Fast life dating
“Buff is right.”Suddenly, she flexes her arm muscle and leans forward.
I think she likes me and I don’t know why I am ridiculous about stuff like this.
I hate it until it I don’t (then I actually love it). I feel like my ego is trying to baby swaddle me to death by suffocation, or maybe, speed-dating feels like waiting for the guillotine. There are rows of serious looking men sitting at the bar ordering strong dark bourbon-looking drinks.
She works on the red wagon.“That is the number one toy of all time,” I say.“Oh my God. Thank you.”“But excuse me, why do they need toy engineers for the red wagon? I mean, what, why can’t you ask someone what their reason for existence is or what five qualities they are most proud of about themselves in the first five texts? I need real interactions and body language and maybe another big glass of tequila.“Hello. The odds aren’t good, I realize, but who cares, just let nature takes its course. A man with a blue collared shirt and jeans sits down next to me and next to him a small Peruvian man that flies regional planes for any airline that will hire him.“Everyone is cutting back he says.”I ask him if there is a lot of math in becoming a pilot and he smiles and says yes. In the end, I’ll collect your cards, and you’ll be notified of when you have a match,” I hear her telling another man at the bottom of the staircase next to me.