My First Love Was an Endearing Psychopath
I met him at a singles bar in my hometown, Epidermis. He was wearing dirty old clothes that seemed to shimmer as he glided across the room. His hair was dead and feathery, and his face was hollow, as if he hadn't eaten all his life. His complexion was pasty and unattractive... but he didn't have acne! He looked hungry for love, or maybe he just wanted a margarita.
Whatever the case, I suddenly knew what love at first sight was. Love at first sight. How do I describe it? It isn't going to Burger King and getting a Mighty Big Kid's Meal Double Cheeseburger smeared in ketchup, mustard and cheddar cheese. It isn't having a chest cold, but still being forced to clean your fish tank. No, it's... much more... powerful.
I shivered, but whether it was because I was in love for the first time, or that I was wearing a bikini in the middle of January, I could not tell.
Some would wonder why I hadn't jumped to my feet and run to my new love the moment I saw him. Some would jump into his arms, and smother his dead pale face in kisses. But, me... I'm different.
I can't just waltz up to some guy and say, "Hey, wanna dance the macarena with me?" I can't eat a chili dog with some guy I had a conversation at the post office. I can't just go bowling with my friend's friend's friend!!! I can't... because... because of my strange fetish with pickles.
You see, whenever I get into a relationship, pickles always break us apart. Like Marty. When we were nearing our three hour anniversary as a couple, I just HAD to open a jar of dill pickles that I'd bought at the grocery store a few years ago. I'd found them in a cabinet that morning and had since been dying to consume them. But when I opened the jar, apparently the fumes were too bad for poor Marty, and he tossed his cookies all over my darling pickles. We got in a very heated argument over my wasted pickles, and it was over.
Or how about Julian? I invited him over for a movie night, and I rented a few of my personal favorites, The Revenge of the Pickles, Harry Pickle and the Jar of Gershwins, and my most favorite of all favorites, Lord of the Pickles: The Return of the Pickle. So, when Julian came to my house, he freaked out about my "obsession". So, I like pickles. What's wrong with that? No need to inform you that I broke up with that loser.
But the truth is, my boyfriends just don't understand how much I need pickles to be in my life. I just haven't met that special someone who respects pickles as much as I do.
But now, a glimmer of hope was rekindled in me. Could it be, that this weird catatonic-looking guy was THE ONE?
My hands were shaking, and my heart was racing. I was torn between my two options: to go up and talk to him, or to forever wonder if he could have been my husband. I wiped my sweaty palms on my ever-present pickle jar, took a deep breath, stood up... and passed out.
I met him at a singles bar in my hometown, Epidermis. He was wearing dirty old clothes that seemed to shimmer as he glided across the room. His hair was dead and feathery, and his face was hollow, as if he hadn't eaten all his life. His complexion was pasty and unattractive... but he didn't have acne! He looked hungry for love, or maybe he just wanted a margarita.
Whatever the case, I suddenly knew what love at first sight was. Love at first sight. How do I describe it? It isn't going to Burger King and getting a Mighty Big Kid's Meal Double Cheeseburger smeared in ketchup, mustard and cheddar cheese. It isn't having a chest cold, but still being forced to clean your fish tank. No, it's... much more... powerful.
I shivered, but whether it was because I was in love for the first time, or that I was wearing a bikini in the middle of January, I could not tell.
Some would wonder why I hadn't jumped to my feet and run to my new love the moment I saw him. Some would jump into his arms, and smother his dead pale face in kisses. But, me... I'm different.
I can't just waltz up to some guy and say, "Hey, wanna dance the macarena with me?" I can't eat a chili dog with some guy I had a conversation at the post office. I can't just go bowling with my friend's friend's friend!!! I can't... because... because of my strange fetish with pickles.
You see, whenever I get into a relationship, pickles always break us apart. Like Marty. When we were nearing our three hour anniversary as a couple, I just HAD to open a jar of dill pickles that I'd bought at the grocery store a few years ago. I'd found them in a cabinet that morning and had since been dying to consume them. But when I opened the jar, apparently the fumes were too bad for poor Marty, and he tossed his cookies all over my darling pickles. We got in a very heated argument over my wasted pickles, and it was over.
Or how about Julian? I invited him over for a movie night, and I rented a few of my personal favorites, The Revenge of the Pickles, Harry Pickle and the Jar of Gershwins, and my most favorite of all favorites, Lord of the Pickles: The Return of the Pickle. So, when Julian came to my house, he freaked out about my "obsession". So, I like pickles. What's wrong with that? No need to inform you that I broke up with that loser.
But the truth is, my boyfriends just don't understand how much I need pickles to be in my life. I just haven't met that special someone who respects pickles as much as I do.
But now, a glimmer of hope was rekindled in me. Could it be, that this weird catatonic-looking guy was THE ONE?
My hands were shaking, and my heart was racing. I was torn between my two options: to go up and talk to him, or to forever wonder if he could have been my husband. I wiped my sweaty palms on my ever-present pickle jar, took a deep breath, stood up... and passed out.