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Bedtime Confessions II

All I want to do is sit in a scented bath and smoke a cigarette. I don't smoke -- never had so much as a puff of a cigarette -- but that's how I feel. A glass of red wine would also be good right now. I have wine, but it's not the taste or feeling it gives me that I'm after, it's the ambience; it's the effect a glass of red wine, lit candles, a slim cigarette and sudsy bath water that I'm after. It screams single girl having Really Deep Thoughts about life, men, sex, and...yes, love.

Do I want to be single? Maybe I enjoy my Wednesday nights alone in my apartment, watching DVDs and thinking of Him. The Stella Artois Man. The Office Man. The Man. So what if I think it's too complicated a thing to enter, He's there waiting to come to me; ready to take my feet in his hands; ready to excuse me to his skill.

None of this even makes sense. I blame the imaginary red wine.

Do I need to be single? If love comes in a tall package of black waves, olive skin, large hands, and a gym-toned body, do I have to to pant for it? But aren't I panting in my reveries of The Encounter? Isn't it my face that I see in bliss, Him above me, thrusting. Him...

Excuse me!

Goodnight.

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