When God opens a door . . .

When God opens a door, somewhere he gives someone insomnia. It's 5:00 a.m. and like every night for the past few weeks, I'm awake. I usually take this time to watch one of my Netflix films but I thought I'd try writing instead. It's either that or continue working my way through the Anxiety and Phobia Workbook. This is what my life has become: the late 20s self-help wasteland.
Last week saw me smooching on two men: a 40-year-old who clapped and exclaimed "YUMMY!" after kissing me good night after at least 3 gin and tonics, and an incredibly attractive 31-year-old cook whose hair smelled like a buffet of catered goodness. The former also wore excessive amounts of jewelry, talked about his chakra alignment and clearly enjoyed the sound of his voice more than I did. The cook cancelled on our Monday date and I never heard back from him again. Sigh. He was tall and lanky with lovely biceps and used words like sardonic, whereas the 40-year-old said, upon meeting me, "I can tell you're more intelligent than I am."
On a different note, I'm confident the Donald fired Pamela tonight because she is ugly. I suspect the annoying and mousy Jennifer will be next. Although she is a lawyer. I'd like to see Starr Jones on the Apprentice. She'd run that fucking show. Or the ever-sassy publishing guru Ella Edwards: "This is aint no fucking fun. Drink that lemonade. I'll give you a dollar. Damn skates." She'd rule the board room. Take that, Ponderosa.