Regular

Ugh, Men

Right when I was in the middle of my moving panic nightmare endless battle with Virgin broadband, I ran into…well, kind of an ex. An ex who was, to my knowledge, engaged, settled, and in the progress of buying a house.

He suggested we should go for a drink, and I agreed, on the assumption that it 1) wouldn’t happen, and 2) would be pleasant if it did, because he is generally a nice person even if he did leave me crying in a railway station once upon a time.

Only it turns out, he is NOT engaged. Which I know because he put an engagement ring up for sale on Facebook, with the comment that it “deserves to be worn by someone who is beautiful inside and out.” (I am terrible person, because I laughed like a CRAZY person when I saw that – I mean…dude. Just. Dude. Maybe write a sad poem in your journal?). And the not-engaged puts a slightly different spin on things, maybe.

Because for the last month or so he has been reading my every single tweet, so far as I can tell – I say this because he is all of a sudden liking something I say on there like two or three per day. Including ones in conversations with other people, who he even doesn’t know.

I do not know what to make of it, at all. I am torn between thinking I’m making something out of nothing, and being irritated with him for…making me think about this stuff. If the timing didn’t correlate so precisely with his break-up, it wouldn’t bother me nearly so much. (Also…if he wants to see me, can’t he just say so, and stop stalking my twitter conversations about the politics of casting in Australian Theatre? I know for a FACT he doesn’t care about that in the least).

ANYWAY. I am wasting an unhealthy amount of mental energy on this, when I should just remember Selina’s maxim: