I've given the hot-man sitting opposite me in Starbucks ample opportunity to sneak glances at me. I've a thing for dark curly-haired MacBook users. I just love it when they brood and peer longingly into their screen. Oh, to be that over-stylized MacBook! God, that's perfect teenaged poetry right there. I see it now, "Ode to the MacBook on the Little Round Coffee Table!". Of course, the way I see it it's centered on the page and written in all lower case lettering, complete with line breaks at the most inopportune moments. Bitter, bitter me! Boss-Man agreed to schedule me a massage today. The hours I spend slaving away over dinner, scrubbing floors, doing paperwork, and my posture due to recent depression have nearly wrecked havoc on my shoulder girdle. It's around that time of the month, so my hugely swollen bosom yanking down on my bra strap isn't exactly aiding the situation. So, he promised me a massage today, his busiest day, so that I wouldn't be underfoot while he met with his clients. The massage was talked about, a perfect time settled between he and I. It is now that time, and here I sit in a Starbucks, peeking at that handsome-as-fuck Greek looking man sitting 20 feet away, faced straight toward me. I don't want him to talk to me, for there is no way his interior demeanor could possibly match the angelic qualities of his exterior.... Oh, goodness, listen to me. I'm a cheesy romantic novel writer at this point. Worse, I'm getting myself all worked up in a public place. Oh, he's leaving! You're beautiful, sir! Bye bye!.... Now that he's gone I realize I was able to write nothing of consequence in his presence. My need for sexual attention is growing exponentially. Am I to be thus starved? Woe, Woe, Woe.

God, I wish my life held some small degree of importance.