Love is watching your boyfriend parachute down to the ground -- landing about a half-mile off the airport -- and wondering if he's OK.

Love is jumping into your white Honda Civic.

Love is zipping down a gravel farm road pocked with enormous puddles that splash mud all over the place like raging diarrhea.

Love is frantically scanning the bean and corn fields for anything that looks like a boyfriend and/or a bright yellow parachute.

Love is finding him waiting by a dusty silo.

Love is tossing all the old McDonalds bags in the trunk to make more room for his gear in the car.

Love is picking him up when you should have made his sorry ass walk back to the dropzone for giving you a heart attack.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 25, 2005 at 11:37 PM. You can skip to the end and leave a response.