Friday, March 24, 2006

chances are

I made a list the other day of human tastes and qualities that I am not very fond of. You know, tastes that reveal key facts of a person's disposition or personality. And, tastes that if possesed by a human, the chances of me getting on with him would be slim.

You see, I'm trying to reduce my alienation to factors that I can understand.

.... And, Old Timothy replied to my confession,

"I made a list the other day too, mine was of all the girls I never fucked."

"Oh Yeah?"

"Yeah, you know, but girls I might have had had a shot at, not like her." (he points to some random girl running to catch a bus).

"Ah, but, she's a cute girl."

"Well, let me see... well maybe her."

Hmm, I guess there is always a chance.

7 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

You sad heart playing bastard. You never respond to my inane emails, you naked dishwashing, mounty uniform wearing, canadian.

7:59 p.m.  
Blogger mr.giles said...

There's always a chance, Don Juan. You ate chips out of my wife's hands.

1:56 p.m.  
Blogger the lady love said...

Was I supposed to find this post amusing? I've read it a couple times, and each time I get a little laugh out of it. Sometimes it's hard to tell what is okay to laugh at because usually you inject an ominous dose about alienation that makes me feel like I shouldn't be laughing.

3:07 a.m.  
Blogger j/r said...

I do not know if you should find it amusing or not but I am glad that you do... In fact, I do not think that any of my posts should be exempt from laughter, it's better that than more over-seriousness.

12:11 a.m.  
Blogger j/r said...

Duke Bas, you know well that I couldn't be further away from Don Juan, for whom there was never a chance anyway... And the chips, I shared them for your cat.

12:17 a.m.  
Blogger church of al said...

with your recent flirtations back and forth baswa, one might assume that you want the birdman to eat chips out of your hand...

12:01 p.m.  
Blogger mr.giles said...

But I do. Don Juan is a man's man, whiskey flowing through his veins, firing synapses on the fumes.

2:49 p.m.  

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