I was in the bathroom hand-washing my underwear from the night and wincing in horrific, viking-ic pain when I came back to my room to discover a text from none other than the *previously discussed here* Deli Sam.
It reads: "Good Morning my love".
Everything about this is laughable including the 15 minutes he has spent in total in my presence. And my bloody underwear. If only he knew me and not some weird, hazy, cardboard fantasy of who his acne'd-grease-cookie-buyer-sister-of-his-regular-customer is. His love, indeed.
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