I had a good meeting last night with my most recent ex, Dick.
There were a few questions answered, and one thing that I went away with that is very important: I'm not a random, and I was cared for.
There is nothing worse than believing that you were just another fling, just another somebody.
I've had that before.
And I care for him deeply too, so it was a positive meet-up.
We had hot-toddies and chicken soup because it's so fucking freezing right now.
On the way home, sniffling with a head cold and looking far from beautacious, some oke behind me starts hooting and waving enthusiastically. I thought it was a mate, so I waved back.
Rolls down window.
“I think you are absolutely stunning.”
I put out a very unfeminine snort. “Who, me? Are you blind, farker?”
“Come have coffee with me. Right now. Come on.”
Peas: No. Dude. You're a stranger, and could be a rapist motherfucker, so no.
“Where you going now?”
Peas: Home. To my husband.
“That's ok, may I have your number?”
Peas: Sure. 083 Y-E-A-H-R-I-G-H-T.
It's not complete pants, I suppose.
My husband is my vibrator. The Bushwhacker 3 000. But even he seems to be packing in from the cold. Useless (plastic) prick.
PS: Regarding the post below: See all you in the fiery furnace. It's going to be one helluva party, fuckers, this will be my tombstone encryption one day. The Ant said she'd make sure of it, and will sort out the funeral arrangements.
I'm not being morbid – I'm actually feeling happy at the moment, farkers.