Self torment

There's a chain restaurant close to a bar I used to be a regular at.  It's chock full of early 20s hotties, not quite sure of themselves, a little too much make up, first job making any kind of money out to blow some cash and make some mistakes.  Ripe for the plucking, and ready to pluck back.  That's bad enough.

Last week I hit this place up twice for lunch, both times I got to go orders from the Platonic ideal of one of these girls.  Super cute, hadn't figure out that kind of shitty job isn't worth being as good at is as she is, rocking the black stretchy pants.  I ran across the receipt today while doing my finances and her name was on it.  It's not a super common name, maybe she's on Facebook.

Oh she is, along with 250 pictures of herself, some dating from her cheerleading career (I bet she still fits in that uniform).  One of which is out of the window of her apartment and I can tell it's adjacent to one of the buildings I work at.  Fuck.

I have to be a good boy.  I have to be a good boy.

Dammit.