Seriously, is the code necessary for everything we write?
Not in your case anymore. Now that you have completely understood how to play the game, you have been giving A1 and the founding SRS a loud middle finger for the last few days.
“Loud,”you say. How did I make flipping The Bird loud?
You used your mouth, too.
Ah, yes. That was how.
Now then, check out this video I was led to watch about twenty minutes ago. This is exactly what happened to me over here. Exactly.
Wait, wait, wait. Hold the phone. I know those eyes!
When was this video posted? A year ago?
After POPO LZ roofied me that day at work a few months ago, I went to the E.R. to confirm I had not come down with COVID. After the nurses did their thing, later a cool, calm and collected Doctor wearing navy blue scrubs, came in to examine me. He told me I tested negative for The Rona and the flu virus. When I asked him why I suddenly experienced all those symptoms, he told me it was probably just a random virus. He said he would keep me out the rest of the day and the following Saturday and Sunday. I told him, ‘Thanks, Doc,” and he walked out.
Fast forward to one month ago. My ring finger on my left hand is sliced open a smidge from either my kitty cat or the damn wire on one of the pizza screens. I cannot remember how it happened. Though, I do remember it hurt like a sonofabitch. Infected, too. Off to the E.R. for some antiboiotices.
Guess who I was lucky enough to have examine me again? Dr. Tim. This time, instead of scrubs, he is wearing a rust colored Mandalorian t-shirt. Right on.
It was not his t-shirt that made me remember this particular visit the way I remember it. It was not his pleasant bed-side manor, either.
It was the way he held my hand.
Trying to look at the cut on my finger, he was explaining to me that the infected area was not yet ready to be drained of the nastiness building up inside the cut. All I could think was, “Why is he touching me hand like this?”
He was holding my hand, ever so gently, using his fingers to caress the part of my finger where I hurt. When I flinched, I could feel how much he cared about my pain. It was genuine…and even a little personal.
There is only one other man who has made me feel that exact same way when he touched my hand trying to look at a callous on my wrist. A single touch that warmed all of me in a single wave of what I can only described as a feeling of being home.
That man was Kieran. We have not seen or spoken with each other since August 2019 when I moved out here. As far as I know, he married the Crazy Gold-Digger Karmic and should be living the fakest life he has ever known.
Kieran was DM energy activating our soul connection, triggering my awakening. It has not happened any other time I have ever touched any of the other bros I thought could be my twin flame. Not Chef Chris, not Chris, not Chef Stephen, not POPO LZ.
Just this cool E.R. doctor with an obvious love for Star Wars and shit. I would rack my brain wondering why his touch felt the way it did that day.
Now, I know why.
The dream I had when I was thirteen years old was of a man with no face. We were One, engulfed in this invisible cocoon of warmth making love. Never knew his identity.
Just that he wore a necklace.
And he felt like home.
You look so familiar, too.
Dang, it. I knew there was a reason to keep Dr. Tim in the pool of possible DM prospects. The touch on the hand was definitely soul recognition.
The thing is…I got this crazy, dumb crush on our new Chef at work. Crazy because I cannot stop thinking about him. Every damn day. Dumb because he wears a shiny gold wedding ring. That does not mean he is married, but it is a pretty good indicator. I am a bitch, but not a fucking bitch to hit on a dude while he is away from his ball and chain at the office. No one told them religion and marriage were a sham.
You are so full of shit.
You will have to be more specific.
You hit on me all the time at work.
Name one time I hit on you!
You throw ‘fuck me’ eyes at me all the time.
Having trouble catching those, were ya? (See what I did there?) Besides, that is not hitting on you. That is merely you happening to catch a glimpse of my face at the precise time I happen to be thinking of the very first few minutes with you behind closed doors. Hitting on you means throwing you a line.
Yeah, a line. Something like “…………”
Having trouble thinking of something?
What gives you that idea?
“Something like, “…………..” has been there for twenty minutes.
Usually, dudes are the ones to throw us the cheesy lines. Not the other way around.
No, wait! If I want to hit on a guy, I make him play a game of 9 Ball with me.
Put him through all the trouble of a 9 Ball game first?
Well, yeah. 9 Ball = ball in hand.
Sooooo….when I scratch, I get to toss him my sexy smile, then follow it up with, “Ooh! I scratched. Looks like you get to put it wherever you want.”
Subtle. I like it.
I’d say it to you if I could just get that ass over to The Capitol Bar to play a game with me. Maybe toss back a few while I am running the table on you.
I’m sorry, did you actually type out something about you running the table on me?
You don’t have to apologize, sweetie. Why not grab your reading glasses and try reading that again?
Why not make your fucking font bigger?
How’s that, love?
Bigger, but not as big as your mouth tonight.
Do you mean the big mouth you wish was wrapped around your rock-hard cock at this very moment?
That’s the one!
****Stick around…Things are going to get goooood****