Subject to inspection.

There are a number of reasons why I did it. Good friends of mine had been doing it and I felt left behind. I'm out of the running for a husband and children aren't my sport so I thought I could compete in this one arena.

Although my dating life is still enough of a disaster to warrant some sort of special mention by CNN's Anderson Cooper, it's stopped bothering me -- for today at least. My $10,000 chin was a bit of a concern but that sort of money coming out of my pocket seems too abstract an idea to really rattle me, so perhaps I felt a slippery slope between a $10,000 chin and spending like I'm J.Lo.

And so I got pre-approved for a mortgage.

Seriously. Some mortgage broker found some lending institution stupid enough to give me more than a quarter of a million dollars. Obviously neither the broker nor the lending institution are aware I own purses with the price tags still on them, or that I only recently remembered I had money coming out of my account for a gym I haven't driven past in more than a year, or that I always over tip because I can't do percentages in my head. Essentially, I should not be a candidate for a mortgage.

Once pre-approved I felt I needed to act. It was only a matter of time before somebody took a closer look at my credit history and revoked my approval. I called up a realtor that same afternoon and by God I was going for the ultimate shopping high.

Real estate is interesting in Victoria. Industry insiders have special terminology they use to describe the local housing market, and I've since picked up their 'lingo,' and am now in the know, so bear with with me should you not understand the real estate jargon unique to this city. In short, the market in Victoria is so fucking fucked up it's not even fucking funny so...fuck!

I understand why many people would want to live here. I understand why Asian and American investors want to buy here and I understand why oldsters who spent the better part of their lives freezing their dangling parts off in the prairies want to retire here. I understand why developers build only 'luxury' condos or townhouses and I understand I am not their target market.

I understand that there are people out there who make enough money to consider the majority of homes starting at $600,000 to be perfectly reasonable, but what I don't understand is just what in the fuck I'm supposed to do. (See? You're already catching on to Victoria real estate lingo too!)

Too poor to ever think about owning a house in this city, I'm shopping for an entry-level condo/apartment that will not require me to use a food bank to feed myself. Therein lies the problem. No such property exists.

Every decent property is just slightly out of my reach. I either can't afford it at all, or can barely afford it which actually feels worse. I don't want to give my entire life over to my mortgage. I don't want to have to save money to buy a chocolate bar and I don't want to panic should I run out of deodorant and not be able to buy more because I chose to eat that day.

My salary must be just slightly lower than so many others because the competition for over-priced entry-level condos is fierce. Other people are buying these places with prejudice. My realtor would tell me he had eight properties to show me and the following morning six would be sold. There was no time to think.

I fell in love with an apartment only to find out there was an accepted offer on the place even as I stood in the living room contemplating where my furniture would go. I agonized over putting an offer on a condo with water views even though the fridge was in the dining room and the balcony tilted. I took note of simple ways to make an apartment appear 'designer' in a small two-bedroom that gave me flea bites.

Finally I stopped by an open house for a large one-bedroom in my preferred neighborhood while out for a walk one afternoon, and everything started happening very fast. It was out of my price range but the owner was desperate to sell.

My realtor went to see the place and declared it a superb value and I would never find an apartment that large, in such a fine building, in such a prestigious neighborhood ever again. He suggested a low-ball offer that would stretch my budget to near breaking and I said that could work even though I can't figure out percentages in my head and really just wanted to get off the phone so I could go for lunch.

After work I found myself at my realtor's office because I couldn't figure out how not to be there. The next thing I knew I was signing my initials here, here, here, there, up here, down there, here and now here. I had no idea how I came to be signing anything. When I was finished, my realtor said, "Congratulations, you just spent a quarter of a million dollars." Then I passed out.

The seller had until 9:00 that night to accept my offer of 17,000k below the asking price. I arrived home at 6:00, sat down on the edge of my couch and rocked myself back and forth until 9:30 when the phone rang.

Words can not describe my terror. Strangely, I was so much more afraid my offer would be accepted. When my realtor said the price had been rejected I just about fell to my knees. I could buy chocolate bars again! I could afford deodorant! I was going to live!

The seller had countered with a figure way beyond me. My agent wanted to counter with 2000k more than my original offer, despite my original offer having long ago left my comfort zone without even leaving a note. It was a good value in a great neighborhood and I could think about it overnight.

There was no more thinking for me. The next day I refused to counter and I refused to stand firm on my initial offer. My real estate agent sounded incredulous that I would back away and has not spoken to me since.

My real estate agent can just kiss the ass I spent an evening clenching in terror. I've had guys I'm much more attached to never call me again after considerably more pleasurable experiences than being shown around a few condos so if he thinks I'm going to feel badly...he obviously doesn't read this blog.

Something blue.

Weddings are emotional for me. They're emotional for many as evidenced by the sniffling and weeping that took place during the ceremony I was at over the weekend, but those folks get emotional because they're warm-hearted decent people. People who are different from me.

I get emotional at weddings because I'm a jealous, bitter, resentful bitch. Owning up to being a bitter and resentful bitch is not new, but realizing my jealousy over my friend being so very happy is a totally new achievement in bad behaviour.

It's also frightening, because it means I actually want to get married. I was with somebody for four years and he called me his wife. I felt no joy in the designation. His mother called me her daughter-in-law and that made me happier because I loved his mom, but I hedged when she talked about when we would make it official. The thought of the rest of my life being like the four years previous made me cry.

As I have yet to see a bridal magazine featuring a woman weeping in the fetal position on the cover I assumed my attitude wasn't going to make for a fairy tale wedding. It didn't occur to me until very recently that perhaps I wasn't against marriage in general; just marriage to the wrong person.

I'm actually more pro-wedding than marriage. Above all, I really want to have a wedding. I haven't thought through the actual marriage to follow but I want the party and the surrounding hoopla.

I want all of my friends and family in one room and I want to know we've all come together to celebrate the far-fetched yet joyous occasion of me finding a guy I like, who presumably liked me enough to call me back at some point for a second date. This would be the best I could really hope for, so we'd likely have an annulment the next day but at least I will have had a wedding.

The wedding that took place this weekend was for the daughter of very close family friends. She's younger than I am which of course inspired all kinds of talk about when "my turn" would come. Sadly, this phrase wasn't used in reference to when my table would get to approach the buffet line.

Because this girl is so close to my family, this wedding hurt my heart a little for other reasons. I got to see what my parents would be like at my wedding or my sister's wedding because we think of this girl as one of ours.

My Dad can shake his booty like you wouldn't believe (especially if it's Elvis) and a circle actually formed around him and the mother of the bride on the dance floor. My Mom fussed over the arrangements and decor like the resulting pictures would be hanging in her living room and for all I know they will be - for lack of any other forthcoming wedding photos.

After several hours of eating, drinking and dancing including the humiliating tradition known as the Chicken Dance, it was time for that other exercise in wedding humiliation known as the Bouquet Toss.

About ten lovely young women and assorted spinsters gathered in a tight knot behind the bride, actually jostling one another for position. Naturally I stood three feet taller in my heels than the other girls so I stood in the back of the crowd with my arms folded.

I couldn't be a poor sport and sit out the Toss but I couldn't bring myself to push and shove and get into position like a starter pistol was about to go off either. I went with more of a martyred approach to participation.

The bride faked-out the crowd several times, inspiring anguished cries from the jostling single white females. Just before she tossed it for real, she looked at me over her shoulder and grinned. And I knew.

The bouquet was coming straight for my head.

Sure enough, she purposely threw it high. I had a split second to contemplate ducking to avoid having a tulip embedded in my eyeball but I reflexively curled my fingers tight around the flower petals and snatched the bouquet out of the air.

The other women gathered on that dance floor whipped around and glared at me like I had done something wrong. I felt they looked at me as if they knew this hallowed tradition/superstition had gone to terrible waste -- like the bouquet should have been tossed to somebody with a chance at fulfilling the prophecy.

The crowd dispersed and I went to the bride. I knew I should at least thank her for her optimism. While she doesn't know my current dating situation, or profound lack of situation she must have made at least one revealing observation.

As we hugged she whispered, "That was for your parents."

Do not tell me to keep my chin up.

Out of all the parts of my body that bother me on a daily basis - the nose my ex declared too big for my face, my back which continues to cause me pain, the mysterious female problems that have my doctor so baffled he's in danger of becoming a workplace shooting statistic should he tell me it must all be in my head one more time, my peasant legs too thick to fit into boots, my cowlick right in the middle of my forehead preventing me from ever having trendy bangs, my small boobs so out of proportion with my broad back my bras look like two eye patches attached to a ziptreck line, my cankles, my childbearing hips, my thighs - a fire hazard in corduroy pants and my inability to tan...none of these 'flaws' is going to cost me $10,000.

My chin - the least offensive part of my entire body - will.

Chin may actually be a misnomer. I have a small area underneath my bottom lip, but I wouldn't go so far as to call it a chin. Therein lies the problem. I've always had a very pronounced overbite, and for the most part I've accepted this. I have a hell of a time not looking double-chinned in photographs but if my eyes are open and I don't look plus-size a picture of me with a double-chin is really a minor inconvenience.

My overbite has meant I sometimes have to chew food differently than other people and think very carefully about putting my hair back for fear my face looks a little unbalanced but other than that I was fine with it. I've even grown to like the way it makes my lips appear just a little more pouty.

Over the years though, I've had to pay more attention to my jaw in general. It pops and cracks. Sometimes when I'm chewing it feels like pop-rocks candy in my cheeks. Chewing a stick of gum makes my face ache and every so often my jaw gets stuck out of place, causing me a moment of hand-flapping panic for fear this will be the time it won't go back.

A few years ago I saw an orthodontist in Calgary. He cupped his hand under my chin-like area, tilted my head back and forth and declared my problems didn't look obvious.

If he was to treat me, it wouldn't solve any of my complaints but it would fix my 'minor deformity.' The treatment would be cosmetic at best. I paid the man $80 for this in-depth assessment and put it out of my head until a couple of weeks ago.

My newly acquired BC dentist referred me to an orthodontist after looking at my x-rays. I figured I'd been around this block and while I appreciated my dentist's concern I thought I knew what was coming. Unlike the guy in Calgary though, this orthodontist put my slightly malformed head through the paces.

I chewed for him, I bit, I yawned, I stretched my mouth, I ground my teeth, I wiggled my jaw all with his gloved fingers buried somewhere in my cheekbones. The official diagnosis - big trouble.

Apparently I'm losing bone. I don't know where it's going, but it's being ground out of my cheeks. This bone isn't surplus as I had hoped, so if I continue to lose it I'll have to have it replaced. I offered part of the bone in my nose in hopes that I could perhaps solve two problems in one shot but it seems the bone they would put back into my peanut head would be from cadavers.

Bone from dead people in my face aside, continued bone loss may lead to excruciating pain and replacing the bone is no guaranteed fix. Since my back and pelvis have cornered the market on excruciating pain lately, this just won't do.

It seems as if my jaw problems are also causing my gums to disappear. For many years, dentists and hygienists have told me I'm brushing too hard and eroding my gums. I struggled with brushing any lighter without giving up and simply waving the toothbrush in front of my face in elaborate pantomime, and still hygienists threatened me with thoughts of skin-grafts and nerve damage should I continue brushing my teeth so obviously with steel wool.

The orthodontist chuckled to himself and asked me how many times I've been told I need to change how I brush my teeth. Gums are disappearing aren't they? He said this like he was letting me in on a very good joke. The joke is, my jaw is so misaligned it's causing my gums to pack up and go home to wherever they came from in the first place.

It was time to talk solutions, but there weren't many options to talk about. There's only one option - braces followed by surgery to break my jaw and move it to where it's supposed to be.

At first, the surgery part didn't phase me. I sat there considering how successful my dating life currently is and how much it can only improve with solid metal braces catching the sunlight. I asked if it was possible I could have clear braces and he said it may be possible, but this could affect the cost.

The cost. I didn't even get to worrying over the cost until a couple of days later. I know my benefits will pay for half of the braces, bringing the expense down to a mere partial down payment on a condo but I was rather confused about the surgery, so I phoned the orthodontist's office.

It would seem the surgery will cost me an entire down payment on a condo, as it's considered cosmetic. It doesn't matter that bone is falling out of my head and my gums are sinking like Atlantis, jaw surgery is not covered unless I have a cleft-palate or something that sounded like inter-facial disorder.

I seized upon this thought. Inter-facial disorder - I was pretty sure they could put me down for that...couldn't they? The receptionist assured me I did not have this disorder. Was she sure? Yes she was sure. If I had it I would be seriously deformed. How deformed is seriously deformed? We would be unable to have this conversation. I see.

All told, I'll be paying out approximately $10,000 for a facial flaw I was pretty sure I could live with. Everything else that causes me pain or anxiety will still be there, with the exception of my doctor who may not make it through my next appointment. I won't have an MBA or a condo, but by God...I'll have a chin.

List.

In no particular order...

• My car (known as Roxy Roller or Foxy from the Roxy) came down ill and I took the bus to and from work every day for a week. This sucked donkey balls.
• I've lost 12 pounds so far on my Weightwatchers diet. This would be awesome if I didn't start out at 12 pounds over the heaviest I had ever previously been, but I'm still happy to report I'm down to the second heaviest I've ever been.
• I came down ill and took a Monday off, part of which I spent contemplating whether I was feverish or undergoing total menopause during Judge Judy. I've since concluded: feverish.
• While I was away from work sweating and shaking that Monday, Darcy unexpectedly came to see me -- at work. He left me a cute little note, and I haven't heard from him since. I actually haven't seen him at all since Valentine's Day. Our receptionist described him as an extremely good-looking young man, but isn't he a little young for me? Darcy is actually older than I am. Our receptionist is a passive-aggressive bitch.
• I learned that girls in grade eight are having anal sex from discussions overheard while I was taking the bus. Apparently, "your ass can't make a baby." Tell that to somebody who's perpetually constipated.
• Two different friends are getting married in shot-gun style weddings in March. One just before the baby arrives, and one some time after the baby dropped. I'm not sure what kind of happy I feel.
• Darcy has invited me in online conversations past to drop by and visit him at one of his nearby construction sites. The last sunny day a friend and I attempted to do that under the guise of just happening to be going for a walk in the neighborhood. I was too chickenshit to ask any of the guys standing around if Darcy was nearby and so my friend and I ended up walking by just clutching each other and laughing. It was just like being in grade eight all over again...minus all the anal action.
• I promise you this will be the only post of mine featuring the words, "anal action." Ever.

That is all.

And the fat lady expected to sing exits stage left in confusion...

I don't even know what to say anymore. I'm trying to be strong, and for a little while I was winning the battle of the sexes...until I discovered I was never actually enlisted.

Things with Darcy were tenuously hopeful after he initially dropped off the face of the globe following our first date. He'd get in touch with me on his own accord, we'd chat, flirt and avoid making any plans. At least a pattern was established.

This past Saturday morning was more of the same. Finally he asked me when I was going to invite him over and I told him I had no plans that night if he wanted to get together. What follows is the actual transcript of our conversation:

Bambi: i've got nothing going on tonight - maybe we could get together

(Notice how I make it sound as if this may be only as good an option as say, my laundry...or watching yet another episode of America's Most Wanted to see if I know anybody profiled? Smooth hey?)

Darcy: That sounds really good. maybe get some eats??movie??something fun??

(Notice the overuse of question marks. I'm not saying it means anything - it's just annoying.)

Bambi: sure - i'm up for whatever

(Notice how cool and laid back I was trying to come across? I was actually dancing around my living room in a very not cool way. There was no music playing.)

Darcy: What's your number? I'll give you a call we'll figure out what we're doing...

(Notice the beginnings of the oral contract we are about to negotiate? This will be important later.)

Bambi: 555-BMBI

(Notice that's not actually my number - this is the only part that isn't true.)

Darcy: Cool. What time should I phone? What time will you be home?

(Notice I thought this was really considerate of him to ask and it made me trust in him completely. If he was going to be one of those f*ckwits who says they'll call and then don't then surely why would he go through the trouble of asking when I'd be home? I mean...surely?)

Bambi: about 3-ish. anytime after that should be good.

Darcy: K - I'll call you then.

Bambi: great - talk soon.

I'm sorry to have to fill this post with a transcript, but I need some sort of validation that I'm not actually crazy because...

The f*ckwit didn't call.

And whenever this happens, I don't care who you are -- you're waiting. I will fully admit to waiting. I took the phone into the bathroom with me when I went pee, just in case it rang. That's right. I brought it with me. That's how intently I was waiting.

By Saturday evening I had accepted he wasn't going to call and I marked the occasion by going out and sharing three bottles of wine with a friend only to end up dancing atop a speaker at the end of the night. And yes, I am 31 years old. And single. Hard to believe isn't it?

I waited to hear on Sunday whether Darcy had succumbed to a particularly fast-moving form of flesh-eating disease, or been swallowed up by a particularly fast-moving crevasse at one of his construction sites. Basically, I waited to hear if he was dead - because that could be acceptable.

Monday I prepared to write him off. I sent him the following email:

Darcy -

Thanks for not calling – if you had I wouldn’t have ended up toasting the city lights with champagne and a bunch of people I hadn’t seen in a while on Saturday – so that turned out relatively awesome. At the same time...not calling was rude and disrespectful. So rude, I'm not even sure flowers, 20 pairs of new shoes, or a weekend at the Wickaninnish Inn would make up for it.

Bambi

I was happy having the last word. The last word felt really good. And if he changed his mind maybe I'd get a weekend at the Wickaninnish. It was truly a win-win.

Tuesday I heard nothing from Darcy, and I patted myself on the back for being a witty woman scorned at least. Darcy had not spoken - it was done.

And then came 20 minutes ago. I'm sitting here, at my desk, pretending to be working. Darcy comes online and says this:

"I am so, so sorry I didn't call you Saturday Bambi. I have no excuse."

My mouth falls open and I debate whether to answer. Yeah right. As if I'll give up the last word now.

"I'm glad you're not bothering with an excuse. I wouldn't have bought an alien abduction story."

I expect this to be the end of the conversation, and I'm happy with it but oh no -- Darcy also likes to have the last word.

"I'm just sorry I turned out to be so ignorant."

Ignoring the obvious catty answers, I went with a compromise.

"That makes two of us then. But thanks for the apology."

"You're welcome."

Sneaky bastard. I couldn't let him sneak it in there like that.

"Take care of yourself then Darcy. You're an interesting guy."

Holy shit! I actually gave him the kiss of death -- take care of yourself! I told him to fuck off! Oh my God that felt good! Oh my God what did I just do??

"You're an interesting girl too. I've just been so swamped. I've been so busy. I'll say hi soon."

Um. Did I not just tell him to go away?? Did I not just say kiss-off?? What is he doing?? Why am I using extra question marks now??

"Keep in touch. I know what it's like when things get busy."

Why am I telling him to keep in touch? Do I seriously not know any better?

Apparently not.

The fat lady is still inhaling...

1903 - Helen Keller completes "The Story of My Life," a book now heralded as a masterpiece, despite a mild case of total blindness and somewhat complete inability to hear a thing.

1929 - Virginia Woolf publishes "A Room of One's Own," an essay defining the distinctive struggle of the woman artist, despite a mild case of insufferability. And suicidal tendencies.

2008 - Bambi sends an email.

In terms of historical importance, it may be a long time before my own contribution is recognized. I would argue though, that my email is no less courageous.

Tuesday, I sent an email to Darcy. This went against my nature. My instinct was to do absolutely nothing and chalk the whole experience up to whatever genetic mistake rendered me heterosexual.

Luckily I have a friend who is much bolder than I am, and upon hearing that Darcy also makes a stupid amount of money in addition to being everything else I described she declared that the situation was not to be taken lightly. Something more was called for.

I swear to God more planning went into this email than went into the war in Iraq. I stayed away from MSN in preparation and rejected several drafts. My email was four lines long.

It was also cheeky, funny, light-hearted, and fairly bold. In it I asked that Darcy let me know when he was ready for a second date. Not if - but when.

The next day I had an email back. He thought my email was very funny. Apparently he's sorry. He's been so busy, moving and building houses and trying to get roofs on before it rains and etc. but he'll get in touch when he has more time.

I didn't reply, and I stayed offline.

Last night I broke down, went online again and Darcy finally gets in touch with me. We have a very flirty chat that way for over an hour. I'm just as shocked as both of you.

You'd think I would be happy now wouldn't you? You'd think I'd be feeling more secure? You'd think at least part of my brain cells would have spontaneously regenerated? Wouldn't you?

Um...no. You see, we still don't have plans to actually see one another again. The conversation never went that way at all, despite me willing it to go that way until my hair and teeth hurt.

I'm very aware of a fourth work of brilliance titled, "He's Just Not That Into You." I've read the first couple of chapters surreptiously in Chapters, and believe the authors may be onto something.

I'm just refusing to apply their logic to my particular scenario. Yet. Despite the novelty, I rather like being hopeful.

Situation: normal.

Friday Afternoon

I notice Darcy is online. I send him a message saying, "I had a great time last night - thanks again." He replies with a message saying, "So did I!!! We'll have to do it again soon!!!" Darcy is a big fan of the unnecessary exclamation point, which I am willing to overlook.

It seems as if something more is called for. "We'll have to do it again soon...what are you doing this weekend?" should be the natural finish, but nothing more is forthcoming. Fine. Even though I hate myself for it, I reply that maybe we could do something this weekend.

Darcy replies sure, he was working until 6 on Saturday, heading up-island for a bit on Sunday -- maybe later on Sunday??? Darcy is also fond of the unnecessary question mark. This is a new and inexplicably ominous development.

After a little more chit-chat Darcy has to go because he's going to have a nap. I wish him a good rest, and say good-bye.

Excuses I am able to make on Darcy's behalf:

• He's a guy and therefore less concerned with details than I am -- perhaps in his mind this actually constitutes plans.
• Although a lesser person may find it slightly insulting that he would rather nap than talk to me, he's probably very tired. His job is demanding and he did have quite a bit to drink when we were out the night before.
• Everything. Is. Just. Fine. I'm being paranoid. He was really into me, and I'm being silly.

Despite appearing to be online Friday night, I don't hear from him. Out of frustration and the need to make it look like I have better things to do, I make it appear as if I'm offline. That will sure show him.

Instead of going out and doing anything productive however, I rent La Vie En Rose and spend the last half hour of the movie sobbing my eyes out and eating peanut butter off a spoon. I can't hardly believe I'm still single.

(Also, they should just hand Marion Cotillard the Oscar like, right now. I was covered in tears, snot and peanut butter and completely unable to wipe my face for fear of missing a single sub-title. That has to be worth something.)

Saturday Night

It's after 6:00 and Darcy is back from work. I know this because I'm answering some emails when I see him come online. I wait. I'm sure he'll say hello this time. I watch Cops and make some dinner. No message. I watch a second episode of Cops and eat the portion of my dinner meant for leftovers on Sunday. No message. I turn off my computer.

Excuses I am able to make on Darcy's behalf, again:

• He's exhausted from work, and just doesn't feel like talking.
• Maybe it just looks as if he's online, and is actually making dinner, taking a bath or being held hostage.
• Since we spoke briefly on Friday, he may not see the point in talking on Saturday. It's not like we have to talk everyday or anything...although we just about did before we actually met, but whatever.
• He went to work without a hardhat and suffered a blow to the head, causing selective amnesia.

Staying home and moping around would be pathetic and lame, when I could be out meeting somebody -- anybody else. I stay home and watch Superbad. As soon as it's professionally viable I'm renaming myself McLovin.

Sunday Morning

Today is the day Darcy suggested could work, emphasized with question marks of course. He's supposed to be going up-island, but it's still morning and he's online and so am I.

He's not making breakfast or in the bath or being held hostage because by coincidence, I notice he's online and checking his email within the dating site we connected on. He's obviously in the same room as his computer. I'm agonizing over what to do. Do I send him a message? What if it comes off as desperate?

Desperate be damned. I'm sending a message...but what to say? 'Hello,' seems too formal. 'Hi there' is too dorky. 'Hey' is too abrupt...Christ on a cracker. Good to see my Writing Degree is proving so useful.

I settle for 'Hey there.' It's a strong enough greeting to require some kind of acknowledgement while still seeming casual. I hit SEND and wait.

And wait. I make some tea. Toast an english muffin. Slather english muffin in peanut butter. Add banana slices to counteract the calories in the peanut butter, because everybody knows that's how it works.

Eat the muffin. Drink the tea. Check on my computer. Darcy is now offline. He saw my carefully crafted greeting, and didn't respond.

Excuses I'm able to make this time on Darcy's behalf:

• None. I got nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It is now Sunday evening. I check my email on Plenty of Fish, and can see that Darcy is online there again -- which is odd because he's not online on MSN. Interesting.

Thursday night I would have considered it crazy to think Darcy would block my address on MSN. Now I'm convinced he has.

Darcy is almost always online in the evenings. For him to be online in one place and not MSN is weird. Perhaps my choice of 'Hey there,' really was too forward.

This afternoon I was worrying about the logistics of hiring somebody good with a machete to take swift action with my fingers, toes, elbows, nose or anything else I could use to type with should I be tempted to send another message to Darcy at any point this week. It appears this problem is now moot, since I may not have the opportunity again anyway.

So now I'm left with the inevitable question. What in the f*ck happened????

Some possible explanations for just what in the f*ck happened:

• The ridiculous amount of Advil I take in a day caused me to hallucinate the entire date. (Although this doesn't explain how I came to be in possession of a card signed by a guy named Darcy... that would be really eerie if I hallucinated the entire thing.) Maybe I just hallucinated the good parts.
• He did have quite a bit to drink, as he took a taxi and I drove. Maybe he's an alcoholic and our entire date was spent in a blackout.
• Darcy decided he was going to show one woman the most amazing Valentine's Day of her entire life to atone for some sort of prior romantic sin. Job well done! He can now get into Hallmark Heaven.
• He was mocking me the entire time. Instead of meaning every nice thing he said to me, he was making fun of me.
• When he kissed me he didn't like the way I kissed back. Maybe I wasn't on my best game, thrown off by his command of hair stroking and lip-sucking. It's been a while since I've had a really good kiss after all.
• God hates me more than I previously thought. I'd been thinking our ongoing feud was based on some sort of grudging respect, but obviously this is not the case. Prick.

So for those worried I'd have nothing to write about if I was actually happy and in love with a guy in love with me...you naiive bitches. Bambi is back - I never left. Situation normal.