second chances

as my friend a knows, i'm all about second, third, one-hundredth chances. and so. and so—

while i promised myself not to text mr albania 2007 since he seemed to be making little to no overture in my direction, well, i couldn't help myself. so i texted him last week. and nothing. i've been rejected. a feeling amplified by my super-cute super who observed, 'slush, have you put on weight?' i attribute his admirable/questionable candor and seeming complete ignorance why that might be insulting to his being: anglican and trinidadian.

oddly, i was not so insulted by the comment as i might have been had it come from other people; his concern was so refreshingly lacking in the fraughtness of body image stuffs and so frank. and, no, gentle reader, i have not put on weight.

but so then back to mr albania 2007; i texted today again, against good, better, best judgement, to say, 'i'm meeting a and the gang at a bar to watch the red sox. come, won't you?' and posthaste thought it was stupid, how do you retrieve a text from the world? you can't. it's out there like a mean remark, lingering. and he wrote back and i don't know if i'm glad or not cause i don't really care if he comes to watch baseball with me. that's not what i am after with him. so why not be, like my super super, upfront? it's so much lighter.

and now: i take this opp to remind you and you and you of your setting-up task. with me. set me up. in a good way, for love, not a pratt fall.