There is a guy sitting next to me right now who is the spit-image of Eric Clapton and he is crazy smoking rad. But he’s like 40. The thing is, if I wanted to, I could date a 40-year old. Believe it or not, I am a (soon to be) 32-year old divrocee. This means that if I wanted to pack a bag and fly to paris with a Swedish banker and hang out in an opium den, no-one could say shit about it. Just saying. 

Right now, I’m not worried about a swede and gay paris… I’m more focused on how this guy and me, on our dueling MacBooks, can get together. (*sorry, am I the only one who things Eric Clapton is kinda rad looking?) Anyhow, this guy is my cuppatea. 

Anyhow, come on, EricClapton, look at me, Gdamnit! He is not even biting. I think I may have to pull out my yankee accent. Watch this shit…. 

The owner just walked by and said, “Hello!” and I said, with the best Californian accent ever, “Hey! How’s it goin’? Haven’t seen you in a while. Warm out, huh?” 

EricClapton must be deaf. I hate him now, I’m going to another cafe. 

Totally giving me the ice cold ignoring. Why on earth did I wear this shirt? Fuckn laundry day! 

***Update. I just heard him ask if there was a restroom here which completely threw me off since they say “Toilets” instead of restroom. Anyhow, I says to him, “Excuse me, where are you from?” He says, “Oh my God, another American! I’m from San Francisco.” 

Dingdong, ya’ll. 

He is a journalist for a surf magazine who just did a great adventure from Africa and now here in Perth. I was all, ooooh shit. 

And then we made out. Just kidding. But he keeps telling me he is staying in a hotel around the corner and his name is James. Do I look like some 2bit hookah? Nword Please. 

But I sho nuff gave him my numericals. 

James. I swear if I meet ANOTHER guy with a name that starts with J i am officially going to erase the letter from the alphabeta. 

Nice distraction, eh? word.