First of all, I had a hot date last night with some nail polish, immediately followed by a hotter date with a half a bag of goldfish. Looking back, I think the goldfish were out to ruin my pretty manicure. I’m guessing they didn’t like the fact that I double-booked. Any idea how to eat goldfish without fingers? Chopsticks?
Oh, my thoughts on hope. It basically boils down to the fact that I have a lot of it. I’m not sure if it is an abnormal amount, or just right, but either way, I have it and it comes by the bushelful.
I hope without even knowing I am putting my wishes out there to be washed away. Let’s take my life as of late, for example’s sake. I hope he calls. That is approximately one ounce of hope.
Now if you remember correctly, I said bushelful. Which means not only do I hope he calls, but I hope EVERYDAY as I walk to my apartment, just before I turn the corner to the door, there will be a vase filled with flowers that says “Let’s start over.” I hope every Tuesday, on my way to kickball, he will just show up at the game and say “I just had to see you.” I hope on Mondays he will call to ask about the kickball game on Tuesday. I hope that as I pull up into my apartment that his car will be there, and he will be waiting, because calling just didn’t seem right.
I hope that he will just show up one day with tickets to a Padre game, and I hope that his tagline after one if his articles will be a secret message to me. I hope I log on to facebook one day and he has challenged me to a friendly game of scrabulous.
I hope that I don’t jinx all of my fantasies by replaying them in my head, but I have been hoping for a long time.
When C. dumped me in an email, I thought I saw him everyday on my home, because everyday, on my way home, I was hoping he would be there to say he was sorry.
Way back when I called Him and broke everything that was already broken, I sat in my driveway for hours hoping he would come down to see me, so we could cry in each other’s arms. Later that same night, I drove to each parking lot we used to make out in, hoping that he would be there too.
I hope in the beginning he will call, I hope in the middle for tireless displays of devotion, in the end I hope for everything short of a miracle.
And every time, when my phone call, my devotion, and my miracles don’t arrive, I am disappointed.
I blame it on the movies.
PS: As a child, I used to hope I would “be discovered” while singing in my driveway. Some things were never meant to be.