You see, in my foolish youth I believed a tortured poet with wild black curly hair was my heart's desire. However, it turns out tortured poets are generally self-centred wankers who are not nice to their girlies. They break their hearts. All is supposed to be forgiven, because they are artists.
I'd rather a nice bloke, even one who used to play rugby, who is nice to me. He may be the opposite of what I thought I wanted, but I changed my mind (all those athletically-gained muscles may have had something to do with the initial fancying, shallow little minx that I was).
And I'm glad Mr Brown has no poetic aspirations because he may have written me something like "The thing is,
(An actual love poem, apparently, written by a football player - gah)
*Mr Brown would never expect me to watch a game of rugby league, or rugby for that matter, one of the reasons he's a keeper.
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4 comments:
I think you chose well. Artists are often, as you say, self-centered wankers. Who needs that in life? Go Mr. Brown!
E - and so self important, twats!
When I think of the boys I once had crushes on, they are so far afield from Chuck.
I've learned to be grateful for the dreadful mistake of my first marriage, because I can't for the life of me figure out another way to have eventually crossed paths with Chuck. And if I had made a less dreadful first match and married someone I was more or less compatible with, I might have toughed it out and missed out finding what is, for us both, true love.
I'm so glad you found Mr. Brown and dodged "The Poet"!
;o)
- Lee
Lee, I'm glad I didn't have to go through a first marriage before I discovered my polar opposite was, in fact, not a bad life partner. Still, to keep him on his toes I regularly refer to him as "my first husband".
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