The 21-year-old stud texted me for an hour last night. What a trip he is. He’s like a walking, talking Red State. I almost forgot what it’s like to be barely legal, full of conviction and self-righteousness. Like you’re ready to stare down any fool that gets in your way, demanding authority, simply because you’re the hottest thing on the block.
On Facebook, I was notified that he recently became a fan of “beer,” “boobs” and “beef”. Yep. That about sums him up. Its like drinking a shot of Stetson when he’s around, even through the phone. If I was a out-of-control 21-year-old filly like I used to be, this would have been too much testosterone for me to handle.
Things are different now. He can’t womanize me if I manize him first.
Actual Text exchange from last night:
- So you basically play every sport except soccer and tennis.
- Yeah, but those aren’t real sports.
- Somehow I knew you would say that.
- Well that’s how I was raised.
- You see honey, that’s why it can never work out between a redneck and a hippie.
- I’m sorry, I just really hate hippies.
- Ok Cartman.
- How much of a hippie are you?
“How much of a hippie are you?”How does one answer that question. I almost dropped my phone and fell off the Wii Fit laughing.
I can’t wait till we meet again. I should get my tarot cards out and give him a reading. Stroke his palm and talk about astrological convergence. Go through every page of the Kama Sutra and gush about meditative tantra. I’m going to weave flowers into his Cowboy hat. He’ll be so in love with hippie-dom he won’t know what do with himself.
Ok, so at least its a good fantasy. Or maybe I’m just playing with redneck fire.