ass much as you want it to be...

she has a GREAT ass.

wait.

stop for a second, and imagine saying that like al pacino in the movie ‘heat’.

ok now continue.

ive admired it from a distance for the past couple of weeks.

up stairs.

down stairs.

walking.

admire.

admire.

admire.

she wears simple monochromatic colors – grey pinstripe slacks. a black cardigan. a white blouse. close toed three inch heels. everything fits her perfectly

and i like it.

i like it a lot.

very classic.

very professional.

very banana republic.

and yet here i am staring right at her ass.

or dare i say, here her ass is staring right back at me.

…

ive made a new friend.

his name is alfred.

at first i found him annoying and a bit pushy.

now i simply wish he would just fuck off and leave.

unfortunately he doesn’t know when he’s outworn his welcome.

not that he was ever welcome in the first place.

...

she and i have never spoken to one another.

just the casual pass in the hallway.

traffic flowing opposite directions in a stairwell.

a meeting of the eyes, a crinkling of the minds, and a coy exchange of a smile.

…

she’s a professional.

i find that hot.

extremely hot.

women who are teachers, publicists, and sales reps are great, but i respect the hell out of a woman who is intelligent, outspoken, and can do what i do.

and do it well.

…

ive never dated a woman.

ive always dated girls.

the difference between women and girls isnt age.

nor is it maturity.

the difference isnt even whether or not they’re married and have started a family…

the difference is simply how a woman 'wears' a pair of pants.

i cant describe it.

pants are everything, and they are nothing.

they reveal whether a woman is comfortable with her body(or if she isnt ).

they tell you if she knows what makes her look good (and what doesnt).

they talk to if shes confident enough to flaunt it (or hide it).

they speak to her fashion sense (or lack thereof).

pants may do all of these things, and they may do none of these things.

but one look at a woman wearing a pair of jeans (or a good pant suite) and i just know – either she’s a woman. or she’s a girl.

which is not to judge - because i really really like girls.

…

she’s not incredibly hot, she’s just really really cute.

which, in a way, makes her even hotter in my eyes.

short. petite. brown hair. brown eyes.

occassionally my eyes may go blonde.

occassionally my mind may wander.

but if i had to describe the ‘type’ of girl that i find most attractive, i would probably paint her.

…

i have a huge zit.

it occupies the left side of my face, and part of uzbekistan.

i think the uzbekistani’s want alfred to leave as much as i do.

but alfred is one resilient mofo.

…

im pretty sure that i picked up alfred at the marathon.

when sweat evaporates, it leaves a residue of salt and gunk on your skin.

that’s why your nipples may start to bleed while you run long distances.

at the end of the race, i thought i was hardcore because i had a pound of salt plastered to my face.

at the end of the race i thought i was hardcore, when in fact i was merely a prepubescent teenager with a soon-to-be imaginary pimple named alfred.

go figure.

…

of all the conference tables to sit at, she chose the only one directly across from my cubefarm.

which is a little odd since she doesn’t even work on the same floor as i do.

not that im complaining.

god she’s cute.

i just want to roll her up and stuff her in my back pocket.

i would take her everywhere with me – just like in the BFG.

except it would be my pocket, instead of my ear.

you have to stop and wonder, when you catch yourself pondering the BFG, while staring at the cutest girl in the office.

you have to stop and wonder if you’re either insane, or just a really weird stalker. ha!

...

her back is to me, so its possible that she doesn’t know that im sitting right behind her.

my first thought is that this entirely plausible – i am merely one ant working amongst an entire ant colony.

my second thought (hope) is that this is completely implausible – she’s walked by my desk a million and one times… she’d have to be a total alicia (as in silverstone) to miss me.

sometimes my ego is just THAT big. ha!

i stand up to ponder, consider, and stare.

…

im twenty six years old.

twenty six year old men don’t have to worry about pimples.

twenty six year old boys do.

faaaaaccckkk.

…

having an irritated imaginary person (i.e. a pimple) glued to my face is distracting.

it makes me feel self conscious.

it makes me feel like everyone is staring and restraining peals of laughter.

it makes me want to cover up and hide.

‘oh my god its huge.’

something every guy wants to hear… but not w/ reference to his over active facial pores.

i don’t know how i would ever deal with a life altering deformity.

scalding water splashed on my face.

acid dripped across my cheeks.

a tragic vanilla sky car accident.

social ostracization - either real or self imposed

it makes me want cover up and hide.

…

her back is no longer to me.

she is sitting at the table in deep discussion.

a professional talking with another professional about professional things.

its an early night for me.

alfred and i need to go have a talk.

as i pass by she looks up, smiles and says

…

hello.

*** ill update this post in pieces. check back periodically for new thoughts in motion.