I.C.E
A couple of months back, there was this big hoopla in the media about I.C.E- an in-case of emergency contact person to add in your cellphone under the (stupid?/smart?) abbreviation so that there was someone to call (and no, not the GhostBusters *dryly*) if you got into an incident/accident of some sort.
Meet Grant, my I.C.E buddy.
Now smart single girls will tell you that the I.C.E system has long been in used before the media-hype. We’ve got ICE buddies for sex, for the car, to cook, to go clubbing with.
Before you conclude that "oh yeah, they’re just normal guy friends," these ICE boys will go to that extra mile to see to it that you’re okay in whatever calamity that you (yes you know you’re always the one that starts the B.S) get yourself into.
In short, they’re an absolute gem to have and an absolute tosser to others.
Tehe.
Well Grant’s my ICE buddy at the gym. He absolutely saves me when some of my clients just don’t get it.
And they don’t (seriously Pri).
Like I understand how some guys might argue that us girls saying "no" sometimes would mean "yes" but if I said no, and I said it with a frown while in a standoffish position with my head cocked to one side, you’d think they’d get a clue and put 2 and 2 together.
But no (and I don’t mean yes).
So the boy had to save me today. I honestly think it’s riot how I was just making up our history and our future plans to the troglodyte who couldn’t fathom a simple 2-lettered word.
And no, he didn’t sign up in the end.
Tart.
