I think my dick is broken.
I haven’t fucked in three months.
That’s how pathetic the situation has become. I haven’t had a dry spell like this since…well—never.
People like me don’t have dry spells.In New York, if you’re twenty-six, richer than God, and still can’t get laid…that’s just fucked up.
Except this isn’t even my fault—I can’t help that hours of nothing but old geezers in suits talking about negotiations and acquisitions bores my dick to dormancy.
I fucking wish I was bi-polar. Then one of my alter egos could have a better libido.
Instead, I’m given the personal assistant from hell.
The only thing worse than being a personal assistant is being one for your high school nemesis.
But if this is the only way I can escape the family business, so be it.
I can bite my tongue and shit on my pride for a few months…I hope.
Writer. Dreamer. Escapist.
I’m one of the more boring people you’ll meet in life.
And I’m from Canada, eh.