Spotting the Texter

I have really wretched taste in men.
Really, really bad. Baddy bad.
I am just stupid when it comes to dudes.

But I really am good at other random things.
I have rad parking karma and I always find a spot.
I'm great at making girlfriends because I have no problem asking them out.
And I'm really good at getting boys to kiss me.

But I'm really starting to question my taste in who I'm kissing.

And spotting the Texter reminded me of how incredibly idiotic my tastes really can be.

The Texter was the kid who a couple years back got in contact with me because we used to know each other. 

Thank you again, Facebook and Starbucks, for supplying me with an endless supply of men to canoodle with.  I would surely be a crazy cat lady by now had I not sipped on all the naughtiness you provided.  I thank thee.

So Texter and I exchanged numbers and talked about meeting up sometime.
Only he never wanted to meet. 
He only wanted to text.
For MONTHS.
It was one of the weirdest things I'd ever experienced.

How is he supposed to stick his tongue down my throat if we never actually meet up?

Men are fucktards.

But I thought he was so damn cute I was determined to make something happen.

And because there's flint in my fingertips, eventually I did start a fire.
But not the way I was used to.

I'd started hanging out with Mr. Volcano and my unavailability to Texter made him finally pursue me.
He wanted to meet.
And I was SHOCKED.

I met him at a bar and we made out in the back room and in his car.
That's all!  I'm a lady, thank you.
And I'd like to say it was the bomb diggity and totally worth the seven months of inane texts but like I said, my taste in men kinda blows.
And I was preoccupied thinking about the tattoo clad kid who played his guitar for me.
Texter's cigarette laden kisses couldn't compare.
He was a one night only event.
And proof that sometimes lame things come to those who wait.

Which is why when I happened to drive by him on the street the other day I shook my head in utter amusement.
As I live and laugh, the Texter himself.

What the hell was I thinking?
SO without.
Matt Damon, my ass.

I think my pheromones must render my intellect useless.
Has to spare energy for all the hormones surging.
And those eager bitches deserve only the finest candidates.
Those whose kisses make everything else seem to fall away, who are always worth the wait.