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Description
I'm sitting on the kitchen sink wondering what to do with my life.

Maybe I should date a writer, someone who knows how to structure a future, a person, and use a semicolon; maybe they'd even know what an Oxford Comma is and whether I should have capitalised both of those words. They'd know how to create a hero and a villain and everything in between, slotting it all into neat chapters and paragraphs.

The problem is that I am inarticulate at best.

Perhaps I could just date a reader, someone with an appreciation for literature. I could date a person that would look down on comparisons to Romeo and Juliet and would inform me with contempt that it's a tragedy, not a comedy. I could find them bent over a book with a cold cup of coffee and collect an icy glare from warm eyes as I interrupt them with a quote I might think at the time is thoughtful or in the spirit of the cover of their book.

No. I was never appreciative enough of English class to date a reader.

Perhaps the kind of person that knows what a cadence is, a composer of concertos, would be more up my street. A clef would be as common to their fingertips as the letter 's' or eventually my spine under their skin. They could give expressivo in bed and tell me if I used that word wrong there. They could use expressionism in the sheets.

Or, while I'm at it, I could just date a porn star.

How about an artist? They're an assemblage of people and personalities, a starving, tragic type who'd paint us as Romeo and Juliet because maybe they wouldn't know its significance as a tragedy-not-a-comedy. They'd always have paint on their face and make us biomorphic in the space between bed and breakfast. Or maybe they'd be less cliché and be a successful animator or something.

Oh, who am I kidding? An artist could date me about as well as an architect couldn't not design a broken building and about as easily as the writer could use a redundant double negative without noticing.

Could a scientist or mathematician better? We could argue if i should exist or pretend to do research on the dilation of one's pupils during an orgasm. Or maybe that would just be an excuse to tear them from their work.

Well, I should be so lucky to keep up with a mind that fast.

I may as well try my chances at finding someone in the acting profession who'd date me. Maybe I could meet them through handing out political fliers from that up-and-coming new party member who is too driven by their need for more in their career to ever accept my offer for a casual drink.

Or maybe, just maybe, I should stop pondering life and get a job; stop sitting on the kitchen sink, and stop discounting things I'll never make happen.

Description
I'm sitting on the kitchen sink wondering what to do with my life.

Maybe I should date a writer, someone who knows how to structure a future, a person, and use a semicolon; maybe they'd even know what an Oxford Comma is and whether I should have capitalised both of those words. They'd know how to create a hero and a villain and everything in between, slotting it all into neat chapters and paragraphs.

The problem is that I am inarticulate at best.

Perhaps I could just date a reader, someone with an appreciation for literature. I could date a person that would look down on comparisons to Romeo and Juliet and would inform me with contempt that it's a tragedy, not a comedy. I could find them bent over a book with a cold cup of coffee and collect an icy glare from warm eyes as I interrupt them with a quote I might think at the time is thoughtful or in the spirit of the cover of their book.

No. I was never appreciative enough of English class to date a reader.

Perhaps the kind of person that knows what a cadence is, a composer of concertos, would be more up my street. A clef would be as common to their fingertips as the letter 's' or eventually my spine under their skin. They could give expressivo in bed and tell me if I used that word wrong there. They could use expressionism in the sheets.

Or, while I'm at it, I could just date a porn star.

How about an artist? They're an assemblage of people and personalities, a starving, tragic type who'd paint us as Romeo and Juliet because maybe they wouldn't know its significance as a tragedy-not-a-comedy. They'd always have paint on their face and make us biomorphic in the space between bed and breakfast. Or maybe they'd be less cliché and be a successful animator or something.

Oh, who am I kidding? An artist could date me about as well as an architect couldn't not design a broken building and about as easily as the writer could use a redundant double negative without noticing.

Could a scientist or mathematician better? We could argue if i should exist or pretend to do research on the dilation of one's pupils during an orgasm. Or maybe that would just be an excuse to tear them from their work.

Well, I should be so lucky to keep up with a mind that fast.

I may as well try my chances at finding someone in the acting profession who'd date me. Maybe I could meet them through handing out political fliers from that up-and-coming new party member who is too driven by their need for more in their career to ever accept my offer for a casual drink.

Or maybe, just maybe, I should stop pondering life and get a job; stop sitting on the kitchen sink, and stop discounting things I'll never make happen.