Dear 5.7,
I really want to be your friend, but your personality changes like clothes on a runway model. One minute you are a cruiser, with jugs and great pro, the next moment you force me into Cirque de Soleil contortions and run out.
I know, I know, in some demented twist of my psyche I’ve gotten used to your propensity to stick out your surface like a mocking tongue. Or, perhaps, it’s more like a diving board since falling on a tongue would at least be cushy. But when you decide to jut out, the least you could do is make it really sweet, where I can kick off my shoes and sit on my ass while belaying.
Oh, and speaking of three dimensional body parts, the slick Buddha belly bulge just doesn’t belong with your type. Unless you give me a hand up off to the side, where I can merrily pass by, inserting bomber pro and playfully pat your shiny belly, this type of sketch is more becoming of your older brother, the 5.10. But, you just don’t seem to get that my dear, as you have thrust way too many bellies in my path and made me clamber ungracefully for dear life.
5.7, you are supposed to be sweet, honest, and innocent, or maybe I misunderstood and that’s 5.5. But, I’ll be damned if you don’t play some cruel tricks. Do you remember the time, times really, when you blazonly displayed your crack, bottom to top, for all the world to see? You advertised, come hither, I will hold your pro with care. But when I arrived you were shallow and superficial or flaring your big mouth. Either way, you threatened to spit out or swallow what I offered, rendering me essentially unprotected.
Oh, and I won’t even bother elaborating on all the times you shed your shit on me like lead-filled dandruff. Or when you came off in my hand as I flailed over one of your protruding parts.
What about the times when you looked like you were nicely featured, promising holds galore? Then you did it again, and pulled the rug from beneath my feet.
It is becoming clear that I have a hopeful fantasy about you. In reality, 5.7, you are the epitome of unpredictability, about as two-faced as they come. But, like the Pavlovian dog who has received the occasional reward, I keep on trying. I guess the joke is on me, WTF?
I really want to be your friend, but your personality changes like clothes on a runway model. One minute you are a cruiser, with jugs and great pro, the next moment you force me into Cirque de Soleil contortions and run out.
I know, I know, in some demented twist of my psyche I’ve gotten used to your propensity to stick out your surface like a mocking tongue. Or, perhaps, it’s more like a diving board since falling on a tongue would at least be cushy. But when you decide to jut out, the least you could do is make it really sweet, where I can kick off my shoes and sit on my ass while belaying.
Oh, and speaking of three dimensional body parts, the slick Buddha belly bulge just doesn’t belong with your type. Unless you give me a hand up off to the side, where I can merrily pass by, inserting bomber pro and playfully pat your shiny belly, this type of sketch is more becoming of your older brother, the 5.10. But, you just don’t seem to get that my dear, as you have thrust way too many bellies in my path and made me clamber ungracefully for dear life.
5.7, you are supposed to be sweet, honest, and innocent, or maybe I misunderstood and that’s 5.5. But, I’ll be damned if you don’t play some cruel tricks. Do you remember the time, times really, when you blazonly displayed your crack, bottom to top, for all the world to see? You advertised, come hither, I will hold your pro with care. But when I arrived you were shallow and superficial or flaring your big mouth. Either way, you threatened to spit out or swallow what I offered, rendering me essentially unprotected.
Oh, and I won’t even bother elaborating on all the times you shed your shit on me like lead-filled dandruff. Or when you came off in my hand as I flailed over one of your protruding parts.
What about the times when you looked like you were nicely featured, promising holds galore? Then you did it again, and pulled the rug from beneath my feet.
It is becoming clear that I have a hopeful fantasy about you. In reality, 5.7, you are the epitome of unpredictability, about as two-faced as they come. But, like the Pavlovian dog who has received the occasional reward, I keep on trying. I guess the joke is on me, WTF?
