Dear Mr. Right

... you are really starting to piss me off.

First of all, where the fuck are you? I've been waiting my whole life and I'm not getting any younger.

No, really. I looked in the mirror the other day and am now seriously considering a facelift by the time I'm 40. You need to hurry up and find me before my looks go and I need silicone and Botox in order to turn you on.

Second, I'm tired of encountering Heartbreakers while I look for you. They're everywhere and holy shit, are they sneaky! I actually thought I found you- then I was slapped in the face (not literally- I have mace, see) with the cruel reality that either I suck at life, you don't exist or you're just really, really well hidden... or I'm REALLY good at finding Heartbreakers.

I'm actually having a shirt made that will read "I Heart Emotionally Fucked Dudes" (I'm thinking I'll get a discount on it since I'm also going to order my Betch a shirt that says "I Heart Vodka"). I will probably have some sort of glitter embellishments added to it, which should make it easier for you to spot me.

When we meet, you're going to have some explaining to do. Do you know what I've been through while I try to find you? It's been a blur of crying, drinking, partying, eating chocolate and online shopping. Just call me Ms. Hot Mess. I'm on the brink of becoming a cat lady, dude. You better materialize, and fast.

But lucky for you, when I wasn't busy drinking my weight in vodka and collecting cats, I managed to preserve my inner Ms. Right to some extent. She's a little black and blue, and kinda bitter. And she may need a new liver in the next year or so. But she's in there, she's awesome and she's waiting for you.

So come find me. I'm waiting and I'm getting fucking impatient.

Oh, yeah. Ms. Right swears a lot.

XOXOXOXO Amanda aka Ms. Right aka Crazy Cat Lady aka Lambertville's Chelsea Handler