Hot Dudes and Instashame

So I have this set of things that instantly make a guy just really, really attractive. Even if he smells like anchovies and lives in a labyrinth of cardboard boxes and tarped pallets that he constructed himself in his spare time of unemployment and dissociative episodes behind the liquor store.

My things are:

1. Dreadlocks. Even dirty ones. I know, you guys. I do. I freakin’ know. But I just cannot even. I just wanna rub beeswax and lavender into them and then fall asleep with my nose buried in them. I also love the smell of horses and leather so. Apparently some stinky things hit my pleasure receptors a little differently. And that’s okay.

2. Sweaters with elbow pads and Kangalo caps. I like me a Robert De Niro type of older gentleman, what can I say? Nothing. I should have to say nothing. Robert De Niro is hot as shit. And you don’t have to admit it to me, but you know this to be true.

3. Readers. Oh my heck, y’all. It’s probably got a lot to do with the fact that it would be about as likely for me to be seeing a man leading a pink glittery unicorn down Route 62 as it would to see one with a good book in his hands and a serious look on his face while he reads it, but a man with a book is just, like.


And there is an entire Instagram that one of my early college friends just sent me to, dedicated to attractive men with books.

No bullshit.

Jesus it’s like if nerdy women created their own brain porn site it would be this Instagram.

And they’re not reading bullshit Stephen King trash in a raggedy ass thrift store paperback edition, y’all.

They’re reading smarty-pants books.

God damn.

I’m Instashamed of myself. But not enough. Because I’m totally following that shit.

Don’t. Do not look at me like that. These are the types of things that happen when you swear off interpersonal contact for four years with no end in sight and stick to nonthreatening online forums in which you can pretend to be social whilst slowly poisoning your ability to exist in close proximity to other human beings as a way of avoiding becoming still more disappointed in humanity each and every godforsaken day until you finally die alone in a hoarded third floor attic apartment in what used to be a nice, historically accurate home while your cats eat your bloating, undiscovered body for weeks and weeks.

I’ve made peace with my future. It really is fine.

Hot Dudes. Reading.

It’s over for me. Just leave me here to die. It’s over for me. And that’s okay. I’ll die happy. I promise.

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