Oh, good grief. Men play such petty little games. They want to go out and then they don’t want to go out and then they might want to go out but they’re not sure. What? Do you think I’m sitting here painting my toenails and reading Cosmo waiting for you to make up your mind what your schedule is going to be? What is this? A nation of wimpy men? All talk and no action? I’m really sick of all these men with their mixed signals. Not putting up with it.
Yeah, I know, it’s not true. The last guy I dated was way too pushy and clingy at the same time. This one’s just…indecisive as hell but not enough to say, here, Lorna, you make all the decisions, which I’d be happy to do.
This time tomorrow night, I’ll have something for the weekend penciled in. What—or who—remains to be seen.
I guess I’m playing Goldilocks right now. Last porridge was too hot. This one’s too cold.
And what the hell is porridge anyway?