I woke up this morning and there were pumpkins on my nightstand. I think I got them for myself but then passed out before I could eat them. So sad. There was the hottest bartender last night and so naturally I wrote my phone number on the back of my receipt. I wrote "you = cute. me = smitten. 918-XXX-XXXX. xxxxxxxxxx@ gmail.com.
The Cure was playing in the background. He looked at the receipt and goes, "I'll only read it if you write something as good as these lyrics." So, I took back my receipt and wrote, "I didn't know why I moved to San Francisco, until I looked into your eyes."
I am cringing at myself this morning!!!!
2 comments:
Another suggestion:
"Until looked I into San Francisco, I didn't know why I moved into your eyes. Dyslexic, sorry I'm not, Yoda."
I haven't met you yet, Peach, but you sound like someone who needs to walk around the city with an impossibly well-manicured platonic male friend while carrying a paper grocery bag with parsley and a French baguette hanging out of it. (Maybe Silvey can turn this blog into a romantic comedy vehicle for you.)
I like where you're going with this, Banks!
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