To the 23 year old girl I met at the bar

I’ve given away moving boxes and old yoga journals, sold synthesizers and concert tickets,  bought a dining room table and a bed, and found employment on craigslist.  It also entertains me.  Especially with rants like this.

After a long chat about life, politics, and your future career in interior design, you asked me, a man nearly a decade your senior, something like, “What have you learned over the last ten years that you think I should know?” I offered some boilerplate platitude like, “Don’t limit your options because you never know where you’ll end up.” I’m sorry. I wanted to give you some real advice, but I was afraid of offending you. We spoke for a little longer, and I was building up the courage to tell you the truth, but before I could get to the good stuff your beefy bartender boyfriend (who stared at me menacingly the entire time that you and I spoke) whisked you away. Please accept the following paragraphs as the advice I didn’t give but should have.

While devoid of self confidence, it posts heavy with humor.  A few of my favorite quips follow.

I’m thirty and bald and aware of my chances with the nubile tastiness that is you, but you live in a city chock full of universities and I’m sure you can find someone young, good looking, and smart enough to wear a fucking condom when he does the nasty.

There are enough gay men around here to design and decorate every doghouse, outhouse, whorehouse, and courthouse for 700 miles.

Read the full rant.