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So that pretty much brings you up to date. I've shed my electric wok husband (almost -- the finalized papers should be here any day) and I'm alone in this cute little apartment.
I get up in the morning, get dressed, go to work, come home, and spend the night snuggled with the TV or a good book. No excitement. And that's just how I like it.
That's not to say my life is boring. I work in a drug rehabilitation facility, and stuff happens there all the time. Of course, I'm administrative, so I don't actually work with the patients. That's probably a good thing. I've got a pretty dry wit, and sometimes people take it the wrong way. And sometimes people take it the right way. Either way, it tends to get me in trouble.
When I came home from work yesterday, I ran into another tenant in the mailbox area. Literally. Turned around after grabbing my fistful of bills and wham!
He was kind of cute -- the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. I didn't get to hear his voice. He didn't say anything. I turned around slammed into him, looked up, and I think my jaw must have dropped to the floor. I mean, WOW. Had to give myself a quick pep talk.
Forget it, D. He's too hot for you. Besides, no more men, remember? You're not getting any. You don't want any. RUN!
So, I mumbled something that closely resembled an apology and scampered like a scared rabbitt before I could make myself look like even more of an ass. Took my non-ass self up to my apartment, threw my bills on the table, and curled up on the couch.
I wasn't going to think about the mailbox hottie. Really. I swear. I was going to think about polar ice caps. Flat tires. Egyptian pyramids.
Nice try, anyway.
After I mopped up the puddle of drool I left on the floor, I headed back out and cleaned the closest convenience store out of chocolate.
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