Friday, April 4, 2008

Please Stop Helping Me.

A friend of whom I'm very fond not infrequently attempts to help along my prospects with the men by, for example, pointing out, in a loud voice and with accompanying poking and prodding in my side as we're walking down the street, any poor schmuck aged 15-50 who may happen to glance in my direction ("did you see him??? He was totally checking you out!!!"). If we're in a store and the poor salesman happens to speak to me, there's much eyebrow raising and dramatic gestures for me to join him feet away so that he can proclaim how said salesman is flirting with me. I think he is twelve.

But the nub of the matter is that he may have made my future mead samplings cripplingly awkward. I'm afraid the 20-something liquor store guy may have observed one of these scenes and now thinks I'm a cougar.

That, my friends, cannot be borne.

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