sugar.cookie.

TWO POSTS TWO DAYS IN A ROW?!?! I'm bored. I'm not going to attempt to lie. This one is kinda ooey gooey. I hate ooey gooey. BLECH. But I gotta chat it out. Gotta put it down on the world wide interwebs so that when I'm sad and blue, I can look back at this post (and this atrocious punctuation/grammar combination) and know that I'm capable of an upside down frown. So here goes. Abandon all hope ye who enter here. Everyone else, come on in. The water is completely fine.

So the story starts out, I'm ummm 22-ish and at football practice. In the rain (I'm not sure if it was actually raining or not, but go with it) and completely twitterpated with the TU quarterback. Cliche. I know. But he's tall, dark, and dreamy, and it's raining. Maybe. So it's Sunday afternoon-evening, and they are just running through mock plays and kind of just screwing around. And Jacob* (names have been changed to protect the guilty) starts calling verbals from the line like this...... SUGAR. COOKIE. and GREEN. BEAN. and ORANGE. JUICE. and COTTON. CANDY. and RUBBER. BALL and while we are all kinda laughing, I'm sort of intrigued in why he's choosing to call fake plays in a very precise manner (most plays are a random number and a random color. Football players are simple creatures). So I ask. Because I needed a reason to talk to the dreamy, wet dog smelling, quarterback and I honestly really wanted to know. So the convo goes like this. AHEM:

Me: Sugar cookie?
J: Yep
Me: Right. Why?
J: Because they go together.
Me: Well, sort of I guess. But you can have one without the other.
J: But why would you want to?




*** DISCLAIMER *** This is the kiss of death I'm pretty sure. I don't think he'll ever see this unless I unveil it to him, but I've learned that once you start writing it down, it goes south. Fast. *shrugs shoulders* Eh. Sie la vie. I'm too icky sticky happy to care right now.

The sugar to my cookie. The bean to my green. The cotton to my candy. Get it? I thought so. He makes me laugh before I say 'hello'. He lets my melancholy stew simmer. He calls in the middle of the night to tell me a joke. He quotes 'Friday' and 'Super Troopers' at all appropriate and inappropriate times. He loves Red Dirt. Music. Not the actual dirt. He plays Modern Warfare. He can change a tire in Rock 'n Repbulics and an Armani button down. He would be slightly irritated if he knew that I wrote that as a thing I like but he would secretly like it that I like it. He's not afraid to let me order for him. He two steps better than me. A LOT better. He buys things because they are on sale. Errr, I mean because they are a bargain (everyone that lives in a three story six plex needs a thirty foot ladder. Creeper.) He youtube fights with me. He drinks pomegranate vodka (I KNOW, RIGHT?!?!?) He's a Cowboy in an Oklahoma State kinda way. He's more addicted to How I Met Your Mother and A&E than I am. His love affair with Sriracha is a thing of beauty. He's a red wing voter. Slightly left wing liver. He's a tech nerd. BIG tech nerd. He owns guns, a bow, and takes his hat off when the National Anthem plays. His designer jean collection is a thing of reverence. He holds my hand. Even when it's just us. His OCD is out.of.control. But not in a psycho way. He always agrees to "TAKE A PICTURE" and then on the 901th one, he covers my face up. And it's funny.

I hope your face lights up like Christmas when you talk about me. I hope you get up in the morning and wish that my shampoo/conditioner/shower gel/shaving cream/body scrub/girl paraphenalia et. al. was in your way. I hope you eat at Oceano's and get the mussels. I hope your tickets are next to mine. I hope someone walks by you with D&G's Light Blue on. And you look twice. I hope someone orders a tall fat tire and a shot of rumple. I hope a KOL song comes on the radio. I hope you know how much you color my gray skies blue.

I'll take today over yesterday anyday.