?

So I’m looking at a photo of us, and I actually have no idea who you are anymore.

I actually don’t even recognise myself. Who is that? I feel no connection to her at all. I feel no connection to me at all. 

Words of encouragement.

“Find a nice spoon of boyjam to nestle in their wonders. I can see you being happy as fuck with the right guy.. what you need to do is speed up the selection process. none of this 2 month rob bullshit. Find a model, test drive, are you buying or not buying? Improve your judgement or just ask me off the bat if he is worth it or not. My first impression of rob was so fucking accurate. I impatiently await the next boy to wander into your’ rack. get cracking dickhead. Night. xx”

love me tender.

Slug boy texted me today - not that it should matter. After some serious thought I just decided to delete the message and focus my attention on more important things; like ebay. Seriously considering another Elvis tat. Possibly the lyrics “love me tender” on me somewhere. Considering shoulderblade, wrist or back of the neck. Who knows.

the boy saga.

So basically, I’ve made the mistake of distracting myself after the fanny breakup with two types of people. One is a complete asshole, (who note to self: do NOT talk to) has the body of a greek god and personality of a… greek slug? The second is a completely adorable, sweet guy who unfortunately was overshadowed by said slug. Unfortunately for me, not him. My sick ass got rightfully kicked to the curb. Therefore I see the only resolution to the boy saga as compiling a list of qualities my future man candy must have. The outcome of this list is that I will never find anyone with all the attributes and will die alone with my 58 cats - all of which will be named Dobby. Not that I’m complaining. There’s something slightly appealing about getting to be that crazy cat lady. I’ll never have to shower again. The list is as follows:

I wrote a list. It sucked. I’ve instead decided that if I can’t have Vin Diesel, I want no one. 

Here kitty kitty…