This Is Not A Heart

I am waiting for your arrows, one for me, and one for the man of my dreams. You have less than a month to make this happen. Otherwise, I will be Valentineless. And once again, I will be scouring the streets of San Francisco at 1 AM, looking for someone to makeout with. It would be nice if, for once, I could approach this holiday prepared, not with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but with a dashing, dapper devil who is all up on me like hot fudge on an ice cream sunday. It would also be nice if he had a winning smile, adorable dimples, a smorgasbord of witty banter, a plethora of useless knowledge about fascinating things, a knack for fashion, a villa in every exotic country, a private jet, and a pocket full of diamonds, but I will be flexible with the latter three items.

But most importantly he will know how to make me laugh, how to tug at my heart strings, how to get along with my friends, and how to be cheesy (romantic).  He will be impressive with his accomplishments and inspire me to accomplish more. He will tell me stories about adventures I wish I could have been apart of. He will slip sentimental doodles and notes in my pockets. He will help little old ladies get off the bus and give directions to lost tourists. He will remember I like crunchy peanut butter best and my coffee with a splash of milk and no sugar. He will be my shoulder to cry on, my arm candy, my sweetheart, my knight in shining armor, my prince charming, my barrel of laughs, and my big spoon. So Cupid, as a belated birthday present, please make this happen.