Like a chump who shows up to her bat mitzvah at 32.
So. Um, how’ve you been? [Looks awkward and shuffles feet.] Good? You been good? Sweet Mary. The guilt I’ve felt for letting my wuc grow cobwebs! (Ewww.) We’re talking, Catholic guilt. Teenage pregnancy guilt. Hairy armpits guilt.
But I return to thee (laptop, Bareilles and figurative in hand) – the Lando Calrissian to your Han Solo. It’s good to see you, old friend. We shall live to fight another day! (And I will go on to star in such nuggets of goodness as Dynasty and Dangerous Passion) (good times).
I have much news (to be said like Xena the Warrior Princess) but no Zeusly idea where to begin. Like Atreyu, I battled the Nothing only to lose “Artaaaax!” in the Swamp of Sadness.
I feel beholden to shoot to the crotch of the matter, like a spider seeking a damp and warm place to reside. But the tale of Gay Prince and Me is not a coherent one.
In short and much surprise – he took it to the next level (read: mezzanine with restricted access). Months of imitating dating. Hours and daze, attached at the hip. Twas bonny (albeit soggy with pseudo), and much like living in the belly of a hiccup.
“And she did dwell beside GP in glorium (aka her new office) for the time it took a ray of sunshine to be eclipsed by a painfully-punctual precipitation.” Beard of Zeus
Or, in the soluble words of Jane Austen … “exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week later, Gay Prince did cease employment, and became as absent to Wuc as she herself could not fucking desire”. (I paraphrase.)
Ergo. Tragically. We’ve missed our window to join hands, tuck penises and sing Kumbaya.
Instead, welcome to The Hangover. Where I puzzle together what went wuc (and come to terms with the proverbial Tyson sprawled across my face).
In the kindime (and absence of cognitive thought), allow me to depict my mental state: