Why do people have to work? I mean really? Don't get me wrong, I love my job and wouldn't trade it for another, but I would really much rather be at home talking to someone that cares about me. Instead I sit here and write to that vast empty space that is my diary audience.

Well I will be leaving work in 2 short hours and I will head off to the bookstore. Perhaps that special someone is out there buying the same book and thinking of his soulmate out there somewhere in the world, just waiting to meet her (me).

thumbing through the non-fiction,

Squeeky