I’m walking down a narrow, dimly lit street. Tourists and local passersby mingle along, as my eyes dart furtively, slightly ill at ease. This is because my bra is stuffed with cold hard cash, bills from my hard-earned. I wonder if anyone can tell. Probably not. So this is what it feels like. This is what it feels like to have a cash-filled bra. A bit promiscuous, not to mention resonant of the likes of call girls and drug dealers.
What – you thought I got scammed into a prostitution ring? Hahh. Oh, you guys. (My life is not that dramatic. That would make a great movie, though.)
I don’t carry much cash on me, as a rule of thumb – so when the rare occasion arises, (well, this would be the only occasion, I guess) I feel the brassiere would be a safer place in regards to pickpockets. I wonder, if I got stopped on the street by a policeman, I’d get flagged as an illegal foreigner, or under suspicion as a prostitute.
There are Farggi cafes all around town – they usually have ice cream, hot chocolate, that sweet sort of fare; and generally they’re on the overpriced boat and come off a bit touristy. I remember going to a Farggi years ago and having something – cafe con leche – or hot chocolate – with a guy that I was interested in at the time.
He still owes me a couple of Euros from that date.
I don’t care how attractive, witty, articulate, sensitive, accomplished, brooding, or well-read you are; if you don’t get the check, there isn’t going to be a second date.
We’ve heard the stories…he was gorgeous, charming, romantic, absolutely perfect…except…at the end of the date…he didn’t pay the tab.
“No way!” “Hell no!” “Forget him!”
Ask any woman, of any age, of any ethnicity, anywhere in the world. I dare you.
I dated a Sri Lankan guy once – he never paid for anything, I found out – I paid for myself. We went out for about five minutes.
I hate waiting around for people. There’s nothing more aggravating than sitting around, waiting for friends that are habitually late, upwards of 20 to 45 minutes (or even worse).
Waiting for people who are running late is ah, well, let’s say, a mild form of flakiness. (It is a pure form, one might argue, of blatant disrespect for another person’s time.)
And flakiness, bear with me here, is a mild form of getting stood up.
And getting stood up being a pure form of rejection…you see where I’m going with this?
I hate flakiness. And when people are horribly tardy. But I digress.
Men here seem to enjoy winking at you.
It really cheapens the value of the wink. I suppose that that’s true about anything – available in mass quantities, the value immediately plummets. Um…next!
While regaling the tale of the time I slapped a guy on the ass, I realized that, with the modern conventions of professionalism and social grace, I may come off a bit direct – I like to be honest, straightforward (I suppose, because that’s how I’d like for people to approach me, as I won’t take it personally but as a sign of respect), and, on a certain level, all writers feel compelled to communicate their thoughts. But, as I kick it with some new friends on a Saturday evening, I realized that I try to focus on the positives – I immediately notice the things I like about a person, the qualities that I’m drawn to or admire. Kind of like a quality that you fall in love with, even just a little. So – I think I have a mini-crush on each guy. Who am I kidding – maybe I have a crush on everybody. A mini-crush on each of the gentlemen sitting at our table; it’s not hard to fall in love, is it? I mean, you can fall in love with everybody a little bit – what do I mean, you say? It’s part of an optimistic view – finding this golden quality in someone’s personality, and focusing more on that rather then getting hung up on the flaws. Because, venga, it is no feat to spend your time looking for the flaws in other people.
Gentlemen, watch out.