Dear Hot Trophy Wife in my Building (the sequel):

Our chat in the building’s gym yesterday afternoon about hookers was really intriguing. I was skipping work because I wanted to, and you were pounding out miles on the treadmill thoroughly crunk (at 2pm, no less – bravo, btw…impressive workout ethic to stumble out the miles after a morning of hard drinking and stoning).

It was nice of you to tell me so many, many times that you think I’m a wonderful person for not wanting the building to get involved in reforming the neighborhood by hassling our prostitute neighbors. I think I’m great too, but honestly, in this matter I’m just cheap and afraid of a beating.

I worry that your vodka and weed perfume might have exaggerated your affection for me. Even though my freak-radar was on overdrive, I couldn’t blow you off because I was hypnotized by your more-than-sympathetic stance to the sex-worker’s lot. You’re downright empathetic. Your detailed knowledge of hooking including how “it is a really hard job to do, sometimes” have me wondering if you’re a former ho. I’d bet cash money you were at least a stripper before the promotion to trophy-wife. It was amazing how you opened right up to me like we were long-lost friends – and not amazing in a good way.

Hoping you’re not so sloppy when next we meet,

p.s. Now that we’ve talked and you scare me, I don’t think I’ll be able to enjoy ogling you and guessing if they're real, anymore. I’ll try, though.

p.p.s. If you REALLY think I'm nice, maybe next time chime in against the religious trophies who tore me a new one, k? Thx.

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