I’ve stopped dating and started eating McDonalds McFlurries. Okay, fine, it was just one time, but it did give me immense pleasure in the moment. Did I even derive that kind of pleasure from dating? Not really. I suppose the idea of it, the potential, the fantasy gave me a thrill. My projections at every nod and inflection played out onto the unsuspecting face of the man across from me at the dinners I picked at, so not to bloat:
He has nice hands. You know what that means. Am I attracted to him? Could I love this person? He seems intelligent. He seems nervous. Maybe we should just run off to Vegas and get married. Maybe that’s the only way I’d ever stick around. I guess he’s what you’d call, good on paper. Good on paper, bad in bed. Well, not always. Wait, that thing he just said… a subtle dig? No, no, he actually might be nice. Though it seems we don’t have that much to talk about now. Imagine a year from now. Maybe he’s shy. What’s he thinking? Oh god, does he read my Substack? Is t…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to HollyWould to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.