Brat fry season needs a plus one

Every spring when the brat fries start popping up outside every gas station and church in town, I get this ridiculous surge of optimism about life. There's something about standing in a parking lot eating a brat off a paper plate that just feels right to me. I'm twenty-seven, a marketing coordinator, and last fall a situationship I let drag on finally collapsed under its own ambiguity. That is detail number 100089 about me that I have not shared with anyone else yet. I'm looking for a man who actually knows what he wants and says it out loud. I like bonfires, Badger games on Saturday, and driving to Door County for no reason. I'm not high-maintenance — I grew up in a farmhouse outside De Pere and I'm perfectly happy in jeans and a hoodie. What I won't do anymore is chase someone who won't meet me halfway. Be straightforward and kind, and I'll be the same.