Monday, 25 June 2012

A Fairly Laboured Metaphor

When I go to work in the morning, I have two options.

I can get the Number 7 bus, or I can get the Number 18.

The Number 7 is direct. It takes less than ten minutes, the stops are few and far between and it gets me into town with more than enough time to spare.

The Number 18 takes about twenty minutes. It stops every five seconds, travels through quite an unpleasant area and makes me late almost every single day.

I always choose to get the Number 18. Always.

 The Last Stand (Fare Lady), Gil Elvgren

There are two boys.

One is interested. He’s more than willing to enter into an actual grown-up relationship. With him, I know that things would be easy and straightforward. And he’s lovely. He really is.

The other one doesn’t know what he wants. He knows he doesn’t want me to go away, but he doesn’t know why. We argue on a daily basis. He is so far away from being ready for a relationship that it would probably be quicker to grow a boyfriend and wait for him to reach legal age.

Like I said, I’m always going to choose the Number 18.

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