That’s Stella

I woke up on Friday morning to my alarm going off, a splitting headache and a naked British man on my favorite side of the bed. He smelled of cigarettes and alcohol.

On Thursday night, me and my Aussie mate (who is in town with all his friends, including The Brit) bar hopped from The Spotted Pig to Employees Only, to Fat Cat and ended up getting a private room at Sing Sing Karaoke at 3am belting out some golden oldies.

The Brit was looking after me and I was drowning in gin and tonics from early in the night. I got up on the couches in our private karaoke room and attempted the moonwalk as I belted out Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Were Made For Walking”. The night almost turned sour when the Brit and I went back to my place and I thought I was going to throw up in the cab. Classy.

I got cosy with the Brit two days earlier. He was the hot rocker type with wavy brown messy hair, side burns, brown leather jacket and Led Zeppelin band shirt. The heavy, charming British accent didn’t hurt either.

It was a struggle getting ready for work that morning. The Brit remained asleep the whole time I was getting ready. When it was time for me to leave for work, I shook him… he got up and was pasty and red and blotchy… I told him I had to go but he could sleep in and just close the door behind when he left. He gave me a big cigarette tasting kiss (BLERGH!) and hug and fell asleep.

When I got home from work that night, I found post it notes scattered in my apartment (my fridge, bathroom cabinet, TV, cupboard) with little notes from him. Cute!