Its a Monday night, it is dark outside. I drive alone home, only the fog lights are on, just thinking. I ask myself, did you really just get back from the Eden?
Monday morning. No work, the steer skid is still out of commission. I wrestle out of bed wondering what I am going to do to entertain myself until the evening's plans. The People and I go to get a hair cut, cause I need to look sharp for tonight. My salon specialist suggests a Euro Faux Hawk. She promises that I will have "more play with the ladies than I have ever had." I of course call her bluff, and get the hawk (come to find out she is a total liar).
The day passes uneventfully. No car accidents, no littering fines, no bums calling out for help. Nothing. Suddenly, just like a heart attack, the night arrives. I need to get ready, because tonight I journey to Eden with Jasmine.
Jasmine is what I would like to call Ms. Independent. Ne-Yo was singing about her. She has her own things, she does her own things. She doesn't need a man to provide for her. It is sufficient to say that she intimidates me. The combination of beauty and intelligence in one woman is just stupid crazy good, but throw in fun, genuine, and kind... shoot, better call up the President cause we have a national security situation up on over here! And what do I have to offer her? Cosmetically and materially? Nothing. That is why I can't lose... or win.
Eden is a splendid little spot north of Utah. It is relatively secluded. We are attending a wedding reception tonight, which makes things a little awkward as is. People are asking if we are a couple, dating, and such. But I handle cool like a ice cube, cause nothing is really cooler than that. However, I am completely surrounded by ball flexors. I mean the real deal. These fools embody the definition of flexing nuts.
I was feeling pretty confident, then all of the sudden I realized that I have really nothing to offer this woman. I need to get with the program. I am usually pretty calm and collected, but when I think about calling her, or going over to her place, I get rattled. I don't know what it is. Maybe I just know that I am a minor league hitter swinging in the big leagues (as said by McD). No, I know I have a lot to offer.... like.... fun? We'll roll with that. Anyways, she flat out scares me. I do not know what to do. Making a move seems more difficult then reciting the alphabet backwards in Swahili.
Yes, you did just back from Eden bro; and yes, you are a fool. However, it is not about how many home runs you have, it is about how many times you go up to swing. Right? Just a confident booster for myself. Swing for the fences, aim for the moon, hitch a wagon to a star......