Please come asap..

Please come asap..


…. when I was (much) younger, and dancing to the same music as everyone else, even back then this particular pavane used to exasperate me no end. “Can’t call (forget tweeting; wasn’t such a thing back then. And the phones were all steam-powered as well) because you’ll spook her, scare her off …” Women, of course, being skittish creatures, high-strung as a Stradivarius; one wrong move and they’d bolt so fast they’d leave ghostly, ectoplasmic images of themselves behind like panicked cats in Warner Bros. cartoons from back in the Forties.

Well, fuck that. I’m still not sure what I want here, and I’m only slightly more certain that you’ve got a glimmering of what you want as well, but I also know that the barest spark that pushes back the planetary blackness before it crushes down again, is far more than we’ve got any blinkered chance or hope or right of knowing. Do the math … 7.5 billion (that’s the American billion, or one thousand million {1,000, 000,000,000} rather than the Continental, or British, million billion {1,000,000,000,000,000.} Whew! Don’t know about you, but I was worried for a minute there.)

Ahem! 7.5,000,000,000,000 people cluttering up the planet, and out of that cosmically grotesque number, one or two of us expecting to find the perfect soulmate? The only odds longer than that are Kim Kardashian’s next outfit being a winkle.

I gave up looking for someone perfect long ago. My hope nowadays is simply to find someone who’ll talk to me, and listen when I talk to her. Someone who knows how to laugh, and who isn’t afraid to. And, of course, someone who knows how to do a good Mexican cartwheel.

Really, is that too much to ask?

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