In a bit of a bind

I had an awesome weekend. You know, one of those filled with lots and lots of…how do I keep this PG….erm, candy. It all started when I invited a certain miss K over for dinner on Friday night. Next thing we knew, it was Sunday afternoon and we were having breakfast in bed. I’m sitting in my office now grinning like an idiot consumed by thoughts of what went down (literally) last weekend. I need to purse my lips in a monumental display of self-restraint to avoid going into an explicit narrative every time someone asks me how my weekend was.

She's at least at least 6 years younger than me (or I?), but what a cutie. She’s hilarious, a major plus in my book; an insatiable hot-blooded tigress.

It's not all roses though. There’s just one itsy bitsy problem I conveniently ignored the whole weekend. To me, this is all just an entertaining anecdote to, for the most part, a lacklustre week. But it was obvious from the heart dangling off her sleeve, she wants more.

She looks and acts young. I mean ‘just hatched’ young. Her favourite musicians? Britney and N’Sync. In our severely intoxicated state we spent a good deal of time being shattered that Britney broke up with Justin. I’d rather donate my entire future income to preserve the blood sucking anopheles mosquito that plagues my every evening than talk about who those two are shagging these days.
But anyway, I indulged her.
I glossed over the fact that her dream destination is Disneyland (I’m thinking hell, who doesn’t like Disneyland, right?). I dig cartoons too, so no biggie there either, and well, the word ‘like’ has been known to make a home for itself when randomly infused into any part of a sentence: we were like there, and it was like so cold. And I was like “its cold” and she was like “yeah”. I even overlooked the Swatch watch - you know the one: colourful, plastic with the Mickey Mouse hour hand. But that’s all superficial right? Afterall it’s the hotness heart that counts…and she has a good heart, great personality and is very funny. And hot.

But I draw the line on the needy act. I will happily use a pair of tweezers to uproot every single pube from my Triangle of Joy than put up with a clingy person in love.

According to some online personality test, I suffer from the little known 'schizoid' personality disorder:

"People with schizoid personality disorder avoid relationships and do not show much emotion
(Man U nailed Chelsea's blue ass to the curb over the weekend. Did you not see that emotion?? )
Schizoids genuinely prefer to be alone and do not secretly wish for popularity.
(Alone. I vant to be alone. Too true).
They tend to seek jobs that require little social contact. (No wonder I hate my job)
Their social skills are often weak (Oi!) and they do not show a need for attention or acceptance. They are perceived by others as humorless (fine, I admit -my jokes are lame.) and distant and often are termed "loners." (yip). "

So thats me.
Schizoid meets clingy. Not good.

*Sigh*. It's been fun. Its going to seem like I used her, but I have to end this now. I will call her up tonight and find nice gentle words to tell her to take my number off the “call every hour on the hour” button and pray that all I hear is a series of four letter expletives, or better yet a slamming phone rather than a strained silence interrupted by the shrill *crack* of a breaking heart.