Garoo

I’m amazed I could be so wrong about someone. Well, I’m exaggerating — I did feel there was something wrong. But still, big surprise. Ah, what hormones can do… (And flattery, too. That’s important, flattery. I would have liked to believe it didn’t work with me.)

Well now, who’s volunteering to replace him? I need… Oh, I won’t be picky: a man under 60, under 300 pounds, less ugly than Quasimodo, and living alone in Paris. (You’ll have figured that the priority right now is spending the night with someone in a bed.) In addition, if he’s over 25, over 130 pounds or less cute than Ryan Philippe, I’d really appreciate him to be straight and impotent.

You have thirty-five seconds to submit your candidacies.

P.S. No, in fact, I wasn’t that wrong about him. I had just memorized qualities more than flaws, but I was quite conscious of everything, and after some thinking back about it there’s nothing surprising anymore. So, nothing special, and it didn’t deserve being blogged. Except that it’s very important for me to be able to gauge people right away. And it would have been serious if I had really, fundamentally been wrong. Because, so far, it never really happened to me, and that’s a skill I like to rely on.