Finally blogger lets me in! I don't like to shift blame, but maybe, just maybe, if I'd had an outlet, two things that happened last night might not have. One is a bit embarrassing but I am going to tell because it is also a bit funny, and it's really one's duty to tell things if they're funny and embarrass only one's own drunken rear.
Evening began in civilised fashion, reading my book (Edith Wharton's The House Of Mirth - I'm really enjoying it) and quietly drinking a beer (as the beer took effect, the book seemed to be more and more about the difficulties faced by the good-looking rather than by all women, an issue I find really isn't addressed by anyone except Fashion Quarterly - awful, awful article). Evening became a little less civilised when I realised the time on the clock was also the time I was meant to meet friends at the pub and had to knock back beer, setting an unfortunate precedent.
Evening ended at a Scottish restaurant Vincent and I frequent. Vincent went to use the bathroom, and I wrote this text to my sister: "That was difficult but he's finally mad with me. If I play my cards right, he might finally slap me in the face when we have sex tonight. Where are you guys?" which I sent... to Vincent. I tried to cancel the send but it was too late, and out he came from the toilets, laughing, but also shaking his head. I tried to teleport myself but my systems failed, and instead I was forced to cover my crimson face while I shook with sheepish laughter, and then faced the wall while finishing my Large Son Of. Moments later, I left my partner in misadventure behind, and someone took it. Obviously my fitness is lacking in all areas; that must be a karmic record.
What we have learned: Vincent is a minor saint. I have fulfilled Vincent's friend's prophecy and can no longer deny being both "hard work" (said to me) and "a project" (said to Vincent). Who has the last laugh? I'm not sure.
Image from Movifone.com