It’s not what you think.
In having actual conversations with me about women, you will inevitably hear me mention “the hot French girl”. Yet for some reason she has yet to grace the pages of this blog. So since I spent hours last night scouring the internet in vain trying to find a way to contact her, I figured I should relate the story to you, in hopes that someone might be able to help me reconnect with her.
It was July 3rd, 1998. Melissa Madonna, an old high school sweetheart and good friend of mine had just broken up with me. I was a mess. I was working at “El Grecos”, my Godfather’s family’s restaurant and I remember the conversation we had where she told that she never loved me. I lost it, left work with steam rising from my head. Her younger brother worked with me, I’m sure he’d never seen me like that. I was crazy mad. She was staying with some old high school stoner friends so I raced over there, and we had it out in the street. Yelling, crying, it wasn’t a pretty sight, for over an hour we carried on. In the end, there was no solution. it was over.