Broken

I have been diagnosed with a broken picker.

While that sounds like a fancy way to say that my finger is broke, know that the diagnosis didn’t come from a doctor, but from my supervisor who, after 8 months of hearing stories about them men that I do and have dated, decided that I just don’t know how to pick good ones. My picker is broken.

Following hot on the tails to this announcement, Tony, a coworker who has been nicknamed “The Angry Mustache” by another coworker, announced that he could tell me where to go pick up good men. According to his daughters, construction sites, apparently, NOT bookstores are the best places to find good guys. After all, only geeks hang out in bookstores.

Never mind that I have a boyfriend and although he has his issues, he treats me well and we enjoy each other’s company. I have my issues too. But should it so happen that it doesn’t work out between us, I’ll be sure to head to my nearest construction site to strut myself and maybe catch myself a good man who doesn’t spend time in bookstores.