Dear Mr. White T-shirt,For the record, when I am out and about in San Francisco with my near and dear girlfriends, you are the last thing on my mind. I don't care that you played football at the University of Spoiled Children. I don't care that you now spend your days and nights fighting fires and saving lives. So what if you've just been drafted to play professional football? Such accomplishments are hardly impressive in my book.
Seriously, Mr. White T-shirt. I barely noticed how tall, tan, athletically inclined, and incredibly good-looking you are.
Tisk.
I'll have you know that a woman of my caliber has far better things to do than to stare at the way your muscles enhance your strategically placed tribal tattoos. I yawn at the idea of bouncing quarters off of your perfectly rounded behind. Finally, when your friend, Mr. Black T-shirt, mentioned several times that you are single, I hardly batted an eyelash.
Puh-lease Mr. White T-shirt. When I am out and about in San Francisco with my near and dear girlfriends, you are the last thing on my mind.
Sincerely yours,
The Fierce Runner
2 comments:
HA! But his buddy Mr. Red T-shirt. Now he's a whole other matter altogether :-)
Ah yes. Mr. Red T-shirt. That was just all sorts of wrong. I can't handle all that hotness in one room.
Sigh.
And then there was Mr. Poet-Boxer. Remember him? I'll never look at Swork the same way again.
I know. I'm pathetic. ha ha!
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