J: It’s cuffing season and the prospects are bleak

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.

each other

Also, I was looking up Angsty pre-defined Spotify playlists to listen to while I wrote this post, and can we please discuss these options?playlists

playlists

Goodbye? Psyched? Dance All Day? Running thru a field of pug-addled smiles? FOREVER ALONE?! You have to be fucking kidding me, Spotify.

hehe jiggly cheeks

(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.

cs

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.

panic

Tinder boys, watch out. I’m coming for you.

XOXO,
J

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