Christ, Douglas.

Absolutlely phenomenal.

I think that perhaps the fungus that my podiatrist in Saratoga so painstakingly removed from the underside of my left big toenail might actually retain more personality than Doug.

The man. Is a NIGHTMARE.


So granted, I think he probably knows that. I think the kid probably has a serious complex surrounding the fact that he's a giant waste of space. As such, I can understand why he was wearing a stunning grey suit with borderline-pimp pinstripes. I can understand the flowers (white roses... ick). The door holding. The large umbrella. The Jack Johnson on the CD player. Top of the Hub, for chrissakes.

The wine flowed. We order Sonoma Cutrer. He was nervous, and jittery. Cliche. We made out on the elevator, for fucks sake. Mostly because I just desperately wanted him to shut up and he'd been talking the entire time we were driving. The bread was warm, the lighting dim. My spinach and goat cheese salad was a little slice of heaven. The crab cake was ecstasy. And the cookie plate... oh GOD.... the cookie plate.

Yet through all of this, I kept looking at his stupid grinning face and listening to his obnoxious drawling child molestor's voice and thinking He's dropping $200. You should probably sleep with him.


Granted, the boy is beautiful. His body is astounding. His lashes are long. He's got vicious, dreamy bedroom eyes. And he drops money and makes me feel like a princess. The boy fucking offered to make me breakfast this morning, to which I replied "No, I'm taking a shower. Please be gone when I get out." When I came back, he'd made my bed before leaving.


It's that he is absolutely. Batshit. Stupid. Retarded.

VAPID.


I like him ever so... until he goddam opens his mouth. Then I just want to take a bandsaw to my jugular.

I wonder if I can ask him to stop talking forever. We would get along great if he did.