the next time i need something fixed/assembled/etc., i am going to call a male escort service. i can only imagine how that conversation would go:
receptionist: hello, and thank you for calling rent-a-man-whore.
me: hi. yeah. i would like to use your services for tonight.
receptionist: okay, you have a couple of options to choose from. we have ricky, the bow-tie-clad stud muffin, javier, the lifeguard on duty…
me: actually, do you have one that owns a tool belt?
receptionist: sure! that would be mason. so, you crave men that are crafty and good with their hands?
me: of course. you see, i just went to IKEA and don’t have a boyfriend or my own tools and i need someone to assemble all of this cheap, swedish furniture.
receptionist: oh.
me: and i don’t plan on paying extra for any splinters. just so you know.
nope, i don’t know where i get this stuff from, either. but i have a feeling i can attribute this post to the lethal concoction of the red wine, nyquil and birth control i just ingested. let’s party.