By Jamie Cooper

The seriousness with which you concentrate makes me think youth is an illusion.
You claimed to be a lover of light.
You look very much like Maggie Gyllenhaal, who I think is a classic beauty.
Your biceps captivated me.
You were, for sure, going to the gun show.
You were wearing moss green, had a blue squid bag, gold earrings.
You had maroon pants and an umbrella.
You had knuckle tattoos.
You made a weird sound when I walked in.

*            *                *

YOU: super hot. ME: Kknife skills.
You were pregnant when we last met and made out.
You were with a lady with dreads.
You could do much better.
Are you Asian?
I think you might have been Mexican.
You were playing Father Christmas.
On Saturday night you touched me.
Don’t get me started on how amazing you smell.

*            *                *

Me: a doctor. Actually, a gynecologist.
I’m sorry we didn’t have time to get things started in the Goodwill restroom.
I wish I had another lifetime to get to know you better.
I was dressed as “The Situation” from the Jersey Shore.

*            *                *

I was really hoping you would buy my foosball table.
I don’t know what you were looking at (maybe it was my totally rad black SUV).
I’m 6’1” brown hair, wearing a wool hat with whales on it.
I’m not a crackhead.
I am married but not getting what I need at home.
I would like a woman to let me WATCH her do her kickboxing or martial arts.
My impulse in this may be less than gentlemanly.

*            *                *

Are we making eyes or am I just creeping you out?
Let’s creep each other out.
We were both looking at lingerie. I felt a little blood flow.
We made out in the street.
We share first names.
Remember the strip club we went to?
Did you finish your oatmeal cream pie you big gross fuck?
Once we were close, like two sides of a coin.
We chatted about Chinese Symbol Tattoos.

*            *                *

To the beautiful lady who smiled at me in the wheelchair:

You must be very alone with your new religion. A train station is a good analogy for life. You may fall in love 100 times per week but it’s not the other way around. Love is lost on those poor souls who have never known a love they cannot have. May you continue to float on the calming, tranquil stream of perpetual healing.

*            *                *

Dear Pigtails,

You can fuck your way through the city if you want. You still look like a rusty bucket of putrid shit covered in meth barnacles. You know what’s different about me now? I’m a peaceful motherfucker. Go get your own husband.

*            *                *

To the person with PTSD:

You just disqualified yourself by your lack of reading comprehension.

*            *                *

To My Personal Earhart,

You had calves like a Hungarian shot putter and wore heels that gave me an instant woody. You looked Hawaiian but who knows with all that make up. I wanted to tell you I had never seen anyone eat meat like that, but then realized I was dripping, and the ugly blond lady at your table kept looking at my crotch. I walked by your table and thought I heard you say something about your girlfriend in a coma…are you a lez? Regardless, I would love to get together. Are you into anal?

*            *                *

RE: Beautiful Blonde at the Tamale House,

If this was meant for me, our “connection” exists only in your mind. I’d never drop hints to someone who ends a statement in a preposition. I hear tacos calling your name.

p.s. I’m not British

*            *                *

Dear Sexy Cop,

Everybody deserves to know, without a doubt, deep down, no questions asked, that they are loved or wanted. It’s a powerful thing. It isn’t something that you keep to yourself. Love doesn’t grow on trees. You’ll wake up someday and realize love doesn’t go on trees.

*            *                *

To the Thief who broke into my house,

I believe in karma, and you are in deep shit. File this under: missed connection with your sense of proportion.

 

 

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