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Are you trying to Garfunkel me?

Why is it every time I look like a lesbian firefighter, that’s when Metro Prince (thus renamed) does a drive-by? I mean, honestly. The days I’m coiffed and captivating, where is he?

It’s getting to be ri-goddamn-diculous.

This morning he prances by like a purple pony. I felt the whiplash in my proverbial, let me tell you. And I have pimples on my chin. Pimples, people! I made it through puberty without one but since 30, they’ve been showing up like Richard Simmons at an after party.

“You missed my call this morning, was it on purpose?”

“Huh? What?” Like an old man caught napping at the check-out.

The gunslingers, who’ve had a dangerous glint in their eye of late, view this exchange like a couple of loan sharks. Where I was in, now I have one leg out (like a game of hokey-pokey high school). Consorting with the prince is unsanctioned (I’ll give you the back story later).

That, and one night I went out with them after work, see. And things got a little Anne Heche. When these guys drink, they mutherfucken drink. Ten beers, triple-doubles (sshitloads of shotsss) and then. Then, green fairies (aka absinthe). Boozing with these mavericks is akin to letting Nick Nolte pack your parachute. I ain’t going down like that.

So they’re knocking ’em back and telling crazy-ass sex stories, and I’m covertly tipping mine into empty beer glasses. (That’s how I roll. I aint imbibing no motherfucken absinthe.) Next minute, they’re smashing empty pint glasses across the table like Ozzy Osbourne in an epileptic. Très rock ‘n’ roll, but when they point at a woman and slur “booby, booby, booby”

… it’s time to go.

Since then, they’ve been like a pair of dirty cops scared I’ll turn them in to Internal Affairs. I work for the Big Cheese and they don’t like it. The fact I’d never roll on ’em, means nothing. It’s just a matter of time before I take two in the back of the head.

I’m gonna punch you in the ovary.

My god-awful job continues, where I sit in a catatonic state and occasionally mix it up with drool marching down my chin. I never quite manage to tune out cult boy (who drives me Kurt Cobain with his fucking Flanders grin) and the gunslingers continue to fixate on me as if I’m in a teen movie (about to get a totally awesome makeover).

And now … the addition of a new character to my sad little show – a cute, single and yes! Hetero retero man. Like spotting Elvis or Ally Sheedy, ’tis indeed a coup.

The first time I met him, I thought he was gay; mainly due to his randy handsomeness and the fact he calls everyone darling. So I gave him few further thought, except to notice whenever he set up camp (pardon the pun) nearby. ‘Twas indeed a faulty gaydar reading but it’s my theory that a man calls a woman darling when he’s booby bound in the singular (single woman, not boob), not in the plural. Call me crazy.

Then, one day, he flashed his pearly whites in a drive-by flirting. They dazzled like the teeth of Disney’s Prince Charming (bing!) and my metaphoric head whipped back so quick, I was wearing a metaphoric neck brace for a metafucken week. A crush was born.

Well. As much as a crush can be born to a cynical and wily old coot like me. After all, these days a prince translates to a tiny diva in a high quaff, heels and ruffled shirt (Formerly Known As). Then there’s the Non-Committal Prince, For-One-Night-Only Prince (aka Vegas Prince) and the I-make-you-swoon-with-my-eyelashes-but-it-turns-out-I’m-happily-married Prince.

In any case, my Gay Prince had arrived and was willing to overlook the boobies. Result.

But. Being wily, this created immediate suspicion. Why was he smiling at me when we hadn’t officially met? And, once met, why was he laughing heartily at a joke weaker than Lindsay Lohan at a Shakespeare audition? (Doesn’t happen often, but that’s a good example). I love audience recognition as much as the next office comedo, but my joke was lame (to be said like Ron Burgundy) and he was doubled over with a rabid case of IBS.

And here is where I leave you hangin’, dear Wuccan. Just as Gay Prince has left me hanging, in the sporadic and flaky flirting he has become known for. Ah yes! Like a dodgy radio signal, he comes in and out with the promise of guest spots and prize giveaways.

But alas, (so far) I got nuthin. Nada. Zippo the Hippo.

Dare I ask you to. watch. this. space?

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