Are you hoping for a miracle?

My plea for no more phone calls finally resulted in one of support by one individual who's own unassailable taste may very nearly approximate my own. Sweetheart, he cooed, just carry on doing what you do. There is something about being called sweetheart, really the way he says it, that is deeply reassuring. Of course he's so gay you can see it on the telephone. Apparently I need to clarify this point. People--women and men of all sexual persuasions--take me out all the time. I imagine the Dalai Lama isn't hurting for a lunch date either. That doesn't mean we're dating or anything. People just want to spend time with me and I sometimes allow them to, although an appetizer order of romance, sarcasm, math, and language can be a relationship ender. Also, if presented with an np-complete problem I provide the full solution space. I'm just that kind of girl. Some people think this ability is nothing short of miraculous, to which I just smile in response.

Monday, you and I are done. There is nothing good about you except when you leave.