Sign Your Name in The Stuff That's Not Interesting But Is The Most Interesting Stuff I'll Write

So in the past couple of months I’ve tried to tame myself.

I’m only going after men that are actually my type. I’ve spent too much time chasing guys that I believe are hot only because people tell me they’re hot. I know that sounds stupid, but I’ve been surrounded by voices that tell me I should want certain things.

Part of that experiment has been exercised in the novel I’m writing. It’s the main reason I haven’t written. There are things that I’ve wanted to write about in here, but instead I’ve decided to put them into the story I’m writing that is partially based on things that happened to me when I was in high school.

The exercise to which I’m referring is that the surviving love interest of the character that represents me is supposed to be a representation of what I actually want in a man. The ideal partner. It’s taken me lots of effort to crystallize exactly what it is that I want. What I will accept. And what I will bend toward.

Tonight, I pretty factual representation of that happened to appear in front of me. To be honest, when I first approached him, as he was talking to my tall muscled straight black friend who calls himself “Brown”, I had pretty low expectations. He wasn’t white and he was dressed in a strange t-shirt that he later referred to as resembling his grandmother’s wallpaper.

He had the straightest name I’d ever heard (Jack)… who is even named that anymore? Somehow we ended up hitting it off. He’s half-Israeli, half-Irish. His manners were polite and genteel, which was confirmed when he told me he was raised in the South. His hair was long, wild and curly. His lips tasted like caramel. He was a free spirit who ended up in Sacramento on his way to Los Angeles.

After he kissed me goodnight, he looked at me and frowned, “You look like you think you’ll never see me again. Don’t you have any faith?”

And I realized I don’t....