The Saga: Survival Report 2

Hi, again, Cupids,

Yes, I was up at 5:30 AM making my fancy egg sandwiches for the man who spent most of yesterday reminding me the bulk of his brainpower is dedicated to thoughts of me naked. 

Yes, you read that correctly. I, your humble blogger, supposedly dignified adult woman, woke up at o-dark-thirty to prepare not one but TWO breakfast sandwiches–with the FANCY CHEESE–for Mr. NCOhMyGod.

Let’s take a moment to process the humiliation together, shall we?

I actually went to the good grocery store—you know, the one with wooden floors and overpriced everything—and bought gruyère cheese SPECIFICALLY for this purpose. I didn’t tell him that.

WHO AM I RIGHT NOW? Yes. An idiot. 

When I handed him the sandwich, Captain Biceps gave me the performance of a lifetime. If he was performing in an adult film. Over-the-top moaning while maintaining DIRECT eye contact. I tried so hard not to, but I snorted-laughed. SNORTED. Like a congested piglet. In front of him. Dignity is officially on life support.

And yet… it was kinda cool seeing him enjoying something I made. It’s like watching a golden retriever discover snow for the first time. Damn Sir McSmolderInChief for being so fucking charming when he wants to be.

Why are all the hot assholes so charismatic? 

Oh, the real surprise of the day? Finding out working with Sergeant Seduction isn’t terrible. We [redacted] for our project (keeping it vague for anonymity!), and saw a side of Mr. ThighsOfSteel I hadn’t seen before. Professional? Empathetic? Good at his job?

All three. 

No flirting, no innuendos. 

And yes, today’s outfit was another form-fitting number. Do General Gorgeous’s clothes shrink in the dryer, or does he special order everything one size too small? (Probably the latter.)

He even suggested we develop a system to communicate during meetings—touching his ear means “go deeper on that topic.” Which brought us back full circle to all the sex puns and innuendos and me in a catsuit. 

As if my chunky ass would be caught dead in one. Actually, dead me is the only me that anyone would get into a catsuit–I wouldn’t be able to argue. 

But… and I really hate to admit this on the first real day or work, but… we make a good team? These words physically pain me to type, but here they are.

I’m not sure what to make of all this. Is this the real Corporal Cheekbones? Or just another strategy in a revenge plot to win? Either way, I’m planning tomorrow’s breakfast menu as I type this, so clearly my self-preservation instincts have abandoned me entirely.

Send a therapist?

~ An American Idiot

P.S. Why does Admiral Abs always smell so good? All day long, too. Is that a military secret? Some classified deodorant the rest of us don’t have access to?

#BreakfastBrigade #CheeseAndRegret #TeamworkMakesTheDreamNauseating #CatsuitConfidential