Romeo, 17-0 and paranoia

After squealing some tekkie and flinging some shirt, R also managed to score some chick at the Xmas party on Wed. He knew her age and her number, but not her name – literally saved on his phone as Random.

With much delight we speculated on how to find out this missing information, but she beat him to it. R (let’s call him Romeo) received an email, from this random:

“Are you the Romeo that I met up with last night?”

A bold move as it stands, but bolder still when we noticed that it was sent to every Romeo on the global work list.

To: Rome Jones, Romeo Smith, Romeo Kumalo, Romeo McDonald…

It was the highlight of my hungover day.
No wait, our hockey game was probably the highlight of the hungover day – probably because I had very little to do with it. My tutu-flouncing team won 17-0, mostly thanks to this ballerina, who scored about ten of the goals. I just stood at the back and prayed that someone else would tackle before the opposition got to me.

Then… Boyfriend informed me that he is leaving for The Hague, like, next week. He’s going to the city of the Big Giant rock called Paaaarl to visit his folks and then flying out the next day…like… soon.

When I first started this blog, it was meant to be a soapbox about me and my misadventures. I’ve realised it’s slowly becoming a blog about “how much admin I give my long-suffering and much-loved boyfriend”. Maybe it should be an indepth look into the psyche of a semi-sane female.

I may just be over-tired.

I didn’t sleep much again last night, because I was having a mild panic attack about how soon Boyfriend is going overseas. I’ve got three 'sleeps' left with him. This became very traumatic for me, while Boyfriend was out enjoying farewell drinks with his colleagues.

Last night’s inner monologue: ‘He’s going, I’m staying. I’ll have to sort out the actual move from this side. What still needs to be done? How much longer will my visa take? What if I don’t get my visa? What if I can’t get a job? What if I comfort eat for the next two months and arrive in the country weighing 110kgs and he doesn’t love me any more? He thinks I’m fat!’


Then, drunk Boyfriend came home.












Now let me introduce to the two sides of my brain… there’s Mr Rational, the angel on my left shoulder. Then there’s Ms Dementia, the little voice that produces most of the oestrogen levels in my system.

I think it was Ms Dementia who opened the debate in my head.

Ms D: Go tell him about your paranoia. He’ll love you more for it.
Mr R: Duuuude, the boy is sitting in your lounge in his underwear, scoffing a sandwich drunkenly thrown together three seconds ago…. Now is not the time.
Ms D: Tell him. He’ll appreciate your openness and honesty. He’ll thank you.
Mr R: He’ll think you’re nuts.
Ms D: He knows you’re nuts.

Ms D won.

My Beloved Boyfriend opened and closed his argument with “you’re such a dork.” I found it difficult to counter.

I’m not sure what the point of this post was, I think I’ve lost track a bit. I’m tired, possibly a bit psychotic, and ignoring deadlines. Ms D and The Beast are telling me to get chocolate and a packet of ghost pops.
I always listen to the little voices.