City Hall

I habitually tell myself that I’m ok with the idea of never getting married again, as long as I at least get knocked up—I’m good.

But it’s a lie.

The concept of a glorified baby daddy isn’t good enough, although I’ll take it if that’s all I can get. Because of this thing called a biological clock I will happily settle for baby daddy, key word: settle.

The truth is I want to believe someone can love me enough to promise “forever” again, whether or not he (or I, for that matter) can really stick to our commitment of “till death do us part.” 

So I have it all played out in my head. It’s all figured out.

It’s a random Tuesday afternoon, because I ain’t got shit to do but fall in love with you. We’re at City Hall, eloping. You think I’m joking, right? The extravagant Leo with a thousand friends who needs to celebrate EVERY SINGLE THING? I’m joking?

Nah, serious as fuck. We’re eloping.

The only person I told was a photographer.

I don’t care about the backlash. I don’t care about a lavish ceremony or reception, been there—fuck that. We’re going to the Maldives to have sex for seven days straight, that shit is expensive, I’m saving our money. The bottom line is I already I experienced a conventional wedding and unless you personally require the excessive party, I prefer to go without. No disrespect to my previous experience, it was everything I ever wanted and more. It's just that item is checked off my list, no need to repeat the effort.

However if you think you’re going to be dressed casually to this event you’re foolish. You’re in a navy blue suit with a black lapel. I’ll wear something along these lines, but off-white. HEY—I’m still a fucking Leo (despite the elopement) and I hired a photographer for a reason.

My vows will be inside joke, after inside joke, after inside joke. You’re going to laugh and cry at the same time because I’m your favorite writer and my barz are straight fire.

I will cry disgustingly ugly. Embarrassingly ugly. Normally I try to hide all public outbursts of emotion, but today is a special occasion—obviously. That’s why no one else is invited. JK. Lightweight.

That’s about as far as I’ve gotten with this story, they’re only soft plans, I’m flexible. If you want to rock a skinny tie instead of a bow tie, that’s cool with me. The Maldives are non-negotiable tho.

A Day in the Life

I’ll wake you up with my 4 alarms in the morning. You’ll hear the first one go off an hour before I even have to get up. Then 3 will follow in 15 minute increments. It’s fucking obnoxious, my only apology and bonus for you is that you get to wake up next to me. *Cheesy emoji here*

Hopefully we don’t have the same morning routine cause I will remain in bed until the moment you start stirring and then I will get up lightning quick to beat you to the bathroom. Don’t worry, I prefer taking showers at night. I don’t take that long in the am. I will blow up the bathroom though. I’m not even sorry, my digestive system goes to work. I can’t apologize for that shit. Literally. Febreeze is our friend.

I will steal your clothes. You’ll get frustrated cause you’ll look for something and I’ll tell you its dirty. Ohh. Your chambray button up? Yeah I wore that yesterday with leggings. I’ll be on thin ice for this one, constantly. I’ll steal your fitted hats / snapbacks on game days. You must learn to buy 2 of everything, or share. I’m ok with sharing.

I will send you emails / texts / links throughout the day of stupid shit. I’ll tell you that Taco Bell is adding a new biscuit taco to its breakfast menu. Why would I tell you that? Cause I read about it. Have I ever had Taco Bell for breakfast? No. Do I plan on it? I don’t foresee that in my future, but I’ll read about ridiculous things like that. I will also send you music, whether you actually like it or not. Most of the time I am pretty good. You’ll get annoyed cause half the shit I send off is still Trap and you’ll tell me its not always time to turnup. So I’ll send you Hall & Oates. Fine then, let’s pretend we’re easy-listening on a fucking yacht. That works too.

I’ll send you an email with random subject lines of something you would actually open, but once you click though all you will see is the word “PENIS” in giant red letters, large enough for you coworkers to read. Got you. They won’t believe you when you tell them I sent that. I have this innocent look about me, of course I would never do that. 

I’ll pack your ass baon, cause we should both save dough and calories. There will be a stupid drawing on a post it of some kind of vegetable telling you a joke. You collect these in a drawer in your desk. Sometimes I’ll be nice and I’ll tell you I love you or some shit like that. I’ll draw a picture of corn saying it, throwing up at the same damn time. Yeah. That’s more like me.

Sometimes I’ll send you a selfie of me with my 3pm coffee. I’ll complain about my projects and demanding clients and tell you about the unbelievable requests they have. You’ll tell me the day is almost done. I will only respond with the emoji that has a “wahhhhh” face. That one is my favorite. I feel like that 49% of the time. 

Then I’ll sext you. I’ll sext you so hard we both wake up out of our midday coma. 

If it's not Thursday, we’ll cook at home. If it's Thursday that's date night. If it's Friday we’re drinking. Sometimes we mix up the order of this and we’re drunk on a Tuesday. Ohh well, it happens. I say we can eat whatever it is you want until I reject your first 5 suggestions. I give you a sour face, after sour face, after sour face. You’ll have a good pick though, eventually.

I want to eat ice cream every day, but I don’t. 

We have sex. We have tons of sex, while Netflix or Hulu is playing in the background. Nah, maybe it's not tons of sex. I have to be realistic. Nah, fuck that. We have tons of sex.

We’ll crack jokes, KTFO and do it all again the next day—maybe more, maybe less.

That's a day in the life.

Just be good to me...

For some strange reason I picture you as a Dodger fan.

Do you realize how much that hurts my soul? I was with a Lakers fan for 11 years. I was pumped with facts about a team I hate for over a decade. A Dodger fan though? That’s like us having different religions. I’m unsure about how that’s supposed to work. I just figure God has the same sense of humor I do, amusing and ironic. I’ll take it though, cause as much as I tell everyone about my type, my list of standards and my 5,000 other “requirements,” those are mainly just surface. 

I ask for one thing: just be good to me.

You know exactly what do to on the bad days, the days I don’t want to emerge from my room, the days words aren’t worth communicating and the days I have nothing to look forward to—although there is plenty. You’re around on the days where nothing is appetizing. Some days food can’t heal shit. I still have days like that. But even if I can’t eat all of my feelings, hey, at least I can trouble you for your company. That’s all l really require anyways.

All you have to do is say the word, provide the shoulder to cry on and I’m at ease. At this point in my life you still don’t exist and it frustrates the fuck out of me. 

I’m fully aware that our lives are building up to some simple story—some ridiculous simple-as-fuck-story. I will laugh at the defeated attitude I once had, cause in reality I was “this close” to encountering you, but the timing just wasn’t right.

Shit will happen… eventually. Untll then, Dodger fan, enjoy your baseball without me talking mad shit. P.S. Hope you like Brian Wilson as your set-up man, his command is beyond off these days. Good luck with that.

Better than your favorite

I could lift the world off your shoulders on the rough days. The days no one has your back, I will. You could talk my ears off for hours if it helps, or we could just sit in silence watching TV while I rub the back of your neck, whatever you prefer is fine with me. As long as you’re comforted with my company, I will be there to provide it.

I just ask you reciprocate the favor. I want you there on the days where everything goes wrong, cause you’re the only thing thats right. You’re better than three pickle back whiskey shots, a Shakeshack burger and fries and hell—you’re even better than ice cream.

Those are some of my favorite things, but they ain’t shit in comparison to you. Did you hear what I said? 

I’ll repeat myself, “you’re better than ice cream.” I love ice cream. *Extra emphasis. 

Guess where that puts you.

I only want provide the same sentiments. Whatever your favorite anything is, I want to be a step above, cause that's the level you’re on. I want to be the one you seek out when you’re feeling your worst, cause I’m better than your favorite.

Don’t worry though… I’ll come prepared, I’ll bring your original favorites too. If that means I need to pick up Ben n’ Jerry, Jack, Johnny or Jameson—we’ll be there. 

Lazy Sunday

I have this picture of you in my mind, you are just a figment of my imagination at this point. As far as I know you don't exist, but for my sake—I really hope you do.

I've named you Chris, John or Drew. Whatever I feel like that day, that's you. It's something easy and common, cause I have better chances that way.

You text me in the morning when you wake up, it's the first thing you do after you reach for your phone. I could be dead asleep, but I wake up, every time—just to respond. This of course is only when we're apart, otherwise you annoy the shit out of me at 7 am. Go figure—I happen to fall in love with a morning person.

I will always turn to you to muster the best "good morning" I can provide. I'm pretty good at that actually, despite my night owl tendencies. In five seconds I am in your face, obnoxious as fuck. Hey, you asked for it.

I will get ready, sans makeup, because it's Sunday (I despise putting on makeup on Sunday). I will put on workout clothes with absolutely no intention of working out that day. We'll walk to the nearest cafe to get coffee, not because I need caffeine, but because of habit and I actually like the taste. I will pick up flowers from the nearest farmers market and you'll hold them. I'm bossy. Ohh, you didn't know?

I will make whatever you want for breakfast, usually it involves bacon. We always have bacon. You share stupid facts and stories you find online while we eat. You tell me ridiculous facts, but I don't mind. I repeat them when I'm drunk, making small talk with complete strangers. It entertains them and I appear knowledgable and worldly.

A food coma will hit and if it's baseball season I will stream a Giants game on my iPad. You give zero fucks about baseball, I don't care. I listen/watch/react to the game anyway. You play video games and we do this until we fall asleep on the couch.

It starts raining outside. 

I will name five suggestions for take out, you will respond with the one I actually don't want. I just asked you to be nice. I'll still order what/where I want anyway. Luckily you've figured this out by now so you don't take offense. You've learned that when it comes to food my preferences will win 75% of the time. You just respond to humor me, every time.

I will ask you 5,000 questions (give or take) during the course of the day, because you interest me that much. Sometimes I will hit a philosophical/deep cord with you, but most of the time I just want to know what your favorite anything/everything is. I'm obnoxious, told you.

At some point we will just lie in bed and crack jokes, and even though it's still raining outside, it won't be because there's no where to go...

It's because there's no where better to be.

This is how you will meet me

It would be my pleasure to meet you at random get together. You just happen to be there, as a guest of a friend of a friend (of a friend). Whatever the connection is, it doesn't matter to me, cause finally—the universe has served you up, and there you are… on a platter.

I will shake your hand firmly and make excellent eye-contact. I will smile the moment I realize just how good-looking you are. I will repeat your name as if it were a question, cause I'm fucking terrible with names. But I'll remember yours. Trust me, I will act as if I forgot, but I didn't.

You will use my name every time you try to engage me in the conversation. I appreciate this, because I desperately need confirmation that you know who I am. Eventually I will need to refill my drink and you will follow suit, not immediately, but soon enough. 

You will call me out on absolutely any weak point I have as far as my interests go. I have a soft spot for men who insult and compliment me at the same time, and that type of shit just works for you. BINGO. You hit the jackpot. Ultimately you will learn more about me and your insults will get more personal, I will have nothing to do but retaliate in a high-school-fashion by hitting you repeatedly on your forearms.

Yes. Kate flirting = hitting. Typical weak ass game, I know. Shut up.

At this point, anyone who even remotely knows me will be aware of just how much I am feelin' you. Don't be a pussy and please realize this. I can only smile so large and laugh so hard before I allow myself to appear way too thirsty. I have an internal alarm for thirsty behavior. I have too much pride.

The night will wind down and by this time I will know what brought you to NYC, your top five desert island movies/music and your guiltiest pleasures. Throughout the night I will agree to any empty-promise-suggestions you have about us doing something that will involve our common interests, except I hope you are offering genuine ideas instead of just filling our conversations with false invitations. Cause fuck, this happens to me quite often.

I will call you out on the fact that I will probably never see you again and to prove your interest you take out your phone and add me on social media immediately. At this point I will be at least three drinks deep and less patient, so to take this further I will enter my full name + number into your contacts. We will do the typical dance of "text me, so I have your number too." 

I will text you back something completely stupid in reference to a conversation we had earlier in the evening, cause I think I am so witty and clever. I am. This is how you will remember me.

When its time to go you will give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, only because of the whiskey, otherwise you wouldn't have the balls to do this to a girl you just met.

The next day you will text me, with the most random rebuttal to a conversation we had from last night, and you will ask me out.

…and then you will fall madly and hopelessly in fucking love with me. And you will thank your friend of a friend (of a friend) for inviting you to that one party... where you met me.

I'll thank him too.