Unprintable words. That's all I have to say - things that I can't type.
After work I got a text from Ellie saying that she found a love letter on her car that was clearly meant for me. There was only a first name on it and I have no idea who it could be from. I hope the content reveals the author. But, drat it, here we go again.
What is happening here? This is the second time, and the second man. I'm married, darn it. What's wrong with these guys? Widowed is not the same thing as single. I'm not single. I'm married to a man who got to go to Heaven ahead of me. I. Am. Not. Available.
And who on earth would be interested in me? I know you would. But what are these men thinking they see in me? If I don't know who they are, then they don't know me well enough to be sending me love letters, darn it.
Do I need to get a bodyguard? Do I need to do what I did when Tom was stalking me in college - get an karate black-belt and a member of the wrestling team to escort me around? Maybe I need a pest control ring like Chris gave Jen when she moved to New York, so she could wear it when she didn't want to be bothered. But I'd never take it off. LEAVE ME ALONE, WORLD!
End of rant. But I am quite puzzled and rather annoyed. And I need your advice. You know me - am I doing anything to invite this? I'm Southern - if you're breathing, I'm friendly to you - I start conversations with strangers just like my mother did - and I don't think any of that is going to change. It is being misunderstood? What do I do about this? I need your help!
So come visit, or text me, or call me, or Skype with me. And I'll try to maintain control over my language.
Yours way beyond when death do us part,