Well, That Was Awkward...

Sunday was both more and less painful than I expected.

I managed to get myself together and, after flipping through all the usual suspects, I finally found an album on my MP3 player to get myself into the necessary mindset to survive the evening. (Amy Winehouse, "Back to Black," in case you were wondering. "Tears Dry on Their Own" is officially my new theme song.)

Mr. I arrived at the theatre, and, with the exception of a few loaded moments, I was doing okay...

...until he came up to me backstage in the middle of Act 2 with this mean little smile on his face and said, "So, you want to talk now?"

I flipped him off--more playfully than he deserved--called him an ass, and walked away. Needless to say my head was not in the game for the rest of that show.

Dick.

So now we have a date an appointment to meet for coffee tomorrow afternoon and talk this thing through while we're both sober. Let me tell you, making a date to receive bad news is quite a mindfuck. As much as I'd like to maintain a little hope that perhaps, given a few days (and a few more functioning braincells) to think about it, he'll rethink his position, I'm not banking on it. We all see where hope has already gotten me, and I'm not sure I can cope with being any further up this particular creek than I've already ventured.

Still, I'm giving him a chance... a chance to prove that he's not a complete twat. Because, despite the pyrotechnics of Saturday night, I still like him. And I'm a sucker. And clearly, my sense of self-preservation is on holiday somewhere, stranded by that damned volcano and not coming back any time soon.

In the mean time you can bet your ass I'll be looking good tomorrow afternoon. Hey, a gal's gotta use what she's got.