Insult to injury

Through a convoluted chain of events, I have learned that The Musician may not actually like me. This is bizarre, seeing as though the kissing went so well. And perhaps we can also take into account that he kept saying things about how he liked me but didn't think he had a chance.

But he hasn't initiated any conversation recently, which I at first attributed to shyness. But, maybe it's that he just isn't that into me. Fine, that's fine. I will promptly wash my hands of the ordeal, of The Musician, I just hate not knowing right now. I hate the waiting game.

(I have to wait, it's early in the morning. He gets another couple hours before I call him to see if he wants to hang out, and if he declines, if he is reticent, then fine, FINE, I don't care, I've got men lined up all day long, I don't need you, I don't need your fickle nature, I don't need feelings- honestly, I don't need your odd sense of game playing.)

But to add insult to injury, I awoke to a text from The Doctor at 1am asking if it was too late to text. Please, please, please, strip me of my decency, my feelings, my thoughts, and let's just all get real. Let's say what we want.

These feelings. This bruised ego. This was not the plan.