Confessions of a Best Maid

Best maid. What does that even mean? That I’m the best damsel,the best girl,in the archaic sense of the word? Best among who? That I’m the best servant? We all know I’m far too narcissistic to be the best at serving anything,except perhaps sarcasm,and even then,really…anyway. The wedding. It’s over! does a leap Now I well and truly am on HOLIDAY. My thighs and back feel like death,but I’m FREE! cue Sarafina

It’s been a tricky couple of weeks – sorry,months. (see how I flog the dead horse. See.) A lot because I am recently single (why do people say that like you look for men more or less depending on how recently two became…well,one? As if if you are in a relationship,you are suddenly blind,or the recently single/long-singled are hungrier for fresh meat.) and so all men look like a chance to find again what I once had. I was looking quite attractive at the wedding,however,but reading everyone’s signs all wrong (the game has changed since I left lol). There was the bald guitarist (good with his hands,obviously), the overly friendly cousin (a whore,or a hopeful), the eager groomsman (clearly looking for someone to settle down with and have – ugh – kids)…and then there was Jetson. le sigh le yawn Who I will write about tomorrow when my body and my bed are not engaging in an illicit affair. All I’m saying is,some people really know how to wear a suit. Damnation. sighs again

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