Happy Boxing Day.
I have spent the day lying around on the sofa at my parents’ house, eating my body weight in cheese and chocolate. I’m not complaining.
I am complaining, however, about B.
Latest update: he texts on and off. He was super lovely when I had tonsillitis. We last texted on Christmas Eve. I waited for him to text me on Christmas Day. Nothing. I waited for him to text me today. Nothing.
Meanwhile I notice that he has once again checked out my eHarmony profile. What is with this passive flirtatious behaviour?
Dude, just say hi.
I know what you are thinking. But I can text him. But I can call him. Yes, I can. But I did so on Christmas Eve, and I am not about to become the psycho who will not stop texting. I was that girl between the ages of 18 and 29. I have learned a little self-restraint in the past two years. Just a little bit. OK, a tiny bit.
Ahhhh, B, so ridiculously handsome and yet possibly somewhat of a non-starter.
Never mind, never mind.
I honestly think 2013 has hurt so much, that I can cope with just about anything these days.
However (my therapist says it’s OK to say this out loud so I’m just going to say it), I hate being single. I hate it. Not because I’m needy. Not because I’m desperate to get married right this minute (I have other plans for at least then extra few hours). Just because I love nothing more than being close to someone.
B, well, I don’t know that we will ever get close.
But someone will want to be close to me. Someday.
I smell nice.
Pizza of Doom 
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