Hey! Fancy running into you. Yah, you. Thanks for hanging around for, um, six months. I could’ve incubated two-thirds of a baby by now. Don’t worry, I’m not cooking in any oven. (Which reminds me, I should probably clean mine).

Ok, it’s been a while. The hilarity of life continues, whether I’m dating (no), online (definitely not), or just ducking the occasional ex on Second Ave. The world seems to toss funny stuff in my general direction. Usually aimed at my head (re: bird poop on Fifth Ave).

In other news – Ferris Bueller joined twitter today. In 140 characters (or less), he reminded me why I saw that movie seven times when my bangs were still doused in aquanet. In eloquent Ferris speak: “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Here’s to not missing any of it.

Oh, but here’s something you have missed.

Lo-Cal Chicken Guy seemed kind. He was the guy who’d run after you if you dropped your glove on the street. He liked SNL, and he’d just re-gifted his cat to a mother in a far-off state. Perfect catch, you say, especially for this allergy-girl.

Then we made dinner plans. He asked what breed of protein I preferred, and I told him I’d eat anything (yes, most unhelpful), and he replied with a “Chicken sounds lo cal…” text.  Hmhm, chicken does sound lo-cal. As it turns out, it is lo-cal – we had a piece of chicken and there was something else on the plate, but it was small and green and I don’t really remember anymore.

Then he mentioned a fantasy involving fluorescent cheese. He wanted to devour an entire bag of cheese puffs in one sitting.  I thought he was joking. The next day he showed up – with a giant bag of cheese puffs. Which he promptly ate, along with a bag of pretzels and four bottles of fancy foreign beer.

Every day, he’d ask me what I had for breakfast/lunch/dinner. Were lattes, bananas and tuna really that interesting? Sometimes I evaded his food quiz, say, if I’d just eaten three Oreos in a row.  It was becoming increasingly apparent that this man needed relationship therapy – with his dinner.

On a frozen Sunday morning, I traveled downtown for what would be our last meal, brunch. He’d refused to go anywhere but his neighborhood diner – where he knew the calorie count of the egg sandwich. 455.

I had pancakes.

© Annatonic 2010