So the man (Wentworth, to you faithful readers) who left me rather suddenly nine months back because he was "afraid of commitment" (his words, not mine) just announced his engagement.
Add that to the Boy's earnest, heart-warming desire for us to be friends, and sprinkle on top the most recent boyfriend's decision to cancel our romantic weekend to go on holiday with some bikini-clad chick he met in Ibiza, and I'm starting to wonder whether it isn't time to take a good, hard look in the mirror and finally accept that maybe, just maybe, it isn't them. It's me.
This will be one of those posts that leads concerned friends and family members to wonder whether it's entirely appropriate to be quite this personal on such a public forum. And my answer to that is, well, it probably isn't.
But if there's a small chance that writing things down will make me feel better about the fact that I keep falling for guys who think I'm just swell but who'd rather be with the leggy blonde, then I'm going to take it. Writing isn't Harry Potter-esque magic, but it's the closest thing I know to it. A way to feel the pain and tragedy of humiliating disappointment, have a good moan, and let it go, into the abstract, not-quite-there ether of the internet.
Is it gone yet?
Could someone please hurry over with the Nutella?