And after I forgave you for Batman.

Well. Haven’t I gotten myself into quite the pickle? Thinking I could make wild extravagant promises because I wouldn’t have to follow through on them. Well, George showed me, didn’t he? Never underestimate the power of the Clooney. The Pony is gone and here I am, stuck in a position most of my (so called) friends will gleefully tell you, I am not relishing in the slightest. I have to tell a boy that I like him.

Ye gods.

I don’t have the slightest inkling of a burgeoning sprite of an idea how Bruno will take this. I don’t even know 100% for sure that he doesn’t have an existing girlfriend that I just haven’t heard about because I don’t ask the right questions. Or if he’s gay. Or recently divorced. Or even worse, a scientologist.

I do know this much. He’s funny, clever, enjoys taking the piss out of me, is freakishly knowledgeable about movies I’ve never heard of, has an adorable smile and some of the best forearms I’ve seen outside of an episode of early season three ER. In other words, I find him quite attractive.

But you could fill fourteen Olympic sized swimming pools with the fear inside me when it comes to actively flirting with a boy I like. A boy I don’t like? I am Flirty McSkirtoff. But present me with one who actually makes my heart go pitty pat that little bit faster and I delve fully into my mucho aggressive ‘I’m funnier than you, and clever-er and you don’t impress me one little bit with your beautifully brown eyes’ mode that apparently fails to get across my attraction. Strange huh? Surely my caustic, burning wit coupled with the ability to drop an ace punch line immaculately into the conversation at the pitch perfect moment, followed by stalking away nonchalantly because I don’t care if you have anything to add because can’t you see that I’m done? is the best possible way to meet and attract men. Right?

Apparently not. Apparently, men can’t read my mind and don’t necessarily know that when I’m being a total bitch to them it usually means I’m besotted. Apparently, men have forgotten that they used to be the boys who pushed the girl they liked over in the play yard. Or (and more likely) men have moved on and I’ve been left behind with retarded social skills that would appear to have screeched to a halt at the same time that the rest of me hit puberty.

Yes, this will be a massive step for me. History (mine) says it won’t go well. I’ve never been good at relaying my emotions in the non-written sense. Speaking involves saliva and my tongue seems to swell to three times its normal size and there’s no spell check. Oh and for those who have already been asking how it went, I will be waiting until AFTER the play is finished. We play husband and wife, which involves a lot of handholding and cuddling (no, there’s no kissing. Freaks.) and if I throw open the door of my heart and he hurriedly shuts it (I'd like to formally apologise for that analogy), I would rather we not have to continue performing with any uncomfortable . . . . uncomfortableness. So in under two weeks at the cast party it shall be, regardless of how hideously cliché that is.
To quote Ferris Bueller : Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

So this is me. Trying not to miss it. Ye gods.

I ask that it please be gentle.