Tonight I had my first three-way. I predict that my ever-sinking morals will eventually come to rest 20,000 leagues under the sea, where they will be lost forever, along with the Whatchamacallit candy bar and the reason we ever thought Hands Across America was a good idea.
And, to make matters worse, the loss preventionist from the subway called me. Instead of getting his phone number and deceitfully saying I’d call him back, never intending to do so, I deceitfully told him I was on my way out the door and that he should call me tomorrow.
This means that I now can’t pick up my phone for at least a week.
Luckily, though, I’m moving at the end of the month, at which point he can call my phone number all he wants, and it won’t do him any good, because I won’t be there anymore.
On the plus side of things, I am making a strawberry-rhubarb pie.
For those of you who are wondering (I am perhaps being optimistic in thinking that anybody cares) about where the eponymous search for love is in the midst of all this depraved sex, let me assure you that it is still going strong. The sex, like all the pies, is just a way to while away the time. (What I really mean: if you are reading this and thinking that you would date me if I weren’t such a slut, please know that when I’m in a relationship, I am totally monogamous.)
(Forgive me for being unamusing, but in the battle between pride and neurosis, neurosis wins hands down every time.)