sex in the city, sans sex.

dear sex machine (in reference to the james brown song, NOT to any real experiences):

for the last week i've pretended that i'm a slow runner because i've been injured. that i can drink more than two ciders without feeling hung over the next day. that i don't need more than four hours of sleep in one night. that your text messages meant something. and that if i was mysterious enough, you'd be interested in me.

but here's my reality: i run a ten minute mile because i'm slow and injured, mostly just slow. two ciders exhausts me. i need at least six hours of sleep to not get a sore throat the next day. your text messages stress me out because i don't know how to flirt through the phone. and gosh dangit, what you see is what you get with me. there ain't no mystery here.

i hope you can forgive me for not explaining the whole truth. i know there's a perfect girl out there for you. one who rides a fixed gear and who is a little more hipster than me. i mean, seriously, i can barely change gears on the road bike and a v-neck tee is as far as you're getting with me.

see you tomorrow,
emily