I can’t let go of the sense that when I see him, I’ll know. Rachel calls it my Cinderella mode. I call it having high standards. Okay fine, really high standards. But why should I settle for less than a stomach-flipping meet-cute or the kind of romance you see in old movies and listen to in Frank Sinatra songs? My Sagittarius musician with the floppy brown hair, crooked smile, and dad bod is out there.
I fear this is me
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