Texts I Have Sent My Girlfriend With Little to No Context

We have a good time.

I’m gonna char this whole bag of frozen broccoli and get it all crispy like the trollop for little edible tress that I am.

If I pop another Zyn I might actually see god tonight.

This is just like the time my friends and I managed to get our whole second grade class to believe that our teacher was a vampire. Mass hysteria type shit. It was awesome.

I’m all horned up about this idea I have for work. Can I send you the manifesto? It’s only, like, seven pages long. And definitely a work in progress. I’m going to send it to you, because I just assume you’ll respond saying you want to see it, even if deep down you do not.

I legit don’t care if there’s never a sunny day again. Rain is the best. i said what I said.

Sounds like a chickpeas kinda night to me, girl.

Do you ever lie awake at night and wonder why they bother making naan without garlic in it, or Oreos that aren’t at least double stuffed?

Well, you know what they say: “A bump in the road sure beats a bump on a testicle.”

It’s probably not a tumor, but I’m going to need you to check out something for me next time you’re here. Need a second opinion.

I’m the kind of guy who will go swimming less than 20 minutes after eating.

Who’s that one dude from the commercials about helping people find and then lease apartments? The one from the dinosaur movies? And the best film ever made, which is obviously Independence Day? And it’s definitely not Bill Pullman. I don’t know. But I should know, I think. I don’t want to look it up. That feels like cheating. So I’m texting a friend. Though you are, of course, much more than a friend. I want to be clear about that. Gene something, maybe?

What if we kissed at the China Buffet?

I wouldn’t need to use a hall pass on a baked good, would I? Could the things I’m about to do to this Mrs. Fields cookie cake be classified as cheating? They’re gonna be dirty but I don’t feel as though it’s going to classify as infidelity.

Do you think that dude from Marcy Playground ever figured out who it was that was lounging in his chair?

I know it’s January, but this fall we should go somewhere where we can go on a hayride.

The other night I had a dream that your dog owned a Ford Bronco and she picked me up one day in said vehicle and we went over to Indiana to play Blackjack at a casino. We won big, I think. It’s all kind of blurry. But I remember waking up just after she said to me, as she dropped me off at my apartment building, unfiltered Pall Mall dangling from her snoot: “You tell anyone about this, they ain’t gonna believe you, fuck boy.”

The storm is coming, and I’m almost completely out of mayonnaise and Bushmills.

I wonder how cold a witch’s tit actually is.

Would you be willing to come with me to a consultation with a (hopefully, probably) licensed physician to discern whether or not a lobotomy might be right for me?

Which relationship transgression would be worse: me going to The Cheesecake Factory without you or me starting the new season of True Detective without you?

My Oura Ring keeps trying to register my showers as workouts (and I wasn’t even doing, you know, in there), so I should really up my baseline by getting more steps in. Strange way to get a wake-up call about that sort of thing.

I’ve got 99 plans, and they’re all terrible.

I had a great time last night. We should do it again sometime.