Once upon a time there was a girl named J.
The girl was a junior in college, a fresh 21. And despite the fact that the girl studied the ways that humans could hurt one another, could fight for scraps of power, she still believed in love. She believed in it so much that she would curl up in the crappy plastic chairs in the break room at work to devour love stories on her fifteens, and her too-short lunches. Her coworkers teased her for the way she went through book after book. She smiled and said, “Some people chain-smoke; I chain-read.”
The girl loved to love, and so she loved everything she could. She loved going to the movies. (She had just seen Poor Things with her friend who did not adequately warn her of its contents.) She loved baking cookies from scratch for her friend’s birthdays. She loved all of her pets (one dog, two cats). She even learned to love the things that she used to hate, like driving.
But she wanted to love a person. She wanted to share her books, her cookies, her playlists she cycles through in the car. She wanted to have notes written in the cover of her books like love letters, to chat for hours on Discord about anything and everything. She wanted someone who would love her dyed hair, her half-a-dozen tattoos.
The girl only had these few rules to find someone to love: 1. They had to be below 50. 2. They had to be single (unmarried, no gf, etc.) 3. They couldn’t have children, nor could they want them.
And maybe the girl would find someone who met those 3 rules.
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