Call me Dr. Melfi

The same week I began binging The Sopranos (James Gandolfini is fucking dead?!) I entered a parallel universe. The guy I’ve been seeing – uh, more accurately meeting at the end of my nights out and fucking – finally showed his true colors. A two and a half hour phone call about his ex… And how to get her back. That’s right ladies and pricks. He called me to tell me alllll about his ex and the entire relationship they shared together. Then he had the fucking balls to ask me how to get her back. The universe is laughing at me. Hard. I’m not certain who slipped what into my drink that night but I actually found myself giving him advice. Feeling empathy and sympathy for him. It’s been years since these feelings saw the light of day! Approximately twelve hours later he texted me some saucy line and I ate it right up. *Googling number for a therapist* Fuck me. This is even worse than I thought seeing it typed out. The only thing stranger than my unhealthy attraction to this human and need for his company is that we work. This weird drunken weekend sex is being fuled by morning to night texting conversations and random phone calls. WHO AM I?! *Guzzling bottle of $9.00 wine*

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