The pound of flesh which I demand of him ’tis mine… and I will have it
I used to look forward to Sunday nights to have an ocular orgy with David Duchovny in the X-Files. As I got older, Sunday nights became reserved for Tony Soprano and Carrie Bradshaw. Now I get to look forward to the kid drop off followed by divorced daddy sex with GC.
Last night’s pillow talk was a little different. I forgot, when dating a writer, there’s a chance he may actually read my blog. Dripping with sweat he said, “Oh, by the way, we’ve been dating for longer than 90 days.”
I’ve beat my LA relationship record. There must be a Hallmark gift for this. “Hey, so what do I get? Paper? A pen?” I asked
“You just got it,” he told me.
Oh yeah, that hot monkey sex with a real man instead of a machine. Yeah, that is the perfect gift. I’ve been paroled from bad LA dating.
Today a coworker changed his status on Facebook from single to “In relationship.” I realized, I still had my “Facebook is gonna get me laid” settings on. I changed it to “In relationship” looking to “network.” Holy crap, you would of thought there was a 7.0. I received one long distance call and dozens of emails and comments ranging from ‘congratulations” to “WTF.”
Everyone’s tragically heterosexual and single girl is now unavailable. Call the dogs off.