Game is for Punks

Game? Oh boys. Boys, boys, boys. Love is no

game. Beaches, fireplaces, castles, fantasy suites

at the Radisson. A guy doesn't need "game" to

make a lady melt. If all the years I've spent in high

school have taught me anything about love it's that

a girl wants more than a few pretty words or a "nice

date" with some wine coolers right before

steaming up the car windows. That way leads only

to regret.

Girls aren't to be toyed with. They are like precious

gems, one of a kind each of them with her own

unique facets and value beyond a quick notation in

your little black books: "Michelle, brunette, OK

personality, dry kisser, father avid gun collector."

To find true love, real passion, you have to be

willing to give up a little part of yourself.

Her name was Misty. My love for her burned me

from the inside out. Every second apart was an

eternity. Every moment together, though bliss, was

fleeting. An hour seemed like a minute.

Then one day, Misty asked me if I really loved her. I

said, yes. But how do I really know, she asked,

you could just be saying that.

Sure I spent money on her. I bought her gifts. We

went for long rides in my sweet 1972 Mustang. We

had picnics at Joslyn Castle and I wrote her poems

(I know, what a pansy). But none of it was proof of

my love, she said. I might just have the greatest

game that she or any other girl had ever seen ...

ever.

I realized she was right. I agonized. How can one

guy show a girl solid proof that his love is real. Isn't

love intangible? Yes, yes it is. You can't hold air in

your hands either, still a candle will go out if

deprived of air.

So using only a serated edge steak knife and the

ink from a Bic pen, I carved Misty's name into my

left forearm then rubbed the ink into my wound

creating a jagged yet perfect symbol, a tattoo,

homemade, proof of my true love.

It worked.

Now THAT'S game, fellas.