here comes the pissed off rant.

so, hello! cheesecake IS a damn breeder after all; this time it's straight from the horse's mouth and not based on some obnoxious grapevine gossip (I think mentioning that one lives with one's girlfriend is pretty strong evidence). I could kill scott for getting that started, and that goes double for michelle for passing it along AND encouraging me in pursuit! I should matchstick her buick's tires for that. I estimate that only about 15 people in the office are NOT laboring under the delusion that he's a poof, thanks to their efforts. but do I feel sorry for him? no! I won't tell anyone otherwise unless I'm asked. he's got some nerve being straight; let the whole world think he's a 'mo. I hope guys drive him nuts hitting on him. wait, no I don't. one wink and he's ahead of me (getting hit on by nasty express men salesmen doesn't count). and let's face it, he's probably ahead of me anyway. he's dangerous to homosexuals, that one. he's a siren luring us to emotional downfall. he has to be stopped. dammit, that's it. I'm honestly starting to believe that I'm going to die single. or worse still, end up the downmarket houseboy of some lecherous old antique dealer. death first. no, shopping first. lots of comfort shopping, enough charge card swiping to melt it. I'm going out tomorrow and buying enough new clothes to send an elephant down armani's catwalk. I may seethe with rage, and I may nurse my bruised-but-certainly-not-broken heart for a few days, but I'm going to look good doing it. and look good for myself, not spending absurd amounts of time exfoliating and shaping my bangs to impress that dumb awful...dumb awful...person (not that I, hem, ever did that)!

eat it.

(sorry about that, but I had invested a good bit of emotion in the situation and needed to vent. ah, feeling better!)