hat
Finalman, Mwen te jwenn kaye a mwen ta kenbe pandan mwen te navige sèn nan date. Yon paj pou chak nan dat mwen, rated ak zetwal men-trase ak drapo. Se konsa, anpil drapo wouj billowed atravè tèt yo nan paj sa yo ke li te sanble ak yon vann nan yon konsesyonè machin. George soti nan Hanover, ki moun ki te kap chèche yon relasyon yon sèl jou yon mwa, pa gen okenn strings, pa gen okenn angajman. Mwen ta dwe, ki te jèrm Alfalfa pwòp l '. Nèg la kap chèche yon fanm plis ki menm gwosè ak, ki moun mwen ta yon ti tan konsidere kòm an pati paske mwen te renmen wout la li kapitalize Madanm, men sitou paske mwen te ka manje yon anpil. Ray Santia, ansyen prèske zetwal la Hockey Mwen ta prèske kouche ak. Bob Connor, papa yon elèv, mwen pa ta dwe te kouche ak.
eng
Finally, I found the notebook I’d kept while I was navigating the dating scene. A page for each of my dates, rated with hand-drawn stars and flags. So many red flags billowed across the tops of the pages that it looked like a sale at a car dealership. George from Hanover, who was looking for a relationship one day a month, no strings, no commitments. Ben, who grew his own alfalfa sprouts. The guy looking for a plus-sized Woman, whom I’d briefly considered partly because I liked the way he capitalized Woman, but mostly because I could eat a lot. Ray Santia, the former almost hockey star I’d almost slept with. Bob Connor, a student’s father I shouldn’t have slept with.