I don't even watch that many romantic comedies. But I sit here on a Friday night, working alone in the office wondering if I'm supposed to go feed my imaginary cat, when I finish- if I ever finish.
I complained about this to Betty.
Mush: I'm a cliche
Betty: How are you?
Mush: A few months ago, I was Bridget. Hopeless bridget with the disastrous romances and now I'm the other cliche, I'm the lady who works at the office on a Friday night and then goes home to feed her cat. Im sure there's a Reese Witherspoon romcom for that
Betty: Are you also waiting to be rescued?
Mush: Of course not. An errant flower delivery boy is not even going to be able to get into my secure building
Betty: What about an arrogant self opinionated boss that is too hot to pass up a night of giant underwear
Mush: I'd do Hugh Grant. I can't even pretend that I wouldn't.
I guess that means in my heart I'm still Bridget. I'll one day know I've reached adulthood when I pick Mark Darcy over Daniel Cleaver.
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