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Miranda overfeeds her cat for days out of fear that it’ll eat her if she dies. (Note to self, buy more pet food.)While it’s different and sometimes scary out here in Singleville in my thirties, it isn’t as bad as it sounds.
The beauty of being in your thirties is the amount of wisdom you’ve amassed, which helps to solace you when you’re having dinner over your sink for the third time in a week.
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And if he isn’t, I assume something is wrong with him.
Most of the time I keep my eyes from scanning at all. In this age bracket, the next relationship you enter might be “The One”, or at least the possibility of some serious longevity.
Plus I had boundless energy and a healthy appetite for cheap liquor. I go to bed at a reasonable hour, I don’t drink alcohol like it’s my profession, and I no longer have the metabolism of a 22 year old. I now have a much higher standard for the men I’ll give my time. I would scan a room like a lion choosing his target among a herd of gazelle.
I have expectations and lists of attributes I think they ought to possess. All it took was a flirty smirk and lingering eye contact from heavily mascara’d eyelashes, the notorious come-hither stare. Now, if I even bother to scan the room (with my eyebrows furrowed), I expect any man my age to be locked down already.
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