After spending much of this weekend with my sissy, she has convinced me of something: I think I may have a pen pal.
And his name is Mr. X. (Except our form of written communication is email, text or tweets. But same diff, right?)
Here's the thing, though. You know when you're typically supposed to have pen pals? In, like, 5th grade.
Newsflash: I'm not 11 years old anymore. In fact, I'm three times that age.
So why do I still feel like I want to have one of my friends pass a note to Mr. X that says, "Do you like Always a Bridesmaid? Check yes or no."
Maybe I should just go play M*A*S*H* and figure it out for myself.
You know. After I crimp my hair, lace up my Tretorns and watch an episode of Growing Pains.
Good to see I haven't learned anything more about boys than I knew back 20+ years ago.
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