OK, I will start off by eating a giant slice of humble pie. I am, by no means, a beautiful woman. I completely recognize that I'm somewhere in the middle, between f-ugly and drop dead gorgeous. But of course, beauty is entirely in the eye of the beholder. I know that some men will find me attractive enough to pay attention to me, and some men will not even blink in my direction. It's not something I'm prone to think of very often anymore. I'm basically beyond my obsession with trying to be something I'm not. Unfortunately, on more than one occasion, I have been reminded of just where I stand in the beauty spectrum, and lucky for me, today was one of those days!
First, let me say that I believe that there is a such thing as universal beauty.
There are some men and women who are just universally attractive. These are the type of people who end up in magazines and in movies. They have the sort of appearance that basically makes them attractive to nearly everyone within reason. They are our gold standards of beauty. It's what we all strive to achieve.
Having said all that, today, I was in the presence of one of these universal beauties, and it nearly made me want to get acquainted with the underside of some one's tires. It was not because she was gorgeous and I was jealous, which you are all assuming. No, it was the way the man who picked us up was reacting to her that made me want to become a hood ornament for a Mack truck.
She and I were going to two different destinations, and she was in line behind me. The fact that we ended up in the same car should give you an indication of just how this little joy ride was going to go for me this morning.
Let me set the stage: middle-aged man who has the same sort of greasy, creepy appearance as Eric Roberts in Star 80 (google it) pulls up in his piece of crap car that he's tried to make seem more luxurious by adding an expensive stereo, air freshener, and beaded seat-cushions. He calls out for my stop, and I excitedly head to the car (it's FREEZING cold outside!). Junior Heidi Klum purrs out to him to see if he would take her to HER destination. Since you can guess what his response was, I'll move on. This is a 2-door vehicle, so already feeling frumpy and insignificant, I got to make that graceful climb into the backseat that required leg-hiking and an involuntary grunt or two. On this particular morning, I would have skipped the backseat luxury just to make her crawl into such an unflattering position, but being the sensible woman I am, I knew she'd be getting out before me.
For the record, I don't hate this woman or begrudge her the beauty she was blessed with. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't get a glimmer of joy knowing she was uncomfortable in some way. Why should everything be perfect for her all the time?
So, we all settled in, and Mr. Gawk-man immediately began mentally undressing her. He even set the mood, I believe, hoping that she might actually strip for him. When we got in, he was listening to news talk radio. A few minutes later he turned to a slow jazz station. I was literally waiting for him to light candles and pop a cork with TWO glasses. Lacking a fireplace to set the mood, he actually said "the sun is really pretty this morning."
Oh
My
God.
Now, I imagine this genetically blessed princess is more than used to men rolling out the red carpet for her. I figure there are men who would go, or have gone, into the poor-house buying her expensive gifts just to keep her around. She probably has a closet of jewelry boxes of "rejected" mementos to prove it. (I still have the same jewelry box I've had since I was 9 years old, and it's mostly filled with fake "jewels.") Her apparent boredom with the attention was the only comfort I had this morning.
After she was done filing her nails, yeah--seriously, she decided she needed MORE beauty rest. All this time, Hefner was staring at her about every three seconds and the road about every 65 seconds. It was something like this: eyes on the road, 1-1000, 2-1000, 3-1000, eyes on hot babe, still, still, still, HARD BRAKING. Yes, we almost plowed into the back of about 4 different cars this morning. The fact that he kept slamming on his brakes only made her shift in her seat slightly. I guess she's accustomed to causing accidents. I, on the other hand, was scared out of my ugly head.
Once, he actually stared at her and then glanced back at me in his rear view mirror. I can't be sure, but I think he cringed. Even if he didn't, I didn't appreciate the obvious comparison. So, forgive me if I spew a little hatred on him for a minute.
This guy was just slightly below the middle in the looks department, but he thinks much more highly of himself. He clearly thought he was going to score with her. He was probably plotting out his proposal as we drove in. The fact that she was ignoring his little Ladies Man routine was absolutely divine from my perspective. His behavior was so obnoxious, and clueless, that I don't see how he could honestly believe he was going to get her attention or affection. I knew, as would a dead person, that this was NOT going to be a match, but that didn't stop him from acting like he was God's gift to women (the pretty ones of course). On the OFF CHANCE that this guy would have done the same to ME, still no match. See what I am saying? Even I am out of his league. Again, this didn't stop him from treating me like complete scum.
We began to get close to HER destination, and he started to panic. He tried to strike up a conversation. I believe he tried to comment on something on the radio. She giggled in a COMPLETELY and OBVIOUSLY disinterested way. I'm pretty sure she didn't even hear him. My ears were ringing with too much fear and voodoo curses to hear anything he said. All I know is I could literally see the look hit his face when he realized his hope of pollinating her flower was far too unattainable, even for a stud like him. His whole facial expression changed, and he actually seemed a bit angry. Welcome to the real world, my friend. We've been waiting for you!
OK, here's where it gets uglier for me. (This is not something I would normally tell ANYONE, but I'm sacrificing for my art here.)
She got out, and I figured it would make sense for me to go ahead and climb into the front seat while I had her to move the seat up for me. Do you know what that bastard said to me?
Ready?
"You can stay back there if you want."
Yep. He actually said that to me.
OH, yes, I was pissed. There was no time to be insulted or hurt. I was down-right pissed off. If Patrick Dempsey were to be rude and dismissive to me, I could halfway accept that. But THIS GUY? Why should he get to take out his failure to score with someone hotter than he could ever hope to get out on ME--seriously! I was FUMING, and I was 100% sure I was going to have to do something about this.
After dropping her off, he decided to pull out in front of a Mack truck doing about 60 MPH. It was at THAT moment that I decided I was not going to feel bad about myself for this bastard, and I certainly wasn't going to consider death as an alternative to his rejection!
He pulled up to where he was going to let me out, and just as I was getting ready to open the door he said "wait, let me pull up a bit more." So he pulled up to where I'd have to step out into the mud!
With mud on my shoes and ice in my veins, I thanked him for the ride and said "you never had a chance with her! She was way out of your league. Oh, and your air freshener smells like pimp oil."
Off I went to Starbucks for a hot chocolate and a muffin settled on the fantasy that somewhere, someday, someone will stuff someone ELSE in the backseat and make them step in mud for me!
IT COULD HAPPEN!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Yeah Baby Yeah!
It's getting late, and the slug line is 40 people deep. You've already been standing there for 10 minutes, and the cars are so spaced out that you start to wonder if you should try to take an alternate destination to increase your likelihood of making it to work today. People are getting antsy and doing that little curb-studder dance when a destination is announced. You know what I mean. The driver yells out "PENTAGON!" and 5 or 6 people all step off the curb trying to see if they are the lucky one next in line for the ride. Three of them half-heartedly stumble back onto the sidewalk, heartbroken, and calculating how many more cars have to come before they are on their way. You stand there long enough, and you get psyched-out on enough rides that people start to figure out who is waiting for what destination.
That was me this morning. Time was passing more quickly than I like, and I was still waiting for my destination to be called.
After waiting patiently for about 15 minutes, a car, No! a van, rounded the corner and drove straight down the pickup lane. I heard it coming when it entered the parking lot. When my eyes caught up to my ears, I thought to myself "great, this one will be mine." It was, in the truest definition of the term, a shaggin-wagon that would have made Austin Powers jealous.
It was one of those "old-fashioned" vans that pre-dated the mini-van craze. It was the kind that had the plush captains chairs, television monitors, probably some sort of well-worn and stained bed area, and a wetbar full of Cristal in the back. I'm pretty sure that this particular vehicle had a starring role at some point in MTV's Pimp My Ride. This thing was bouncing and rolling its way up the line, and everyone sort of chuckled at the site of it. The music was loud and awful. I like most music styles, but it's too early in the morning for gangster rap. Seriously. There were two fuzzy things hanging from the rear view mirror, and I'm pretty sure they were breasts not dice.
Just as fascinating as this wacky, tricked out sex mobile was the driver. Oh yeah, I couldn't wait to get a glimpse of this one! In a split second, I dreamed up what I thought he would look like. Reality was SO much better!
He rolled up with his pimp-cup in his hand (OK, it was a 7-11 Big Gulp, but that's not as interesting), and he was driving his little love-machine with a swagger (if that's possible). He was a short little guy who was big on attitude. He gave all the girls a little wink as he drove up, and he flashed that 50-cent smile with such skill that I'm sure it's worked on at least one blind girl. Oh, and yes, he was a white guy with a short buzz cut (think Michael Scofield) and a little goatee. His "little" diamond studs probably cost more than every piece of jewelry I've ever owned or ever will (I can only assume that they were real based on his other splurges on shiny objects--does anyone need THAT much chrome on their vehicle?).
So the time comes for Rico Suave to call out his destination, and all us ladies held our breath. I could feel us getting collectively light-headed. And there it was. Just as I suspected. He called out my destination. In the next few seconds, it was like watching a badly choreographed off-Broadway production. Everyone was looking toward the front of the line where he was waiting like a man who just booked a room at the Bunny Ranch. Slowly, with eerie rhythm, all the heads in the line turned, one by one, each after the other, until their little chorus-line head "wave" stopped with me. They all knew that I was next.
So, I had to decide what was more important, getting to work on time but probably covered in cherry-flavored sex oil or letting this one go to someone else more deserving. I thought about all the things I needed to get done at work, and I did the only thing I could do.
I stood Fembot-still and checked my email on my Blackberry. My posture made it 100% clear that I would be taking the next one. I didn't even move my foot near the curb. I had to let this particular International Man of Mystery go by.
OH BEHAVE!!!
That was me this morning. Time was passing more quickly than I like, and I was still waiting for my destination to be called.
After waiting patiently for about 15 minutes, a car, No! a van, rounded the corner and drove straight down the pickup lane. I heard it coming when it entered the parking lot. When my eyes caught up to my ears, I thought to myself "great, this one will be mine." It was, in the truest definition of the term, a shaggin-wagon that would have made Austin Powers jealous.
It was one of those "old-fashioned" vans that pre-dated the mini-van craze. It was the kind that had the plush captains chairs, television monitors, probably some sort of well-worn and stained bed area, and a wetbar full of Cristal in the back. I'm pretty sure that this particular vehicle had a starring role at some point in MTV's Pimp My Ride. This thing was bouncing and rolling its way up the line, and everyone sort of chuckled at the site of it. The music was loud and awful. I like most music styles, but it's too early in the morning for gangster rap. Seriously. There were two fuzzy things hanging from the rear view mirror, and I'm pretty sure they were breasts not dice.
Just as fascinating as this wacky, tricked out sex mobile was the driver. Oh yeah, I couldn't wait to get a glimpse of this one! In a split second, I dreamed up what I thought he would look like. Reality was SO much better!
He rolled up with his pimp-cup in his hand (OK, it was a 7-11 Big Gulp, but that's not as interesting), and he was driving his little love-machine with a swagger (if that's possible). He was a short little guy who was big on attitude. He gave all the girls a little wink as he drove up, and he flashed that 50-cent smile with such skill that I'm sure it's worked on at least one blind girl. Oh, and yes, he was a white guy with a short buzz cut (think Michael Scofield) and a little goatee. His "little" diamond studs probably cost more than every piece of jewelry I've ever owned or ever will (I can only assume that they were real based on his other splurges on shiny objects--does anyone need THAT much chrome on their vehicle?).
So the time comes for Rico Suave to call out his destination, and all us ladies held our breath. I could feel us getting collectively light-headed. And there it was. Just as I suspected. He called out my destination. In the next few seconds, it was like watching a badly choreographed off-Broadway production. Everyone was looking toward the front of the line where he was waiting like a man who just booked a room at the Bunny Ranch. Slowly, with eerie rhythm, all the heads in the line turned, one by one, each after the other, until their little chorus-line head "wave" stopped with me. They all knew that I was next.
So, I had to decide what was more important, getting to work on time but probably covered in cherry-flavored sex oil or letting this one go to someone else more deserving. I thought about all the things I needed to get done at work, and I did the only thing I could do.
I stood Fembot-still and checked my email on my Blackberry. My posture made it 100% clear that I would be taking the next one. I didn't even move my foot near the curb. I had to let this particular International Man of Mystery go by.
OH BEHAVE!!!
Monday, November 19, 2007
Cell Block Tango
A small percentage of you, most likely just the ladies, know the "Cell Block Tango" reference. For the rest of you, it is a brilliant song/dance routine from the wildly famous Broadway production/movie "Chicago." If you haven't seen the live production or the movie, go to YouTube and see if you can get just this scene. (For the fellas, the woman are half-naked and dancing seductively, so there's incentive to do this.) Here's the basic idea. A bunch of women are on death row for killing a man in their lives for various reasons. (No, I know what you are thinking. I am not thinking of killing a man.) In the song, the women give a little background on what each of their victims did to "deserve" to be killed. Well, the first "lady" in the story came home after a long, hard day, and her husband was sitting on the couch drinking a beer and POPPING his gum. She asked him to stop popping the gum. He didn't. So she fired "two warning shots" into his head. I've always related to that particular reasoning because my nerves simply cannot stand the sound of gum popping. I don't mean blowing bubbles and popping it. I mean that kind of popping that some people have the innate talent to produce EVERY SINGLE TIME they chomp down on the gum. Yes, I relate to the anger of the other women in the song, especially the ones whose husbands/boyfriends cheated on them. But overall, I can most relate to feeling homicidal when someone is popping gum.
Where am I going with this? Bet you can't guess!!
For those of you who read this blog frequently, surely you have figured out by now that I rely HEAVILY upon my iPod for escape from the various disturbances that occur during my daily commute. And, of course, today I managed to leave my beloved iPod sitting in my home office where it was comforting me this weekend while trying to set up my new Macbook.
So, there I was, sitting in the front seat (robbed of the backseat luxury once again), hoping for a nice quiet nap during my early morning commute. Things were going smoothly. I was relaxing as much as I could on the cold, clammy leather seats of the luxury vehicle carrying me to work this morning. My eyes were closed, and traffic was moving smoothly enough that I wasn't jolted back awake every 10 seconds by abrupt braking. Then it happened.
POP! pause pause POP! POP!
Oh my God! Why? POP! I held my breath hoping that it would stop after the initial surge of gum chewing wore off. POP! POP! No such luck. POP! She was going to town on that poor, unsuspecting piece of wintergreen gum. POP! I knew it was wintergreen because I could smell it. POP POP POP! There was absolutely nothing that could be done at this point. POP! I didn't have my iPod, and trying to do deep breath meditation wasn't drowning out the incessant explosions in my head that coincided with every chomp. POP! SMACK! POP POP! It's that kind of popping that is really high-pitched and LOUD. POP!
I tried to find my mental happy place. POP! But, whenever I tried to mentally focus on that beautiful view in Connemara that I love so much, POP! It was no use. POP! Chinese water torture has NOTHING on gum popping! POP POP POP! The Senate was so concerned with having Michael Mukasey declare that waterboarding is torture and shouldn't be used, but where were their outcries for banning gum popping? POP! I'll take simulated drowing ANY DAY! POP! SMACK! After 35 minutes of gum popping in the car this morning, I would have confessed to building gay-seeking WMDs for Iran in my basement. POP chomp chomp POP POP!
When the car rolled to a stop at the agreed upon location, POP, I practically catapulted myself out of the car and started to run. POP! When I noticed that she was following me, no hunting me, I actually turned and walked in the opposite direction. POP! I knew if I didn't, I'd have to listen to that sound the entire walk to my office building. POP! It was too much, so I hung back long enough to get out of popping range. POP! However, even as the popping shrill faded, POP POP, it continued to play in my head. POP POP POP! I'm hearing it even now as I sit at my desk. It's become my Tell-Tale Heart. POP! "It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage." POP POP!
All I can say is, if there had been a shotgun available, she'd have had it coming. And, if you'd have been there, if you'd have heard it, I betcha you would have done the same!
POP!! Happy Slugging! POP!!
Where am I going with this? Bet you can't guess!!
For those of you who read this blog frequently, surely you have figured out by now that I rely HEAVILY upon my iPod for escape from the various disturbances that occur during my daily commute. And, of course, today I managed to leave my beloved iPod sitting in my home office where it was comforting me this weekend while trying to set up my new Macbook.
So, there I was, sitting in the front seat (robbed of the backseat luxury once again), hoping for a nice quiet nap during my early morning commute. Things were going smoothly. I was relaxing as much as I could on the cold, clammy leather seats of the luxury vehicle carrying me to work this morning. My eyes were closed, and traffic was moving smoothly enough that I wasn't jolted back awake every 10 seconds by abrupt braking. Then it happened.
POP! pause pause POP! POP!
Oh my God! Why? POP! I held my breath hoping that it would stop after the initial surge of gum chewing wore off. POP! POP! No such luck. POP! She was going to town on that poor, unsuspecting piece of wintergreen gum. POP! I knew it was wintergreen because I could smell it. POP POP POP! There was absolutely nothing that could be done at this point. POP! I didn't have my iPod, and trying to do deep breath meditation wasn't drowning out the incessant explosions in my head that coincided with every chomp. POP! SMACK! POP POP! It's that kind of popping that is really high-pitched and LOUD. POP!
I tried to find my mental happy place. POP! But, whenever I tried to mentally focus on that beautiful view in Connemara that I love so much, POP! It was no use. POP! Chinese water torture has NOTHING on gum popping! POP POP POP! The Senate was so concerned with having Michael Mukasey declare that waterboarding is torture and shouldn't be used, but where were their outcries for banning gum popping? POP! I'll take simulated drowing ANY DAY! POP! SMACK! After 35 minutes of gum popping in the car this morning, I would have confessed to building gay-seeking WMDs for Iran in my basement. POP chomp chomp POP POP!
When the car rolled to a stop at the agreed upon location, POP, I practically catapulted myself out of the car and started to run. POP! When I noticed that she was following me, no hunting me, I actually turned and walked in the opposite direction. POP! I knew if I didn't, I'd have to listen to that sound the entire walk to my office building. POP! It was too much, so I hung back long enough to get out of popping range. POP! However, even as the popping shrill faded, POP POP, it continued to play in my head. POP POP POP! I'm hearing it even now as I sit at my desk. It's become my Tell-Tale Heart. POP! "It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage." POP POP!
All I can say is, if there had been a shotgun available, she'd have had it coming. And, if you'd have been there, if you'd have heard it, I betcha you would have done the same!
POP!! Happy Slugging! POP!!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
NOT in the Mood for Love!!!
We've all been there. Some days you wake up and you just aren't in the mood for happy people. That's not to say that I woke up in a bad mood today. I'm in a somewhat neutral mood. But I'm not in the mood for happy people, especially happy people who are in love.
It should make me happy to see two well-adjusted, professional people who aren't afraid to openly show affection toward each other and who can have a pleasant conversation about irrelevant minutia. After some pretty serious soul-searching post-commute this morning, I discovered that being around the two people I rode in with this morning simply pissed me off.
I eagerly, and unwittingly, jumped into their car this morning unprepared for the chirping birds and bubbling hearts that were circling these two obvious lovers. I gave my normal "good morning!" in the best "cheery" tone I could channel, but I was greeted with a tsunami of cheerfulness that almost made me jump out of the car as it pulled away.
They were all smiles and Starbucks, and they were holding hands like a couple of teenagers. Again, this should give me hope that there is, indeed, a such thing as "true love" but you as you might guess it does not. The smiley discussion about the coffee and the preparation and "care" (direct quote) that went into making it this morning was enough to make my iPod go close to maximum volume. I tried listening to my favorite playlist that includes quite a few "love songs," but seeing how happy these two were made me opt for something slightly less warm and fuzzy. As Steven Tyler was belting out "My Fist Your Face," I titled my head back in the hopes of catching a few precious moments of half-sleep. Unfortunately, even at near-maximum volume, my iPod was no match for that deafening love-giggle that came flooding out of Doris Day in the front seat. I tried with all my love-hating strength to tune her out and focus on Tyler's scratchy screams. Unfortunately, even Tyler betrayed me this morning, and without warning went into "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing". Ahh, yes, here comes more romance to cheer me up! Seriously, I love this song under normal circumstances. But today, it's like listening to fingernails on a chalkboard. My only comfort at that moment is that Bruce Willis got killed at the end of the movie (still wish the writers would have opted for Ben Affleck).
So, to cheer myself up, I imagined what this relationship is REALLY like behind closed doors. I guessed they've only been married for a year or two, still feeling all newlywedish. They probably dated for two years before getting engaged, and she probably spent a year obsessing over colors and flowers and seating charts. I imagined that he likes his Internet porn, enjoys flirting with any woman who will flirt back, chooses a bad football game over a good afternoon with his perky wife, secretly hates the way his wife giggles at him, and he goes to bed every night satisfied with himself for managing to keep his mistress a secret once again. I imagine her to be basically clueless and sexually flat lining.
Evil, I know. But the possibility that these two love birds are ACTUALLY in love was just too much for me to handle this morning.
I know. There are some of you who are analyzing this and asking yourself "What the hell has happened to this poor woman that she can't stand to be around love?" Perhaps there is an element of general love cynicism in me that rears its ugly head regularly, but today, it's just about timing. Maybe tomorrow I will wake up believing that love stories have happy endings and that relationships really can be healthy and long-lasting. We'll see how my mood goes.
As for Mr. and Mrs. Cootchy-Coo up front, they maintained their cutesy conversation about what they are going to cook for Thanksgiving dinner for most of the trip. Finally, we reached my destination, and I desperately imagined an ejection seat that would get me out before I saw the inevitable farewell kiss. I felt like I was the dumb girl in a horror movie that stuck around to see if the killer was still there. I saw it coming in slow-motion, and there was no way to protect my ears in time to avoid the piercing echo of the adorable little peck that they gave each other.
They kissed. I vomited a little in my throat and exited the vehicle comforting myself with a little angst-ridden Alanis Morissette. I knew she would understand.
It should make me happy to see two well-adjusted, professional people who aren't afraid to openly show affection toward each other and who can have a pleasant conversation about irrelevant minutia. After some pretty serious soul-searching post-commute this morning, I discovered that being around the two people I rode in with this morning simply pissed me off.
I eagerly, and unwittingly, jumped into their car this morning unprepared for the chirping birds and bubbling hearts that were circling these two obvious lovers. I gave my normal "good morning!" in the best "cheery" tone I could channel, but I was greeted with a tsunami of cheerfulness that almost made me jump out of the car as it pulled away.
They were all smiles and Starbucks, and they were holding hands like a couple of teenagers. Again, this should give me hope that there is, indeed, a such thing as "true love" but you as you might guess it does not. The smiley discussion about the coffee and the preparation and "care" (direct quote) that went into making it this morning was enough to make my iPod go close to maximum volume. I tried listening to my favorite playlist that includes quite a few "love songs," but seeing how happy these two were made me opt for something slightly less warm and fuzzy. As Steven Tyler was belting out "My Fist Your Face," I titled my head back in the hopes of catching a few precious moments of half-sleep. Unfortunately, even at near-maximum volume, my iPod was no match for that deafening love-giggle that came flooding out of Doris Day in the front seat. I tried with all my love-hating strength to tune her out and focus on Tyler's scratchy screams. Unfortunately, even Tyler betrayed me this morning, and without warning went into "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing". Ahh, yes, here comes more romance to cheer me up! Seriously, I love this song under normal circumstances. But today, it's like listening to fingernails on a chalkboard. My only comfort at that moment is that Bruce Willis got killed at the end of the movie (still wish the writers would have opted for Ben Affleck).
So, to cheer myself up, I imagined what this relationship is REALLY like behind closed doors. I guessed they've only been married for a year or two, still feeling all newlywedish. They probably dated for two years before getting engaged, and she probably spent a year obsessing over colors and flowers and seating charts. I imagined that he likes his Internet porn, enjoys flirting with any woman who will flirt back, chooses a bad football game over a good afternoon with his perky wife, secretly hates the way his wife giggles at him, and he goes to bed every night satisfied with himself for managing to keep his mistress a secret once again. I imagine her to be basically clueless and sexually flat lining.
Evil, I know. But the possibility that these two love birds are ACTUALLY in love was just too much for me to handle this morning.
I know. There are some of you who are analyzing this and asking yourself "What the hell has happened to this poor woman that she can't stand to be around love?" Perhaps there is an element of general love cynicism in me that rears its ugly head regularly, but today, it's just about timing. Maybe tomorrow I will wake up believing that love stories have happy endings and that relationships really can be healthy and long-lasting. We'll see how my mood goes.
As for Mr. and Mrs. Cootchy-Coo up front, they maintained their cutesy conversation about what they are going to cook for Thanksgiving dinner for most of the trip. Finally, we reached my destination, and I desperately imagined an ejection seat that would get me out before I saw the inevitable farewell kiss. I felt like I was the dumb girl in a horror movie that stuck around to see if the killer was still there. I saw it coming in slow-motion, and there was no way to protect my ears in time to avoid the piercing echo of the adorable little peck that they gave each other.
They kissed. I vomited a little in my throat and exited the vehicle comforting myself with a little angst-ridden Alanis Morissette. I knew she would understand.
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