J- I don’t want you dead. I just want you…. away.
I- Oh Geeez, thanks.
J- Like Australia, gone.
I- Too hot. Try again.
I- I hate snow. Nope. Nice try, give up yet?
J- My house.
The look in his eyes makes me wish I were boneless so that he could eat me whole.
Who IS that girl and where did those BALLS come from? I like her. She can stay. I need her to take over this shit-show, nice girl routine. I need her to kick his ass and take his goddamn name. Hyphenated is fine. Now I understand how women end up in captivity again. Some men need government mandated warning labels tattooed on. (Preferably their foreheads.)
For the love of Pete, I want this man and I hate not having him.
Fuck. Fucking. Fuck.
I’m so fed up and he’s so irresistibly beautiful, funny and just in case it weren’t hard enough to breathe… smells SO. FUCKING. GOOD. I’m the equivalent of an addict at the pharmacy. I’m over here smiling sweetly and writing my own prescriptions…. wayyyy past an intervention. We’re at the two-broken-legs and chain to the bed, stage.
I need to be abducted and held hostage for a month, please. Charge enough ransom to pay the bills and I’ll quietly accept my restraints.
I’d like him delivered, in any sort of bow. Wrapping paper isn’t necessary. Hell… the bow isn’t either. Stop asking me what I want for my birthday. We all know what I want. A billion damn dollars to the lady that delivers my #1 wish.
…. but because I’m smart, there’s also a bottle of champagne in the fridge so that my beautiful bestie and I can drown out my birthday tears with bubbles.
Growing up is a wonderful bunch of mixed blessings.