I returned home from San Diego yesterday. I had a delightful time with my sorority sisters, and San Diego is cooler than I had expected. I had no clue. The people are artistic, laid back, enthusiastic, and natural. But no time for a Yelp review right now. I am in full-on anxiety mode. I'm not eating (which is kind of a blessing), my nerves are rattled, and my stomach is in a constant knot.
The reason for this bourgeois behavior is the tick-tock of the clock as it counts down my days to Paris. I have about 486 things to do before I leave, and here I am typing on my computer. But this is a responsibility too, so I can't beat myself up.
At first, I was a little worried about leaving Jonathan by himself for so long. LA can be grueling in the summer. But when the universe closes a door, it opens a window. JS will not be sipping prosecco by his pool all alone. Oh no. My man landed a job in New York City. Actually, 2 jobs. He's working on an indie film called My Man is a Loser. Could be cute. Here's a pic of the cast:
What a fox. Look at him with his shoe untied. Only he can pull that off. I don't know why I get turned on by a man holding his keys. Maybe the reassurance that he has a car and shelter. Wait, upon closer inspection, I think those are glasses. Still hot in my book. I could do without the bracelet, but he's Greek and forgiven.
Whilst working his ass off for scale, my man is also performing on stage in The Best Man. Heed my warning Cybill Shepard. Keep your hands off of my man. You can look, but if you touch, you may walk away from your little play with bloody stubs.