I have a date with a part-time mortician on Saturday.
I am rather ambivalent.
Despite being desperately lonely and having no sex life to speak of these days, I am only going on this date because IT PROMISES TO BE INTERESTING.
Really, bothering to shower and shave my legs after working 80 hours a week for a mediocre fuck is just more trouble than its worth. At the end of the day, I relish the joys of solitude.
Living alone is absolutely glorious. I can leave dirty underwear scattered about. Not wash my dishes for a few days. Fart incessantly. Eat Totino’s pizza rolls and feel no shame, only the searing pain from when their boiling, yet delicious innards inflict third degree burns on my mouth. I accept this, however, as divine retribution from a just God for my disgusting and slovenly lifestyle.
Clearly, if I carry on like this, I’m going to be dead by Christmas.
Good timing on finding this guy, then.
