understanding that the likelihood of a second encounter matches that of a person spilling someone else's drink on him. twice.
Though I suppose the blue moon does appear eventually.
And now, with only myself to judge, I read the New York Times every. single. morning.
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