On my way out the door to work this morning I found an envelope with my name on it put through the letterbox. Inside was a note from the 40-year-old music promoter from Friday night. In it he said that his phone died and he therefore lost my number and said that if I still wanted to hang out I should call him on ....
I was curious, though relieved, that he hadn't called, after he asked me at least a dozen times on Friday night if it was alright to call me the following day.
I felt deeply unsatisfied after this weekend - wondering why it is that I am so bored with men, bored with the game, don't see the point, yet nonetheless still manage to end up snogging and/or shagging some random guy that I don't particularly fancy.
Should I go back to being a recluse? Spend less time at the pub? Drink less and therefore have less of a chance of making a silly twat of myself and/or leading anyone on?
This is a dilemma, bearing in mind I am coming up to a bank holiday weekend and I have five glorious days off from work and very little idea of what to do with myself.
Maybe some nights out to lesbian bars/clubs would cheer me up this weekend...
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