warning: this post contains the disjointed and agitated sputterings of the twitterpated and may not be appropriate for some reading audiences, particularly those with a quick gag reflex.

dating chronicles 2: I am slain

Once I recovered from the effects of spectacle, wormwood and refined sugar, I thought I might be able to think more clearly. But I'm still reeling, dear readers.

He is freaking me out with his ceaseless kindness and forthrightness. He's astute. Warm. Relaxed yet attentive. Surely it's all a clever disguise, taken from the pages of the cougar-slaying almanac? He is a dangerous and calculating brute?

Tonight we go shark diving, and then for palm wine and donuts. I will keep my eyes peeled for a chink in his sugary chain mail. And I will let you know what his fatal flaw is.

But now I must go and sing 'signed, sealed, delivered' in the shower, con gusto.

Trouble, the door is ajar. Have at 'er.