Normally, I was more of a cat person. As in, if I had to choose who lives, I’m going to take the cat nine times out of ten. It’s not that I particularly like cats, I just don’t particularly like most people.
My neighbor wasn’t most people. He lived in the apartment across the hall, and he was your typical, buttoned-up, fancy shoes, smells like a Calvin Klein commercial, looks like he actually flosses kind of guy. I mean, seriously? Wasn’t flossing just made up by dentists so they could go on their little power trips once every six months?
The point was, this guy very obviously had his life all put together. He was Mr. Perfect, and If you asked me, he needed to be brought down a few pegs to wallow with the rest of us.
Cue his long, thick, package penetrating my tight little mailbox.
I know. It’s absolutely sick. It was such an obvious ploy to hit on me. Forget the fact that the mail lady put it there, my neighbor and I both knew what kind of game he was playing. Oh yeah, we totally knew. It was on. It was in, if you would.
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