Futures and Frosting Read Online Free PDF

you be? 
Proposing at a baseball game in front of tens of thousands of strangers and
putting it up on the scoreboard?  That’s got to be the most clichéd thing ever.
    “REALLY ORIGINAL
THERE, MORON!” she yells as everyone around us claps and cheers when the woman
on the screen nods her head up and down emphatically and the pair embrace.
    Oh sweet
Jesus.  Sweet mother fucking fuckery of fucks.
    I am going to
win the 'Tool of the Year' award if my proposal shows up on that screen
in the next five minutes like it’s scheduled to.  I don’t even know if there is a 'Tool of the Year' award.  There must be.  It’s probably a huge,
gold penis trophy with an arrow pointing to it that reads, “This is you!  A
giant dick!  Congratulations.”  There’s probably even a 'Tool of the Year' book they print every year like that 'Darwin Awards' book that really
has nothing to do with winning an esteemed award and everything to do with the
fact that people are pointing and laughing because you died from trying to slow
dance with an ostrich that would rather peck out your eyes than learn the Cha
Cha.
    Claire is
going to peck out my eyes if I propose to her right now!
    “Carter, are you
okay?  You look like you’re going to throw up.  I told you no one should ever
eat more than six hotdogs.  That’s just asking for pig snout disease or
whatever the hell they make those things out of,” Claire scolds as she looked
me over worriedly.
    “I ate a pig
snout?!” Gavin asks elatedly.  “What’s a pig snout?
    Claire turns to
the other side of her to try and explain to Gavin that hotdogs are, in fact,
not made out of dogs, and I take that moment to jump up from my seat, mumbling
something about throwing up before I race up the stairs to the concierge desk
to cancel my Cleveland Indian’s Proposal Package before I die a slow, horrible
eye-pecking death.

4.  He Loves Me, He
Loves Me Not
     
    “I think he’s
going to break up with me.”
    Liz’s sigh
through the phone line is loud and clear.  I know she's irritated with me.  I am irritated with me.  It's getting to the point where I can’t even stand the
sound of my own voice and yet I can’t shut up about this.
    “He’s been
acting really weird ever since the Indian’s game last week,” I explain as I
pull my car into the driveway and let the engine idle.
    “Carter isn’t
going to break up with you. Will you shut up about this already?  Maybe he’s
just stressed about work or the fact that his parents are finally coming for a
visit.  Did you try out that move on him I told you about the other night?  The
one where you take your fingers and put them in his-”
    “LA-LA-LA, I’M
NOT LISTENING TO YOU!” I yell over her voice and try to block out the words
“prostate” and “gentle massage”.
    “Fine, but I’m
telling you – it will totally relax him,” she says matter-of-factly.
    I turn off the
ignition and rested my head against the steering wheel.
    “Have you tried,
oh I don’t know, asking him what’s wrong?” Liz continues.
    “You’re rolling
your eyes at me right now, aren’t you?” I reply.  “No, I haven’t asked him. 
I’ve done what every other woman in a new relationship does when her boyfriend
is acting all twitchy and nervous.  I completely ignore the situation and
pretend like it isn’t happening while making a list of possible responses and
comebacks I can lob at him when he finally decides to give me the brush-off.  I
am NOT going to be one of those people who clam up when he tells me, ‘It’s not
you, it’s me,’ and then six hours later when I’m sitting alone in the dark with
a bottle of vodka scream, ‘OH IT’S TOTALLY YOU AND YOUR SMALL PENIS!’.  I’m
going to have viable retorts ready to go so I don’t come up with them later
when I’m drunk and alone, and they do no one any good.”
    I sit back in my
seat and stare at the front door of the house I now live in with Carter.  The
white, three