
Why are blondes so attracted to me?
My theories:
- You may be very attractive to all sorts off people. It may be a coincidence that the people who happened to be blonde happened to be attracted to you.
- You just notice the blondes that are attracted to you. As Alice Tsymbarevich remarked it may be confirmation bias.
- You live in an area where most girls are blonde
- Some people tend to like people who is similar to them, are you blonde?
- You treat blondes better than people of other hair color (maybe because you find them more attractive) and they find you more attractive as kindness is a attractive attribute.
- Maybe the blondes have some other common trait except being blonde and liking you. For an example bleaching their hair and caring about appearance. Concluding you are a good looking person. (No offense to blondes, I’m blonde myself( I don’t bleach it though))
Sesilia Vestberg Quora
Catalan version:
Mireu-me els ulls
Mireu-me els ulls per creure
en el demà que teniu als dits,
sense llum
dels meus ulls clars
no hi haurà per ningú
cap demà.
Penseu en mi per créixer
en l’esperança d’uns anys millors,
la llibertat
que ens heu negat
brilla al fons dels meus ulls
encisats.
Sols el poder us tempta
i pel poder us veneu el cor,
però la clau d’or
del temps que fuig
la tinc jo i és la veu
del futur.
Mireu-me els ulls per créixer… per créixer…
English version:
Look at my eyes to believe
in the morning you have fingers,
no light
my eyes clear
there will be no one to
no tomorrow.
Consider me to grow
in the hope of better years,
freedom
we have denied
shines in the background of my eyes
enchanted.
Only the power tempts you
and will sell power to the heart,
but the golden key
time flees
I have it and it is the voice
the future.
Look at my eyes to grow … to grow …
Miquel Martí i Pol (March 19, 1929 – November 11, 2003)
was one of the most popular poets from Catalunya (Europe) in the 20th century.
Here I Am … by Charles Bukowski
drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music …
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one’s funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I’ve long gone past using myself and there’s
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
me
later
for you.
from “All’s Normal Here” – 1985
Henry Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German American poet, novelist, and short story writer