Playing hooky

Most boys I spend the night with nervously ask me if they're going to be the star of the blog the next day, more than once during the course of the night. Not favorite ex. When we finally got out of bed this morning, he decided to clean up, and casually mentioned, oh, about four times, that I could use his computer and update the blog if I wanted to.

Instead, I lounged around in the navy Calvin Klein T-shirt I unsuccessfully tried to steal three years ago, read The Time Traveler's Wife and listened to Ani DiFranco's Not a Pretty Girl. Favorite Ex's music collection resembles that of a college freshman girl pursuing a Women's Studies major sometime in the mid-90's. Well, except for all the U2.

It was a lovely evening. We had a sunset picnic on the terrace and too much red wine. Then some dope and Dylan. I never want to work on a Wednesday again.

Looks like the Cavefish finally got herself, to put it in the obnoxious and annoying words of Carrie Bradshaw, a lovah.