So, apparently, I’m a dude. My two good friends Marcel and Ced came to this conclusion a couple of weeks ago, and I can’t really argue with them any longer.
See, what had happened was, I’ve been hanging out with a girl from work. She happens to be a gorgeous, busty lesbian with great hair. I happen to wear little make-up, and punctuate my sentences with rap slang. Now, according to everyone we know, she is my girlfriend. Word up, son.
Don’t get me wrong. I dig this girl. She’s a beautiful person, and I really do enjoy her company. She’s got great taste in music, a giving, passionate nature, and she smells like summertime. If things were different, sure, she could totally have my sperm-donated babies. Problem is, I’m not gay. I’m just open-minded and bored.
I realize that, eventually, I will have to hurt her feelings, if not break her heart. I told her from the beginning that we weren’t going to be together the way she wanted, and she swore she understood, but, as I’ve been advising Marcel and Ced for years, women do not listen. When they’re in love, they go completely deaf.
So I keep hanging out with her. Friday nights we go dancing, Saturday mornings we spoon. I can’t say it isn’t nice. I hold her while she sleeps and enjoy it while it lasts. Eventually, she’s going to cry. At least that’s how these situations usually end with me, except, usually, I’m the girl.
