The Rules

Oh how we modern twenty-somthing independant type women covet The Rules. It's true, sometimes we need them. Especially in these no-strings-I-want-nothing-because-I-need-nothing type of redezvous's and casual meetings because with these, the rules are what keep these both safe and sacred.

But just then, mid all of your headcase/bullshit/independefemme glory, Enter...

Oh, whoa. Enter That Guy.

Don't get me wrong; this is neither purely autobiographical nor hypothetical because there will always be That Guy. And That Guy will either make all of that crap melt off of you like parrafin psychoses or at least make you want so badly for it to. We all have met that guy.

And hey, That Guy may even be That Girl, and That Girl may will things from you you thought previously impossible, and next thing you know standing alone on Powell and Market with a single fuschia gerber daisy, a smile on your face, and a pocket newly emptied as the proceeds went to the man at the flower shop. The smile? Because you actually want to gift this; this is a thig you want to do.

Funny how that happens, no?

And, then what happens when you try and fail? What happens when you don't know whether or not you have?

The Rules would state there are numbers of days before phones can be dialed. The Rules tell us that it's his own fucking fault, and The Rules scream at us that I'll be damned if I change myself for some goddamn man and if it's that important to him then he can just...

Right. We know those. But what if there are feelings already hurt, and there are powers still to be willed and some sort of hope and fight left before flight? What are we left when there is no granted proprietal course of action concerning the next day phone call to ask:

"Are you okay?"

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