Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.
My laid back attitude, though endearing to some, has just cost me a date, at least a weekend's worth of sex, and potentially, marriage, babies and a home in Cape Cod.
By the time I got to the restaurant she had gone and without her phone number, surname or any specific address details I'm stuffed.
I know three things. Her name is Cheryl; she works in mortgage; she lives in Cape Cod. And, if I can't find her on Newbury Street where we arranged to meet, or in the narrow Boston bar where we met last night, then that's where I'm heading. Cape Cod, with the little information I have and a blatant disregard for sense and sensibility.
2 comments:
no man that's an ass that wasn't meant to be tapped.
Head west to the greater abundance of hot chicks
pete
Pete, I'm West, man, tapping a keyboard right now but hoping to move onto something greater. Perhaps an ass even.
And Mike, don't go ruining my slightly cloudy memory. Maybe it was Roddy MacDowell...she looked like a MacDowell of some sort.
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