Northside. Me, killing time. You, wandering with an entertaining blend of
sarcasm and bitterness. A few weeks ago you approached me in the candle
isle and asked for advice in picking out a gift for your girlfriend. I was
of no assistance by suggesting a weed eater (knowing it would be of no use
and offensive for the occasion). You selected 'sealing' wax all on your own
as I stared blankly, puzzled as to why someone would apply wax to their
ceiling. We were in the candle isle and as such, I'm due a little grace.
Luckily you enlightened my uncultured self before I fell into a sea of
endless ponder and worry that someone will surely set their ceiling ablaze.
I hate to pry into the personal matters of strangers (not really) but I
must now know how the plot unfolded! It seemed that of one of those
romantic comedies where the female lead follows lofty dreams with whimsy
while a trail of summer scarves and scent of biological clock begs her to
slow her pace. Meanwhile the male lead sips some sort of pungent, deep
yellow liquid, planning his next golf excursion to include an exotic dancer
who is likely named Amber or Mercedes. I fear mentioning your name may
leave you without believable evidence of coincidence. So, did the plot
thicken or perhaps someone named Bunny-Lyn is polishing your clubs?