Ophelia: I think I shall refer to all my exes as wankers and tossers from now on. It sounds so much posher than calling them douchebags and assholes. You know, for years, I've seen it in the books I read, so I thought I had the basic emotion behind it but I didn't realize it came from like actually wanking off. For the record, almost all of my knowledge of British culture comes from romantic comedy novels. I'm starting to realize this may not be enough.
I smile at her message.
Me: I also like the term nob head. A nob is another name for a penis so I believe you can take it from there. Also, I'm thinking that perhaps, knowing at least one of your exes, that you should be looking for a different type of man to date.
As soon as I send it, I wish I could pull it back. But alas, the checkmark next to the message indicates she's seen it already. Bollocks.
Ophelia: True story. I'm trying to move on from TrentGate. Of course, I did it in probably the most idiotic way ever. Go check out my ClikClak.
I know the post to which she's referring, but I don't want to tell her that. It sounds a little stalker-ish. I do go over and check out the responses she's been getting.
Holy shite. There are a lot. Too many to even process.
Me: How are you ever going to choose?
Ophelia: Whoever gets the most likes? Whoever looks the least likely to be a wanker? I'm totally using that from now on.
I smile at this. The poor girl. She's got her work cut out for her.
She's not the only one. I glance at the clock and try to figure out what time it is at home. It's close to midnight here, meaning it's approaching five a.m. there. My dad's an early riser, but not that early.
I can picture him putting on his coveralls and wellies, heading out into the aviaries to tend to the birds. Checking the traps for food and the like.
Yes, he traps squirrels and rabbits and whatever other rodents may wander through to feed the birds. They are birds of prey, after all.
Then there's the never-enviable job of sweeping out the bottom of the coops. It's a shitty job. Quite literally.
But the best part is the birds themselves. Many have been injured, usually struck by an auto. Some will never fly again. Those are my favorites because they stay with us. They become like pets, in as much as a wild, predatory bird can. And while Mum and Dad take in all kinds of birds, like hawks and falcons and even the occasional golden eagle, I like the owls the best.
Homesickness washes over me. Screw COVID, I should go home for a visit. I can take my chances with having to quarantine. It's been too long since I've seen my mum or dad.
I even miss Philip, though I doubt he'd say the same about me. I can practically hear him grousing about me becoming an American citizen."You live there anyway. Why don't you just hang out the Stars and Stripes, Yankee Doodle?"
He's a bitter old man, stuck in a young man's body, and has always been that way. Putting an ocean in between us hasn't improved our ability to relate to each other in the slightest. He'd be no help at all in this decision-making process, assuming it's even an option.
Suddenly, Ophelia's decisions don't seem so daunting. I can definitely relate.
Chapter 11: Ophelia
To abs or not to abs. That is the question.
There are definitely some abs choices. And my lady bits are screaming to respond to those posts. My brain, however, is telling my downstairs to slow her roll and stop driving this bus, as she has a notoriously poor sense of direction.
The ongoing battle between my brain and my libido is exhausting. I should just go back to reading my romance novels and staying home. It's easier, really.
Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll become a nun. I'll take a vow of celibacy and …
Oh, who am I kidding?
I hit the like button on a rock-hard set of abs that I could definitely scrub my laundry on if my washing machine should ever break.
I mean, if he's going to be a jerk—er, wanker—he might as well be eye candy. Right? Then, because I'm not totally unreasonable, I like a video from a much more middle-of-the-road dude. If the dad bod indicates anything, I'm quite sure he games for the entire duration of every weekend that he doesn't have custody of his kids.
Maybe I'm selling myself too short. Maybe Ishouldaim high. Maybe I've always been settling and that's why I've never had good luck.
Or maybe it's because I'd rather be at home, reading and snuggled up on the couch than going out and partying.
I know, I'm a total ball of fun. The fuzzy socks and flannel pajamas are a bonus gift.
