Every once in awhile, I'll get a random call from Detroit. Not answering, I soon receive a new voicemail. A young woman's voice records, "Hi Michael, my name is Trish; I got your number from your mother. She says that you could answer some questions I have about San Francisco. I'll be heading there soon and I wanted to know what kind of fun things I could do. Call me back when you get a chance." The message is a clear sign that my Mom spilled the math again. Let me explain. Here's the math at its most rudimentary level.
27 years old
divided by 0 children
subtracted by 0 jail time
Plus 0 divorces
multiplied by 40 hours a week of employment
(If they only knew about my many unknown variables!)
I am learning that the right math could make a man's unsatisfactory features and prowess forgivable. The right math can render ugly flaws invisible and body odor unscented. To a person desperate enough, the right math could skip quite a few stages in the typically linear fashion of courtship, "Hello...Good morning."
Although I enjoy the attention, I am becoming increasingly annoyed with this style of selection. Mainly, because I know that certain figures in my equation disqualifies me. I, being a polyamorous, bisexual man who listens to noise for fun, can be a chocolate coated headache for most. The surface looks deceptively sweet. The sum of my qualities looks deceptively simple.
Like everyone else.