Feb
9
talk about the wrong stuff
They met in high school and from that moment on he knew she liked a certain type of man. A man he was quite capable of becoming.
And therein lay his dilemma. He didn’t know if she was worth becoming that particular man.
It started right after graduation. The man she would be attracted to would immediately join one of the branches of the military. Probably the Navy to try to become a Seal. He would naturally excel at counter-intelligence and his conditioning would immediately set him apart.
He on the other hand opted to go to college and get a liberal arts education.
He knew that she would always be drawn to a man who kept himself in good shape, so he made a vow never to do a single sit up or push up while in school.
And he didn’t. He left with a degree and flabby midsection.
A man who was fluent in a number of languages would also be something she would find attractive, as would looking equally comfortable in either a worn leather jacket or a tux. Familiarity with a wide range of weaponry and the ability to move unseen would also make the list of things she was looking for in a man.
He was unseen after graduation alright, because he was always on a couch in his parent’s basement eating snack foods and watching porn. He felt it was better to be safe than sorry when it came to making sure that she felt nothing for him.
To that end he never learned to swim. Or climb. He was a stranger to the local gym, hiking trails, bike paths and often times to his place of work. He was a substitute teacher and the school district where he was employed learned to always have a substitute substitute lined up. Riding a motorcycle was right out, for obvious reasons.
He also went out of his way to never learn how to crack a safe or kill a man with his bare hands.
Perhaps as a byproduct of this he also never learned to do laundry, neatly fold his clothes, make his bed, make a sandwich, or call to book a dental appointment.
As he entered his thirties he realized that this stupid bitch had ruined his life.
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