warts and all

The thing about ex-boyfriends is they won't ever really get out of your head. Because they just suck.

There's the one whose name has become a four-letter word.
(The one that will always hurt, just a little bit in the back of your throat. )
Because maybe the third time's not the charm. Maybe it's the fucking kicker.

I've travelled far and wide in this world (well far enough) and after kissing lots of frogs - I finally fell in love with one.

(Side note: I have a paralyzing phobia of the real amphibian critter. This doesn't help.)

But in the between time...

Ah, the new yorker. So hip in his designer jeans that cost more than a bus ticket to visit him.

But it turns out that a boy's reaction to a cute little puppy pissing on his fancy jeans is a good indicator of his character. [That would be, a complete f'ing asshole.]

And maybe if he constantly attacks your emotional hangups (I do have a few but hey), he's hiding some of his own.

And frankly, some of us just aren't into dirty talk. I'm a lady, thank you very much.


The Bulgarian, well, what a lovely interlude. Although he did hedge uncomfortably close to the line separating us liberals from those who are wrong.

But he always called as promised.

Oh you Eastern European hunk, you had me at, "I'll pick you up at 8."
Because you always did.

Soft kisses and Ryan Adams, yup I liked that one.


But then the frenchman came back...

(and who can resist a faux hawk and an armful of Kinder?)