sexciting...
When I finally walked away from the wreck of mediocre disappointment that was the shambolic remnants of an ill-advised relationship, I had the distinct impression that it was pretty similar to watching a cake bake. A dry, crumbly, and disappointing cake. You can see it slowly rise, browning ever so marginally, before popping out of the oven full of promise, only to disappoint. It is, after all, a mediocre cake.
So I had made my rather expensive goodbye. I've always been the one to do important things right, and 3,000-odd Ks would nary dissuade me from a proper face-to-face breakup. Especially one that had been a couple of years coming.
When I bid adieu to the treasured, but now-forever-placed-beyond-my-greasy-grasp bunny boy, I was pretty damn sure I had signed away any sense of romantic pleasure for the next odd years, if not for good. After all, that's what a seven year moratorium on fishing does to your baiting and tackling skills.
As luck would have it, not four hours after landing did I get offered a project that would take me to some obscure side of our local pond. A series of similarly mediocre, if purpose-filled, events later, I was to find myself placed in somewhat sexciting company.
Being nothing but blind to any external opportunities during the duration of my match, I was quite caught unawares at the value placed upon my personal equity. Truly no blue-chip stock, it turns out that I was worth some fair bit of fun-time coinage in the market I had long eschewed.
A nap and a grope later, I now find myself in the surprising membership of a "time-share" arrangement. How delightfully sexciting.
