Well, shit.

I was supposed to have a first date tonight with a woman I met on Poly Matchmaker, but she called at noon today to say that her allergies were “kicking her butt” and she didn’t think she’d be much fun, so she was going to stay home tonight instead of driving down from Temple.  I pretended that it didn’t matter, and said we’d make another date after the holidays.

But it did matter.  I was really looking forward to meeting her, and maybe getting my first chance at a secondary relationship in two years, ever since Moon and I had to break up.  Yeah, I know—it’s not like she told me to get lost or she got cold feet and backed out.  Yeah, we’ll likely end up having that first date, just a little later than I wanted it to be.  But dammit, I was looking forward to getting to go out tonight, and to meeting in person someone who at least has expressed interest in the same kind of relatively low-intensity poly relationship that is about all I can manage right now, as much other stuff as I have going on

Fuck.  Or actually, not-fuck.  Crap-ola.  That’s it.  Crap-ola.

The hat rack outwits the besotted goldfish in the Watergate Hotel.  Fnord.