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Wednesday, May 18, 2011

29 Dates

I almost made it to thirty. I purposely went on twenty-nine. I had an opportunity to go on a thirtieth with an ex-pat Brit in Mumbai, but my instinct told me not to. There was something shifty,underhanded and slightly sociopathic about his aura. Better to be safe than end up floating in the sewage system of a Mumbai slum.

It's embarrassing, but the main reason I negated the number 30 is because I was saving it. I wanted it to be special. In my deluded thoughts, I envisioned number thirty would be my last— la ultima. He would be the love of my life and I would never have to go on another date again—EVER! He would come riding in on a unicorn, cotton candy in one hand and a pulled pork sandwich in the other. We would frolic through the black forest discussing secular humanism and Japanese bondage. We would trek through the foothills of Kilimanjaro, tango in La Boca, explore the temples of Angkor Wat. He would tell me I look beautiful without my eyebrows on and caress my jiggly bits.

It's quite possible this man does not exist. Perhaps I am delusional for thinking that he does. But I'm ok with that. To think otherwise is far too grim and depressing...

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