I listen to Frank Sinatra and Billie Holiday and Mel Torme with the Mel-Tones (which, by the way, comes in handy when you're playing Wii trivia with a group full of 20-something New Yorkers), and I
hate asking guys out. I hate asking guys out so much that I bolded "hate." Now that's animosity.
Very recently I asked a guy from church out on a date. He accepted and we had, I think, a good time. Except that I'm awkward and don't like dating. And, that as soon as I got back to Washington my family started in with the talking. I almost forgot that I was the youngest in a very nosey family. I love them, but they make me hate dating even more.
I'm almost 20 — okay, not almost, my birthday is in October — and I've only been on a handful of dates. Literally. Six. Six real dates. And half of those were in high school. After each one I got advice from about 20 different people, each with their own set of dating standards. Let me tell you, after 20 people give you advice, you don't know what to do. Maybe three people can leave you with some idea, but 20! Don't even bother. The 20 people that give me dating tips, however, are unsolicited. I can't escape their judgment.
I like cheese. It's good to me. Sometimes, when I'm lonely and alone, I take out a block of cheese and I cuddle with it. Sometimes, the cheese talks to me. Like today, it told me I was very pretty. I don't know if you've ever experienced it, but it's an odd feeling when a block of cheese makes you blush.
Sometimes, Cheesey (that's his name) and I go for motorcycle rides. Cheesey is "Number 2" in the Kraft-Tillamook biker gang. No one messes with my cheese.
Tonight, Cheesey got mad at me because I got hungry and took a big bite out of Cheesey. Then, I got even hungrier. And I, amidst his terrifying but quaint pleas for mercy, slowly melted him down for my nachos. Best dang nachos ever! I wonder if Cheesey still thinks I'm pretty.