SO.

David - there, you can have his name. David, he has not been in touch at all today. Hrmm. The last thing he said to me last night, apart from that text I posted yesterday, was this:

You are the shiniest and beautifullest :) Are you doing anything exciting tomorrow? I am off to a beer festival in [erased for privacy] which I'd forgotten about. Are you still up for meeting on Saturday? If so, let's meet in the afternoon and go out in the evening to be safe? Yes? xxx

So that's from last night, talking about today - ie, the beer festival is today. So we are supposedly meeting tomorrow (Saturday) afternoon and going for dinner/a film/whatever. My thing is this. I've not heard from him today, at all; so I have no idea what time in the afternoon he means. I'm actually...well, let's just say A would be proud, since my butterflies always wear off rapidly when I sense there is a distinct Lack of Plan, and moreover a Chance Of Being Blown Off Because Of Rampant Hangover. First up, I rarely drink, so that's kind of ewww to me. And secondly...I have done ENOUGH TIME being second best. It's the first date for fucks' sake. If you don't want to do it then and stay out drinking til you're sick - fine. Just fucking tell me so I can do something nice with my Saturday, maybe go and take some photos or something. Fuck off to Wales for the day.

And also...you know what...I'm sorry but you can at least spare thirty seconds to answer a simple text message. If you're that into me. Right? Right.

Man. Who wants to put bets on he lets me down tomorrow? I am telling you NOW, dear reader, that if he does? I am done with seeking the butterflies for a long fucking time. Forget what I said last night about not being in the mood for anything casual. You know what? Sometimes I wonder if that might not be an altogether better idea. I just worry I'm too fragile for either sometimes. Perhaps that's telling.

Oh my god. A always says to me, "if only you could just be lesbian". See...I'm not strictly all that straight, really (oh cmon who IS) but...I hate to say it; the older I get, the more I like the cock. Christ on a bike I just said that publicly. It's true though. I think it's my frustrated-and-likely-to-remain-thus biological clock ticking. Ho hum.

I suppose that the one benefit of meeting in the afternoon (if, indeed, we meet) is that I can of course spend all morning tweezering my wretchedly, stubbornly lupine eyebrow(s) into a piece of forehead art and swallowing diazepam and weeping. Haha.

In other news, I smell of Oil of Olay. I love the smell - but have just remembered why; it's because this is what my grandmother smelled of. It's lovely in some ways. A comfort and a joy.

...on the other hand, smelling like an 80-year-old probably isn't going to lure the totty. (Sorry Nan.)

Dude. The inside of my head? Is actually fucked. Bedtime for me.