It started as a search term.  People kept plugging it into Google.  And getting me.  Getting my blog.  Getting us.  Together as a package.  Swaddled in cotton candy happiness.  The representation of love.  I’m Stupid For You.  I’m Stupid FOR YOU.  I’M STUPID for you.

Because that’s what I’ll say one day.  Wrapped in sweaty bedsheets I have no desire to get out of.  But he will.  Not the desire.  But get out up of.  And he’ll stand naked and smiling just looking at me.  And suddenly leave the room, only to return bearing a gift…my laptop.  And not judge me for checking my Hotmail.  And then Facebook.  And Twitter.  Maybe read a blog or two.  While he makes us breakfast.

But not a man-sized breakfast.  He makes HIMSELF a man-sized breakfast.  But heats up a Jenny Craig for me.  Or a low-cal cereal.  Or boils me some eggs and takes out the yolks and toasts up some sprouty-12-grainy-is-this-even-bread spread with I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-butter and sugar-free raspberry jam.  And coffee.  He makes an abundant amount of coffee.  With no judgment.  And it’s not that he wants me to lose weight.  That’s not what the breakfast is about.  It’s that he understands me.  Supports me.  Knows I lack all willpower and so that if in the heat of love, he makes me a man-sized breakfast.  I’ll eat it, because I’m all hopped up on endorphins and blurry with lust.

So I’ll get up.  Put on some of my cutest jogging pants and built in bra shirt (these ladies can’t just go around all gallivanting without support ya know).  And sit and drink coffee.  Watching him cook.  And he says to me read me some of the blogs…what you’re reading…read it outloud.  And so I do.  For him.  Though probably mostly for me.  But he feigns interest.  Or has actual interest.  In Science and Dating.  In the internet.  In my expression.  He’s not overly private.  And that’s when I see it.  That red flag.  no not that kind of red flag.  The red flag on Facebook.  Someone’s written something on my wall.  And it was him.  While cooking eggs in the kitchen.  He used his iphone.  To say something funny on my wall.  Because I’m not one of those people that pretends it’s all hiking and granola and human connection.

I write blogs.  I check my Hotmail/Facebook/Twitter 20 times a day.  I look at funny shit on youtube.  And oh yeah.  I fucking watch TV.  With fervor.  And I get outside too.  I go camping and to parties.  I travel and take road trips.  I make time to have coffee with friends and take walks down the street.  I talk to people.  Strangers.  At hot yoga.  But I’m a nerd.  An internet enthusiast.  And he doesn’t judge me for it.  Frankly, he’s right there beside me.  I’m Stupid For You.  Fucking Stupid For You.


And then we spend the day.  Taking super gross cute photos of ourselves.  Wrapped in bedsheets.  That we got back into.  Playing video games.  Mario Kart obviously.  Funny faces in the bathroom mirror.  Having coffee and writing at the shop down the street.  He goes and plays hockey or something manly with his friends.  I sit in the stands sipping hot chocolate and chatting with other ladies.  We’re a Canadian movie from the 80s.  And after the game he kisses me.  Musky and manly.  And I don’t care that he’s scented.  And he doesn’t care that his friends are watching.  We live it up even more for their benefit.  Plus in the locker room he’ll get the manly back.  When he tells them I’m the best head he’s ever had.  And he’ll mean it.  And I’ll be proud.  I’m Stupid For You.  So Stupid For You.

Later that night.  At his home.  Or mine.  It varies.  He’ll be thinking about work.  Some project or experiment or deadline he’s working on.  And he’ll tell me about it.  Passion painted on his face.  And he’ll ask for my opinion.  And I’ll give it.  He won’t always take it.  But he’s interested.  And I’ll probably ramble on about Science and Dating and some new theory I have.  And he’ll point out a flaw in my correlational logic.  And I’ll redesign and reassess.  And then he’ll show me something funny on YouTube.  And just shy of peeing my pants I’ll laugh harder than I ever have before.  And jokes will form.  Inside.  Me and him.  That will spill over into Facebook/Twitter and endless text messages for the next few weeks.  I’m Stupid For You.  I’m Stupid FOR YOU


And then he’ll take me.  Like a grizzly bear.  Or a caveman.  Aggressive.  Passionate.  Manly.  He’ll take me.  And he’ll….sorry too graphic.  Well.  You get the idea.  I’m Stupid For You.  Fucking Stupid For You.