Oh my spurs, they jingle jangle jingle,
As I ride, a merrily along,
And they say, oh ain’t you glad you single,
And you know, they ain’t that far from wrong.
So ol’ Seer had opportunity to share this fine bird with four, that’s right, four couples this weekend. It’s raw now. I didn’t take pictures of it cooked. It just looked so ridiculous sitting on a tallboy on the grill. You pour out half the beer first and let it be basted from within by the beer. It doesn’t taste like beer. It’s just the moistest chicken you’ve had. Fie-fie delish. Took about two hours at 350º F on a gas grill.
I think I also may have made a faux pas, but I don’t know.
I came out from changing into shorts, and there was a good-looking dude there with two of my friends (yes, with a couple). I shook his hand and said hi. We talked for a minute. I did wonder if he were single or not. Then I noticed he had rolled up in a station wagon. Not likely, thinks Seer. After he walks away, my friend mentions to me that he’s engaged, and his fiancée is present. What, did I drool over him that much? Was I super forward? I didn’t think I was inappropriate with dude. I had thought I was fine. Sighs. Left to be questioning myself for days afterward.
I’m alright with my company. I have been for a long, long time. But it’s getting a little old. I would like to have a sidekick, and wouldn’t mind being someone else’s sidekick, too. It’s just that I end up on dates with people who used to be in cults (yes, this recently happened to me), or am pursued by people who mention their sex addictions, or ask me if I perhaps have bedbugs when I have hives, or who are the size of jockeys, or who look like Santa Claus.
So I remain a spinster. Married to the sea. Haven’t had my heart properly broke in years. Or my bed neither. I know I’m picky. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Sometimes I pick wrong. There’s the rub. I don’t regret my picks, really. I’ve learned from them all.
I think he’s out there, somewhere. I just wish he were here already. Shit, man. Fuck are you?