So I'm in the elevator, after talking with a long-distance bud on the phone during a necessary break, and IN WALKS ANOTHER MR. WRONG. Weeeeeeeeeeee!
He's a transfer from California, totally hot, totally sweet, and TOTALLY WANTS MY PHONE NUMBERS. He's a little taller than my normal preference, but he's got that whole Clark-Kent-Nerd-Thing going on that we know I love, dresses really nice, keeps his shoes neat (one of those telling things about a man), and complimented my suit *preens*. In-deed. :> Nothing like a nice little elevator flirtation to keep your motor running after the careless whispers of a fraudulent situation, eh?
Okkkkkkkkay. Should I? Shouldn't I?
GAWD, I HATE THESE DECISIONS. I told him I'd mail him (yes, we have each other's work mail addies). Hmm. Grrr.
What I /refuse/ to do is waste ONE. MORE. SECOND. feeling stupid/sad/ridiculous/pointless about what's his name.
What is his name?
Yeah. Superficial. I'll take that label, and raise ya 50.