My expectations of a man go beyond appearances, but before I’ll even think about getting serious, he needs to pass every test I throw at him.
Reversing my last-minute decision to stand him up, I arrived at his apartment 11 minutes early—and no one is more surprised than I with what happpened next.
He won’t open up or talk intimately, takes a dim view of literature, tries to turn everything into a joke, and is a capitalist who owns almost nothing. Worse, he seems more interested in my belly button than the real me.
I hate the artwork he bought—and I hate that I let him talk me into giving an opinion about it. If only I’d seen it before what happened happened.
If he keeps on talking about science and paintings, the birds and the bugs, I’ll walk out of his life forever. (Um-m-m, but not just yet.)
Zelda Fitzgerald embodied endless faith in the inexhaustibility of romance. That idea is now a splinter in my brain. His job is to show me how he’ll turn this idea into reality.
From the moment I saw her, I knew she was the one. However, there remains the minor problem that her two best friends don’t seem to like me.
I knew I was taking a chance announcing that men have a biological clock too, but I still think those were the magic words that persuaded her to be here, now, with me.
The one thing three very different psychologists agreed on was that most people have no idea why they behave the way they do. Her mother knows better, she says.
Despite the high hopes for it, the Large Hadron Collider will never reveal cosmic origins, but—who cares?—when I can turn it into a high-impact, romantic tool.
Does winning her heart hinge on the intelligibility of the universe? I hope so. If we both play our parts well, we’ll find the answer to that question together. It’s the perfect mating strategy.
In the aftermath of a masterful performance, I felt the time was right for me to let her know my true thoughts about the real problem with great sex.