This feels sort of wrong.
But I’m sitting here trying to pack for our trip and every time I go to throw something on the pile, there’s Eli—going to town on an Alexander Wang t-shirt. I should have been suspicious of the periodic whisker brush on my elbow as he did his sexy spin dance:
Listen—it’s cool to love stuff. I love Boursin cheese—but I’m not going to rub my fan all over it. However, in some bizarre turn of events, I’m sort of flattered. I mean, there’s Rob’s stuff in an equally formidable pile not 4 feet away, but E chooses mine to cha cha on top of.
This means one of two things: he loves me more, or I seriously need to launder my clothing more often.
Guess who is going to pine for her cat the entire time she’s soaking up tropical rays? This weirdo.