I crossed the street to snag a blackened loaf of bread. I wanted an excuse to eat fig preserves in the fridge. I slipped in right before the local grocer closed. Though I was supposed to be moving quickly, smoothly, I stopped to notice a wall of "single foodies." A survey of the handwriting of men and women is fascinating enough for me. I don't think you need to write anything about yourself when your script is involved. They should have all written the word, love...or fuck. That choice, along his or her unique script, reveals enough to attract or repeal appropriate contenders.
Instead: I am a "gal" looking for a "man." (creepy diction, unequal wording, probably has authority issues) I would cook you "pie." (are you my grandmother?) Do not cook "anything with fish" for me. (She's easily grossed out. And probably high maintenance). Sounds like fun, I love a picky woman.
Beside her heart-dotted i's was a small sign reading: foodie's singles mixer, Friday 7 PM, the bar down the street. Snapped a photo of the date and time. It's going to be hard to steal the men away from stellar gals that post their numbers on the deli wall.
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