Because he never called.
The bastard.
To top things off, I made the mistake of having some wine earlier in the evening. And some wine turned to more wine. And, since in vino veritas, when my friends asked what I was doing after dinner that night, I unfortunately told them. And I was excited, because I liked the guy, and it looked like he liked me, too. I was dressed in my cute new tshirt and my favorite pair of jeans and everything.
And so later, as the night grew darker and darker, and I started turning down refills of wine to make sure everything downstairs would work later, and so that I could answer the phone coherently when he did call. My friends, however, kept knocking them back. And kept asking me if he'd called yet, even though they were sitting in the same room as I was.
And you know, I'm fine with it. But being asked about it is pretty awful.
I did however, find this hot pic online, which is a much better way to end a post.
I don't know why, but this really pops my cork. Or grinds my gears. Or tickles my funny bone. Or strings my cheese. Or whatever odd saying you prefer. I like it.
