Buffalo.

I shuttered at the socio-economic-pizza-hut-buffet-syndrom. I was asked out by yet another thirty-four-year-old. I spoke to a British man. My boyfriend of exactly one year, confessed his love for me.

And it all happened in Buffalo.

Well. Sort of.

It is very obvious that it is very easy to fall in love with me. In the span of my four month employment at Wal Mart, three men have tried to get into my pants. Unfortunately, I've managed to unexpectedly view the contents of one set of trousers. Gross.

The new thirty-four-year-old is the epitome of a good man. He's quiet and simple and works hard for his family.
He broke it off with his long-time, mother of one girlfriend last Friday and since has been making borderline flirtatious advances to yours truely. Between the compliments and the not-so-sarcastic moving in requests, I've managed to see a very lonely and confused man with no one to talk to.
I feel for him. I know what it's like to have no idea what to do next, and I want to be there in whatever way I can. JIB thinks he's a rapist and that I should kick him in the nuts. My boyfriend thinks he's been using the oldest lines in the book to make me blush. I think I'm naive and want to spend time with a man who has no one to spend time with.

I doubt he'll do anything that the man with the stunning blue eyes would - I'm sure he'll be the perfect gentleman.

Either way. I'm going to lunch with him tomorrow, in town, to a very posh cafe, directly under the public eye. I plan to clarify his position in regards to myself. I'm sure he just wants a friend to be with after going through an emotional divorce and that all my male friends are full of shit.

And if they're not. At least it will be something to write about.

I spent the rest of my day dilly-dallying on the phone with a very expressive British man that kept randomly saying, "You love it." and "strawberries." Strange?

Soon after my boyfriend arrived and we had a brief romp amidst my already tangled bed sheets.
We spent the evening stunned by the display of "reach-or-starve drama" by the lower classes of the American social structure and shopping for panties and other random belongings at Victoria Secret. He bought me an album. I gave him a blowjob. It was an excellent anniversary.

As he prepared to leave for his two hour drive home, I debated vocally telling him that I loved him. It would have been the first time I said it to his face. I finally found the courage and he smiled contently and cooed that he loved me too.

My bottom lip quivered.
My eyes filled with salty liquid.
I squeaked out, "really?"
He nodded.

I pranced back in the house to spend another hour and a half listening to my new album and to cry randomly like a demented fourteen-year-old retard swooning over her boy-toy crush.

I felt something I never had before. An overwhelming understanding that Andrew made me a better person and that I wanted to be better because of him. But of course, I'm being a bint and going to lunch with a man two days after the man I loved confessed his love for me.

I thought once that my four year relationship bestowed in me all the wisdom I would ever need to love again. Now I realise how utterly stupid someone has to be to make such an unfounded and egocentric conclusion.

And of course...

It all happened in Buffalo.