Jesus had 40 days of temptation in the dessert. Moses had 40 years of wandering in the desert. And then there was Noah with his 40-day flood. And then you come to me and on my 40th day of dating, one-night stands, meaningless sex, and everything in between. After 12 years at a Catholic school, I can spout out those numbers without even really caring. One of my favorite lines in literature, which I’m sure I’m about to bastardize: I didn’t care what it was all about, I just wanted to know how to live in it.
These days I’m starting to feel like I don’t really care what I’m trying to get out of this project. I have little going on in my life, and I just want to get through this. It just might be my sick desire to see things into their ungodly end.
And on my fortieth day there was April, the brunette, not the month. There was nothing particularly interesting about April. She didn’t stop the flood, or lead me to the Promised Land. She got some very bland Chinese take out with me and forced me to sit through The Hangover. I did, however, decide to not even bother trying to make a move. Sure, she was pretty. She was not entirely dumb, and not boring enough to make me want to kiss her to shut her up, but she wasn’t someone I wanted to be a warm body.
