Martini Honest.

I worked a ridiculous week and haven’t eaten in 3 days. I lose my appetite when I’m frustrated and stressed out. Food feels foreign in my mouth and I’m tied into a lovely, sexually frustrated, square knot. Running isn’t helping and the tendonitis in my elbow is derailing my workouts, so I have too much idle time on my hands in the evening after my Dumpling is in bed.

I dug out my favorite olives and the Bombay gin I picked up on my way home. I had to find the step stool to dig the shaker out from the back of the top shelf and filled it with ice.

Ahhhh. If serving gave me anything, it’s a mean set of bartending skills. I make a perfect dirty martini. So perfect that I hate to order one because they’re never just right. I like it shaken to hell and gone, in a chilled glass. Unfortunately, I broke mine… so I went ahead and poured it in a water glass.

Yeah. Let me tell you how hard a double decker martini hits you on an exhausted AND empty stomach. Well… I would… if I had a very clear recollection. I only know one thing for certain.

I sent that one text that none of us want to see that we’ve sent. Gahhh.


No response either. Fuckkkkkk…… That’s just awesome.

Who am I fooling though… it isn’t the first time and I’d love to promise it won’t happen again but I love martinis too and I’m craving him so much I can’t eat or sleep. Feeling like a damn teenager with a debilitating crush on my biggest fantasy man has a way of inspiring inappropriate snapchats and outright invitations when you add a little gin to the mix.

Damn it.


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