Meanwhile, somewhere out there

There is a man sitting right now somewhere on this planet, reading this blog post. 

He's most likely pushing up his wire rimmed glasses {there is this vibe that makes me feel he wears glasses} taking a large gulp of tea, and scratching his right side like mad. 
Somewhere on this earth Mr. Scratchy sits, smirking like a sex symbol his eyes sparkling with mischief.  I'm betting he's dressed in a pair of comfy striped grey ... no, red plaid patterned pajama bottoms {don't ask why I just think it} and a grey shirt... maybe one that has a faded print of... the Ramones on it {again don't ask why I think my Mr. Scratchy is a Ramones fan, I just do.  Could be because every man I've ever known ever ever has been??} 
He's reading this shaking his head at me, most likely thinking similar things about me. {figuring what I might have been wearing when writing this and what I might have been drinking etc} 

And that man is now either laughing his ass off at me and my romantic notions of him, or he's totally freaked out and ready to run screaming for the hills because I was bang on right about what he was wearing.  Sorry hon, if I scared you.

And when he's finished reading this post tonight, he's most likely either going to work on an art project {I can not shake the vibe that he's an artist. Painter perhaps? }  or tell his buddies how freaky weird my description of him was because it was bang on right.   Then maybe he'll go to the kitchen and make himself something ... from the freezer like a frozen pizza because... against my biggest hopes I don't think Mr. Scratchy can cook... let me rephrase that, I don't think he has an interest in cooking. 

Oh well, I suppose even the best fantasy man needs one flaw.