Types.

There are always two types of girls. You've got Peggys. You've got Joans. You've got Mariannes. You've got Chrissies. You've got tomboys. You've got Barbies. It is what it is, what it is.

But what if you just. don't. fit. there? Sitcoms and shows, and HBO, and Cable, and movies have simplified females. They've simplified all of it, but I'm talking lady bits up in here. So, I have a theory, and I welcome you to come in and listen —

"Because we're not ugly, we're hot." Or rather, "Because we're not unattractive, we're thus attractive."

I said this in my head over and over again before typing it out. It sounds pretty douchey and at the least conceited, regardless of its truth or not. If you disagree with the sentence in quotations, first congratulations. I'm glad you have an opinion, more than I can say for a Chrissie. And, second, I said I'd explain. Cool your jets, ya jag.

For women, we're either fuckable or unfuckable. Crass. But, whatever. We're one or the other. You either want it or you don't. There isn't really a one-to-ten scale you can sincerely live by, and one person's opinion can vary from the next. You might call a girl a four, but if there's the possibility of sex, you'll try your damnedest to imagine her as a 10, and you just might succeed. Well done, you. That's just how science works. The thing is sex is just that, and these days for a lot of people who you're having it with is definitely part of it, but not necessarily all of it. I don't know if this argument carries over to lesbians, but maybe it does. As for the other way around, guys get a lot of leeway, which is probably why the phenomenon of the skinny fat abounds and why Kevin James is married to Steffiana de la Cruz in real life, and Leah Remini on King of Queens. I guess art does mimic life for ole Kevin. Woot!

Sure, there are other competing factors. Personality. Intelligence. Long-term Compatibility. Ability to commit to someone. Allergy to dogs. Nail-biter or not. Orders weird at Starbucks. The list goes on.

But, base instincts. This is it.

I've been sitting on this post for months now, and being a single lady in a pool of person, I can tell you right now that this is truth. The challenge is to siphon out and figure out just what it is you want out of life, and whether or not that even includes someone else. It shouldn't really matter whether you're a Taylor Swift or the apparently more attractive girl referred to in Tear Drops on My Guitar.

Procreation, or at least the act of it, is the great equalizer. In the moment anyone can be a ten or a one. And someone's Peggy might be another's Joan.

accentuated features.

We were staring out the windows of my car. Different windows. He was sitting shotgun. I had offered him a ride home from wherever it was I ran into him. We ran into each other. To be nice. Because, I'm nice. Nice enough to spare 10 minutes there and then probably 15 back. Time seems to go slower when you're walking away from something. Especially if you don't know what that something is. Could be nothing.Which is still something. If we're talking things. "Why do people call it shotgun." I kept thinking that. But thinking it like it was a statement not a question. Final. Shotguns are pretty final.

I was driving, so I was staring out the windshield. That's where you stare if you're driving. He was staring out the right window, sometimes straight ahead like me, and then periodically looked to his left where I was, then out the window again. Trees with leaves, new ones, green and tender. Sometimes it seems like people's heads are on a swivel. Like a swivel chair. Distracted. The kind found in offices where people don't like whatever it is they're doing. Which is most people. I'm a person. Like that. That is. Not for forever.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to say something. Or maybe I put that on. I likely put that on. Everyone puts on a different version of themselves depending on who they're with. Puts on the idea of what they should be, failing reality. It's dumb. Because at the end. Down to brass tacks. We're always all going to be ourselves. And if you're an unreal version of yourself then that's just who you are. The kind of person that isn't comfortable being their true self, so then they just become that. That crappier version of their own reality. A caricature. Like the kind drawn for couples at Disney World. Or Navy Pier. Or Battery Park. Big eyes bigger, thin smile thinner, accentuated features. 

But we weren't there or anywhere, and our features were just as they were. Simply sitting in my car at a red light. It had only been about five seconds. The air kicked in. Time passed. Orange: ten, nine, eight, and so on. The song switched, Pandora reminded us of the cost of programming, and the light changed. Looked out the window. Trees glazed in green. Looked behind, and forward again. Caught his glance. And a nice offer of a ride becomes a game because no one can be themselves all the time, further validating how much of yourself you perhaps aren't or are. Who speaks first and what about? The truth is, it didn't matter. And doesn't. And won't. But it'd be nice if it did. If things weren't what you knew they were the whole time. If the caricature of the person to your right wasn't just that -- a caricature. If final wasn't final and we weren't who we were. If.

5 things i love

1. rereading
2. texts from my dad
3. reading texts my dad sends me out loud to whomever is within earshot
4. rereading those same texts to myself
5. my dad