There's a nurse at the hospital, and I'll be damned if she isn't just my type. She made me realize, finally, that I do indeed have a type. After years of trying to figure it out, looking at her, I see all the crushes I've had, like they've all lined up in her. A little aloofness, a dash of sarcasm, a hint of a smile, and this and that.
My type is a fair face, a devilish wit, a little grimace that hides a gorgeous smile which only comes out rarely. She's smart and sarcastic, and she gives as good as she can take. She doesn't yield an inch. She doesn't hide behind makeup and fancy clothes. She tries to hide her beauty.
And I catch myself every now and then staring at her ass, and I have to tell myself, "Bad doctor! Bad! Thou shalt not ogle the nurses." But what can I say, she's hot. Anyway, I told myself long ago that I wasn't going to get mixed up in all this kind of thing.
Especially since I know my type, and my type is not something that I have a good track record with. A lot of silly crushes and heartache and pain. My type doesn't like me, and maybe that's a part of it too.
And so, I'll stay away from the forbidden fruit, because I know me all too well, and I know what I'm capable of. It's my imagination, my fantasy that I become enamored with, not reality. And I wish it was real, but wishing doesn't make it so.