There's a girl in my creative writing class. She's hot. She's smart. I can fake just enough literature knowledge to charm her, and boy, is that what I'd like to do.
Yet...
There's another girl. Kind of plain-jane, boring at times. Cute but not extraordinarily so. We don't know each other too well. She wouldn't qualify us as terribly close, and neither would I. I like talking to her, though, because I don't think about the other women in my life when I talk to her. I don't think about the revolving door of ex-girlfriends who are usually my interests. So that's nice. I'm not sure why it is, probably because, as I told the husband, she's novel. I hate being such a douchebag.
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