Sex & the Single Woman: Ciao, Italian Men
Remember my Italian flatmate who I had stupidly (stupidly!!!) hooked up with on my second night here? Well, I’m happy to report that he was left the building. He flew back to Italy this morning.
His parting shot? “Do more cooking.”
Me: “Hey, I made you fajitas once!”
Him (closing door): “On second thought, don’t cook.”
Me: Italian curse word that the boys taught me
I was even more thrilled to see him go after he brought his new model (of course) girlfriend over last night for one last session of “Let’s Torture Erin.” I don’t know what was worse—having to listen to them smooching, hearing them take photos of themselves smooching, or hearing her prattle on about her nanny and astrology. If there had been an open window, I would have flung myself out of it.
Now I’m down to just one Italian flatmate (and he’s 22, which is off-limits jailbait territory for me). I’m curious to see who the agency puts in our vacant room. Fingers crossed they’re unattractive!