Melody
Nomnomnom, Alex. God, I can’t get enough of him. He is just so sexy: the way he talks, walks into a room, walks out of a room, carries himself, and treats me like a little, cute precious thing; a princess, an object of adoration. It’s all so lovely. I could imagine having little ginger babies with Alex and living in some country cottage like in Grantchester or something, doing the writerly thing. I think I love him. Like, for-real love him, but I can’t tell him yet because--
I’m a f*****g i***t. I still have this secret fantasy of me and Mr. D running away together to spend the rest of our lives in Aruba, living on my money--we’d have to use his, since I don’t get control of mine till I’m twenty-five--and writing side by side together, with adjacent desks. He
