Thursday, March 27, 2008

Open Letter to Mr. Hot Cop

Thanks for coming by and being heroic on a day when I wanted to jump off the closest, tallest tall close thing. And also for being hot while you were being heroic. Your combination hot-and-heroic presence was very helpful and also a little “Whew!” (and then picture me fanning my face with a lacey, southern ‘kerchief, like I’m all hot and bothered)

I’m sorry that your possible flirting (and I say “possible flirting” because I’ve lost all ability to recognize flirting unless it comes in the shape of a cheap, crappy drink purchased from one end of a bar and delivered to the other end, along with an offer of a boob-rub in a dude’s hot tub later, whatchathinkaboutthat?, to which I’m automatically forced to reply “tell him thanks but I’m scheduled to have my head bashed in with a wine bottle and couldn’t bear to miss it.”) wasn’t responded to better. There are two reasons for that.

The first is that my Dad was RIGHT THERE and even though I know he knows that I know about sex I still prefer to be pretty much A-Sexual around him. Maybe we could have done flirting plant-style, where you get a third party (such as a bumble bee or butterfly) to rub up against you and then rub up against me, but even so let’s not have my dad be around to see it.

The second is that I was super-busy trying to make sure that I was standing between you and my license plates. My still-expired, still-out of date, still-“hey, shouldn’t this chick get a ticket for these old, sad tags?” license plates. And even though I thought I recognized some flirting from you (like the giving me your card when I didn’t ask for it or anything) it was hard to be sure, what with all the scootching and shifting and messing around and leg-contorting I had to do to block those plates. Also it was a little hard to imagine that you’d be flirting with someone who so clearly suffered from severe adult ADD with all my dashing from the front of the car to the back of the car, three steps ahead of you and your deep, liquid pools of expired-plate-identifying blue eyes. And eventually I was all out of breath and panicky and bug-eyed and just not sexy.

Here’s the deal: my plates are legal now (properly motivated was I!) so I was thinking I’ll just starting driving around town crashing into things, in the hopes that you’ll once again come pulling up, manly in your car-of-many-radios and your macho smooth head and those uber-reflective sunglasses, capable of piercing my very smooshy soul. (hold on, my monitor got all steamed up...) This time I'll be ready and flirty and girlish and much less swirly and spastic and suspicious-acting! I’ll wear girl-clothes everywhere I drive crash from now on and I’ll practice giggling at anything said and I’ll work on my light punch-to-show-I’m-feisty action. Watch for me!

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