Dear Ladies: Before you don't return my call, allow me to explain something: I am a rebel.
When it comes to dating, there are so many rules. Rules, rules, rules. You can't call someone the day after you get her number. You're not supposed to wear a T-shirt with holes in it to your new flame's swanky birthday dinner. When someone says, "call me back—if you want to," the day after you have a "talk" about not "calling enough," maybe you should just call her back, even if you don't want to.
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Obviously, these "rules" are for the most part common sense, but before rebelling into breakfast sausages, James Dean had no time for common sense, either. He didn't want to have to explain that he understood the rules, saw them as boring formality, and wanted something entirely outside the rigidity and expectations of sock-hopping squares. With that kind of boredom, no wonder he's dead.
If I just had a motorcycle and a leather jacket, I think things would be a whole lot easier. Those are rebel tip-offs. With a leather jacket, people know what kind of bad mamma jamma they are dealing with. And if, in your leather jacket, you wrote a poem about a girl, gave it to her, and then rode off on your motorcycle, she would be like, "Wow, he's so sexy," instead of being like, "Wow, ew." That's why I'm going to start smoking Rebel brand cigarettes. Maybe I should just get a pet snake or an electric guitar, too. Then they'll understand that rules don't apply to me.
Sometimes I just want to rebel against being a rebel and start cleaning my bathroom. Sometimes I want to say screw rebellion, I am going to bed at a reasonable hour, and I am going to wake up at seven to get some fennel at the farmer's market. Whatever.
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