My LA heartthrob was supposed to call me today. Well, he was supposed to call me yesterday. And the day before. He goes back to LA later today. I’ve calmly responded to all of his promised contact with casual and charming non-threatening encouragement, yet he’s flaked every time. I think there’s something wrong with him. I mean, there must be, right? Number 1: He didn’t come out–or have intimate relations–until he was 30. Number 2: He didn’t say anything when I told him he was adorable. Something’s got to be wrong with him. Obviously, he doesn’t think he’s handsome, or believe that I do. I respond to such very specific stimuli, it’s disappointing to have him buzz away from my ovipositor.
But maybe there’s something wrong with all single men over 40? I mean, why are we single at this age?
Paris Hilton is coming over for burritos and a movie tonight. He’s thrown 2 major jealous tantrums since we met. Around imagined competition. And we haven’t even had sex yet. Tonight I need to tell him that I’m still in the getting-to-know-him phase and hope that he doesn’t fly off the handle. Our relationship thus far feels very much like a Linda Blair After School Special, like where Linda has casual sex with some stranger who picked her up while hitchhiking and then he shows up at her school and won’t leave her alone and eventually kidnaps her and ends up getting shot to death in a big shootout with the police and the last shot is of Linda crying in her mom’s protective arms. I’m keeping my Pearl Beyond All Price tucked away for now.
Meanwhile, I still have a crush on my Denver Juliet, although his user pic is kind of blurry and I can only make out about 1/4 of his body and not even all of his face, so I could be crushed out on an image that’s just in my head, but still, it’s nice to have something to hold on to–even if it’s not real. Or something that can actually be held on to.