I have a problem with Sam Sparro. He’s too damn good looking — plus he’s rockin’ the pornstache, which for some reason is currently tickling my fancy. If we were dating, I’d totally get a complex. I’m supposed to be the pretty one!
Not that this is an actual, real life problem. He’s certainly not blowing up my phone asking me out, nor did he give me his number to
stalk, I mean, contact him.
While I’ve interviewed Sam and run into him a couple times in Hollywood — he even bought me a drink at the El Ray — something tells me we’d never work out.
The most obvious reason being I barely know him and yet I’m going on here like I’m assuming a relationship with a Grammy-nominated musician, when I’d be surprised if he remembered my name. Yah, I’m a creeper. That’s me in your bushes with the binoculars.
Beyond my creepery (a word I just made up), dating this dude would probably push every button on my insecurity panel.
That’s not to say my tricks are dogs, because they’re not (unless I ask them to assume the position). The thing is, I’m the pretty one.
I need a dude who lets me be just that. I don’t consider myself an insecure person, but why lie? We all have our insecurities and being the hot boyfriend eradicates mine.
I’m willing to work though it, because this hot bitch right here meets my criteria. We’re close to the same age (within 5 years), he can sing to me (big turn on, even if it’s bad) and he’s into his fitness.
On his crap days, “I go for a jog,” Sam tells me. “It gets your head straight and pushes you physically.”