Evidently, on Sunday, I gave my number to the weird Italian. Yes, I know I didn’t mention the weird Italian before, but that is only because I didn’t think that the subject would come up again. And it has. And I can’t believe it. Because do I remember said events? No. I don’t. I remember a lot of him speaking to me in French. (Why was the Italian speaking to me in French? Your guess is as good as mine. Most likely because he knows it’s hot). Who knows how these things happen? Would it be redundant to blame it on rum and coke? Who cares? I’m doing it.

TNG hasn’t called. Which does not shock me. It also does not upset me. Because eventually, when he comes out of the closet, we will shop together. And then we can both have linen pants.

I made a deal with Casper tonight that I would go to the pool if she shot some tequila. It was amusing to watch. But she took it like a pro. And being that my doing some was not part of the deal, it was even more pleasurable.

I had rye toast and a café mocha for dinner and M&M’s for lunch. I am about to gnaw my leg off. I need a turkey reuben. Stat.

Stuck-in-my-head Song of the Day: "Sleepyhouse"-Blind Melon