I’ve given up on Mr. Chicago.
Now, before you’re like “WTF J?! Stop cutting perfectly good men out of your life! You’re going to die alone with 15 cats and a half-complete tear-stained latch hook project of Liz Lemon on your lap before you even finish the 8th season of Friends!” can I please just say that I TRIED. Ok?! But he lives so far away, and is so busy, and ugghhhhh.
Goodbye? Psyched? Dance All Day? Running thru a field of pug-addled smiles? FOREVER ALONE?! You have to be fucking kidding me, Spotify.
(For the record, I just queued up a playlist called #hotmess and so far it’s excellent. But I’m also deux tasses de vin blanc* deep at 6:30 PM on a Monday so pretty sure most things would sound good rn.)
*In French to make me sound like I’m classy and not an alcoholic. French people get wine-drunk on Monday afternoons, oui? Oui?!?!
IT’S CUFFING SEASON.
According to this graphic, I have now missed final cuts and the season has begun. I’M BEHIND. I don’t like being behind, guys! I show up chronically early to all events! I pre-ordered Harry Potter 7 like a year in advance! I got, like, the top SAT score in my class! I’m stressing out.
All I want to do is have someone to cuddle with and have ~fun*~ with and bake for and love** for the cold winter months. I really don’t think this is too much to ask for. And if it is, I quit this, too.
*I don’t know why I censored sex. I’m, like, 22 years old. Sex. SEX.
**After like 5 drinks… not love before that. It’s only cuffing season, don’t get ahead of yourself.
Tinder boys, watch out. I’m coming for you.