it was only supposed to be a few days for Valentine’s day, but she couldn’t find a ride home.
People write in and ask, “what on Earth do you have in common with a 20 year old girl? Like, what do you talk about?”
Like most girls, Ashley doesn’t like to talk about “gross things,” so that rules out a lot of my interests.
She doesn’t have any love for sports, so that rules out any of my real knowledge.
And I really don’t like any of the same music that she likes, so driving with the radio on can be challenging.
But the other day we had a fairly interesting dialogue on the topic of blonde pussy hairs.
Strangely, she didn’t consider this “gross.”
I don’t know how the coversation began, but Ashely came up with the theory that all “blonde” pussy hairs were fake.
“Bullshit,” I said, “I’ve seen one up-close-and-personal, if you know what I mean.” She was holding my hand and squeezed tightly and gave me a dirty look.
“It was fake, poohead.”
“No no, it was real. I even wrote a poem about it. I said that it was like a cloud floating above heaven. It was published in several magazines.”
“She dyed it,” Ashley insisted.
I was dumbstruck. I was quiet. Bad music played on the radio and I didnt even notice. My world was being shattered by a girl who had spent several years in an all-girls Catholic school – breathe – obviously she had seen her share of lockerrooms and blondes and …
“Well, what about all the redheads,” I said, “I have seen two of them whose…”
“Carpet matched the drapes?”
“Collars matched the cuffs.”
“Redheads are real,” Ashley confirmend. “That’s why they’re such freaks. They’re rare, but real.”
“And not blondes?”
“Tony, I was blonde at birth – incredibly rare. My eyebrows are blonde, by arm hairs, but not those hairs. So what does that tell you?”
“It tells me I have now found a new purpose. A new quest.”
My hand was being squeezed again. It hurt.
But at least I knew why I was still alive.