Read Online Why I Love Singlehood: by Elisa Lorello, Sarah Girrell - Free Book Online

students when he comes back, his garbage bag at least half full. He then places it in the backseat of his car, along with the empty cans, and drives me back to The Grounds.
“You do realize that you wasted like twice as many napkins just so you can take those cardboard thingies home and recycle them in your own bin, don’t you,” I say. “And besides, they’re like totally germafied.”
“Most of them can be recycled, too,” he rationalizes. “Don’t tell me you are one of those people who thinks the planet is going to sustain itself.”
“I—”
“You think global warming isn’t real?”
“Wha—”
“How much waste comes from your store?”
“Hmm, I can’t keep track, what with all those Styrofoam cups we use and plastic water bottles we give out.”
I could tell him that half our power comes from solar energy and that we use fair trade ingredients, and the shop has three—count ’em, three!—recycling bins, but dammit, he’s pissing me off. To make matters worse, flies follow his car and hover over the cardboard thingies. That’s just skeevy.
     
Deal Breaker #2: “Joe from Wilmington” chews too loud.
Was-probably-a-horse-in-a-former-life kind of loud. Might-actually-be-a-horse-in-a-man-suit kind of loud. We go to dinner at Mario’s on Front Street and both order lasagna as well as the softest, fluffiest dinner rolls ever (God help ’em if I find out they came from a can). The conversation is fine, enjoyable, even. And at least he doesn’t eat and talk at the same time. But I can’t get past the chewing. Like a slow-motion jackhammer. How does one chew lasagna loudly? Salad, I understand, but
lasagna
? Not to mention that he loads so much Parmesan cheese on top you’d think it snowed. And even though I am itching for some tiramisu for dessert, I skip it because I don’t want his chewing to turn me off to tiramisu forever.
     
Deal Breaker #3: “Randy, originally from Rhode Island,” has an unhealthy attachment to Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails.
I understand the concept of “fan” (short for “fanatic,” in case you’ve forgotten); I still listen to all my U2 albums on a regular basis and will travel across state lines to catch one of their concerts, but Randy has tattoos. He has pinups on the walls in his bedroom (not that I’ve been to his place, mind you—he proudly bragged about it). I haven’t had a pinup since I was sixteen. And his license plate is 9 IN NAILS. His e-mail handle is tr_NIN_genius. His Lovematch.com profile name is Trent. In fact, he’s seriously considering officially changing his name to Trent. Eek.
In hindsight, I’m not sure what made me agree to go out with him in the first place, or what drew him to me considering I had, among other things, a
You’ve Got Mail
movie quote on my profile. I should’ve denied my identity when he approached my table in dark skinny jeans all frayed at the knees, dyed jet-black hair, and a sterling silver skull earring. More astounding is that he has a master’s degree in early childhood education.
I make the mistake of innocently suggesting that Nine Inch Nails was one of the pioneers of techno music, when he nearly rips my head off. “It’s
industrial rock
, not techno!”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
“It has
a soul
, for chrissakes! How can you not know that? What’s in your car stereo right now?”
I cringe at the thought. A Genesis CD.
“I mostly listen to the radio,” I say.
“Trent’s a genius who crafted a well-produced sound, and it’s like, raw and powerful, with like, anger that spits in the faces of the corporate material machine, you know?”
I have nothing against Trent Reznor, but I can’t resist needling Randy. “My friend Norman claims that there’s more anger to be found on John Lennon’s first solo album.”
He shakes his head vehemently. “Tell your friend that he doesn’t know shit.”
I smile an evil smile; he’s asking for it now. And he should thank his lucky stars he