I love Thursdays. My girlfriends come over, we shoot the shit, eat, and sometimes drink. And like any other group of normal (ha!) women, we discuss men. This group of women consist of my friend Hazel, who is also a writer, Jennifer, who is my cousin, and Pamela, who I have known forever. Yesterday’s conversation revolved around unicorns, burritos, and hot men, and somehow Instagram got brought up because Hazel was telling us about Rincon and his uncles. And as conversations do, this one shifted. To George Alsford.
Go back a day. I’m sitting at the ice rink while my boys are skating, looking at my phone. I check Instagram, and as I’m scrolling down through my feed, looking at photos of Louboutins, AMGs, and Hot Dudes Reading, Men and Coffee, – I blame my sister for this – I see that George Alsford has posted a selfie of himself, with wet hair and no shirt. My heart just about fucking stopped. So I tagged Hazel – for reasons.
I mean, the guy is clearly showing off! It is one of the most lascivious things I have ever laid eyes on, and I’m perfectly content with going to hell for staring at the photo far longer than I should have been. And of course, I had to screenshot it, send it to Jennifer and Pamela, and then tuck it away into a folder on my iCloud. I would post the photo here, but it’s not my photo to post, and if I am ever lucky enough to be in the same room with the man, I’d rather it not be a court room.
So, how did I find Mr. Alsford? In one of my writing classes, we were told to pull pictures of people (particularly, celebrities) from the internet, and use them as guidelines when it comes to descriptions. We do it for clothes and houses, so it seems legit that it would work for a facial descriptions too. Since all of my male characters can’t look like Clive Owen, I Googled male models. His face was the only one – among several men – to grab my attention, so I used it. I can’t say I remember exactly how I learned he was on Instagram, but when I checked his page out, I saw pictures of delicious looking food and beer, and that’s really all it took. From his Instagram, I have inferred that we have the same dry sense of humor, and share a love for brisket, and we would truly be the best of friends. And I feel like a shameless stalker, when really, it’s admiration, appreciation, and curiosity. I intend to remain the wallflower in the group of 8K+ people who follow him, long after I’ve finished writing my book. Glad I got that off my chest. After a bit, the discussion drifted away from that lovely, lovely man, and started dissecting Supernatural, and today this happened.
Fuck if I don’t have the best friends in the world.