Am Getting Dummer By the Minute
I am not a good listener. It is mainly due to the fact that I talk a lot. Sometimes, I talk myself hoarse. If I knew American Sign Language, I would have the most shapely fingers of anyone I know.
I have met my match. Moronda is the only woman on earth that talks more than me. We haven't seen each other in fifteen years. We were six when we last saw one another (that's right, I'm claiming 21 this year). For the record, it is impossible to catch up on fifteen years in four days. I am considering cutting off my own ears.
I think that substance is important. Everything I say is fascinating. I prefer to talk about my shoes and what color I should dye my hair next and the Ozone layer and stuff. Moronda doesn't share this belief in the importance of substance. Instead, she prefers to talk about every relationship she's had in the past fifteen years.
Aaron, Rich, Doug, Donald, Tim, Rasha, Vic...I needed a flow chart. Luckily, happen to have a large flip chart. I set up the easel and began taking notes.
We charted 2006. Seven men. It was a slow year. Tim tied her down for a few months. I got a cramp in my hand and had to take a wine break. After a bottle of wine, Moronda exclaimed that if we used seven as an average number of men per year and assumed that she had been f*cking for 15 years, well...that's a lot of guys. I still can't do the math on this one, but I am sure that it's a lot of guys.
"Wow," I said. "You must have a huge CD collection."
She looked at me like I was retarded. "I have an iPod and a lot of XL tee shirts to sleep in."
"You'd better get married." It was the best advice I could think of.