I Want To Marry a Nobody

I'll let you in on something most people could give two shits about but for some reason I think you might care to read about: I've always had a weakness for nobodies. Only women of course, I am not gay.

I get weak in the knees for female garbage collectors or garbage collectresses as they prefer to be called, and I find myself yearning to be in a homeless vagrants' arms every night.

One homeless vagrant in particular.

I'm not sure what her name is, but she is not all that good looking -- and old as dirt.

In fact, she is so old that I feel like a bit of a weirdo, but I suppose there's no shame in wanting who I want. 😉

I myself am also a nobody. It's a complete metaphysical certitude that no one with over ten followers would know my name, let alone want to marry me, but a guy can dream.

You may be wondering why I have such an affinity for the nobodies amongst us.

There are several reasons.

Firstly, I'm drawn to losers like a magnet, and total life failure is harder to come by, making it that much more attractive to me.

***

I want to marry a homeless vagrant.

There's a particularly nasty blond with bloodshot eyes that I have my eyes on.

A failed line prep cook, who also happens to be quite insane.

***

I lay in bed, dreaming of her and all that we might do together. This afternoon, I dreampt about us standing in the free food line at the homeless shelter. I was in my tattered jean shorts, my bald head blazing red from sunburn, contrasting against my pasty white body which hasn't seen the sun in over a decade.

She was looking at me as if I was a pervert. She said she would pay me her last nickel if I would leaver her alone, then kicked me hard right in the nuts, over and over again.

I said ouch, of course, and the pain was debilitating. So was she.

I won't tell you what happened at the hospital bed between the sheets that night in Cleveland. That would be improper, but it was so painful, humiliating, and emotionally devastating.

I've never felt more pain —in a dream.

***

She'd said some questionable things to me while wailing away on my midsection with her right leg—such a tease—but I'd enjoyed it.

Now, she brought me some rolled up newspapers, stale nachos she found in the dumpster, and half eaten cheesecake: she didn't have to rifle through that dumpster but she had - the gal in real life is a dumpster diving queen. And she continued to show excellence in that skill in my dream.

Visualize, if you will.

***

I saw her violent acts and was turned on by them, chiding myself for experiencing such a forbidden response: she played what looked to be a complicated, insane, methamphetamine addicted, and, of course, nastily ugly nut buster, but only in real life.

How could I be attracted to such vitriol?

She wasn't acting, but she was pretending to be sober.

I know she wasn't, of course: she's just good. Saying she was actually a nut buster would be like saying I was a washed up has been with no job, no prospects, and no future just because I happened to be one.

Still, it was...painful.

Debilitating. Agonizing, Crippling.

I think I just loved how she drove her foot into my nuts over and over again.

I must confess: This woman—this wonderful woman—crushed me, my nuts specifically.

I did not want to open my eyes because I was far too busy bending over puking repeatedly from the unrelenting pain of multiple kicks in the nuts.

But, alas, it was all a day dream. Now I'm back to my horrendously dull and painfully lonely life.

I doubt she'll read this, but I have had a tendency to overshare my feelings with nobodies —mostly hobos though: they're suckers for loose change and I'm a sucker for them.

This time, it's different though, but not really all that different.

Despite a lack of any friends or family, I know very little about her dating life, though she appears to be a feminist or, at the very least, an advocate for equal rights, which I find kind of silly, but whatever.

I mean, I'm only attracted to women, if I'm being honest, and even though this hobo looks like a man she seems to embrace her feminine side just enough for me to overlook the masculine attributes I find so abhorrent. Up to and including her fairly dark and noticeable mustache.

Perhaps she'll read this and we'll get married under the midnight stars of Cleveland, Ohio. We would have to since neither of us has any money or a home. Or maybe she won't and I'll just keep dreaming about her.

It's hell—in my head.