Foreign guys love me. I don't know what it is. It may be the language barrier. Hmmmm, it's most likely the language barrier. I am really good at looking cute while not understanding what someone is telling me.
There is this one guy who is a regular at the French restaurant that me and the guru frequent. I think he is gorgeous, but the guru is on the fence. He's got that preppy, French businessman look to him, which I find to be super hot. And it's strange because I normally go for guys who wear jeans and crappy tee-shirts. You know, the "I probably don't have a job" look. Sessy.
So, Frenchy French is putting on the heavy flirt with me one night. Telling me how cute my jeans make me look, which obviously means that he's been checking out my ass. My ass is stellar. Out of this world. Interplanetary. Cosmic! PLANETS! SOLAR SYSTEM!!! Anne's ass.
Frenchy French got my number that night, and at 4am I got a call from him. Score! 4am booty call! It's been awhile since that's happened, so I was actually really excited and quite flattered. I was in bed asleep. I pooped out at midnight that night. Like I've said many times before, I'm awesome and not geriatric.
I haven't seen or heard from Frenchy French since then. I had an inkling to call him the next day, but I fought against it. Instead, I picked up my remote control and vat of ice cream and had a date with myself and "CSI". Heaven!
UPDATE!
My friend emailed me and asked if I fell asleep after the 4am booty call, to which I replied, "I totally woke up, looked at my phone, smiled to myself, then promptly went right back to sleep. I'm such a dork!" It's official, I'm a dork.
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