My Memory Has Failed Me?

There are very few things I take personally. Most of that stems from my tendencies toward arrogance and general dislike of people. When someone says or does something I find disagreeable, I leave it at "that's what makes me better than you, my saucy little trollop."

...unless they speak ill of the Golden State Warriors. I'm not sure what it is (perhaps exposure to an excess of testosterone in utero?) but something about my beloved team inspires ferocious defensiveness of illogical proportions in me. Even more so when I drink, as Richard kindly pointed out to me a little while back. According to him, I also start talking in colloquial dialect of the impoverished urban persuasion... id est ghetto.

And then there's Taiwanese politics and the importance of arts education (if you can't tell Bach from Bellini, you were severely robbed of a well-rounded upbringing. If Bellini is merely a prosecco cocktail to you, then power to you; Italian romantic opera isn't everybody's cup of tea. If you are frowning at the word "prosecco," seek help...)

Those exception aside, it's actually quite difficult to offend me. (I promise this next bit is relevant.) With that said, a specific ex-boyfriend of mine is no longer on my friend list, and I'm quite unsure whether it is of my own doing. Yes, I did pare several hundred people from my social media network sometime last week when I'd taken in an excess of caffeine and been unable to sleep. It was rather late, though, and I don't recall un-friending any of my exes. Then again, I don't recall deciding not to un-friend a number of people. I guess it's entirely plausible that he got the old boot along with 200+ others.

A more attractive alternative is if he got as sick of me as I did of him. Although I can't imagine how that would happen if none of my posts were accessible to him, I'd applaud him if this were the case.

More likely, though, if he were the one to have initiated this severance, I am of the opinion that it would have been more deeply rooted in matters of self esteem. That is, to emulate an air of blasé with a key aim of emotional injury to yours truly. Rather a pigheaded presumption for me to make, but seeing as this is all purely hypothetical, I don't see the harm in hazarding an educated guess. By and by, I do tend to be correct in these kinds of matters.

Of course, this is all assuming that my memory serves me well, which, in the exhausted stupor I was that unholy hour of night, I can't be entirely sure that it does. Perhaps I did throw him by the wayside while zooming through the s's.

All of this came together earlier today when Paivikki was asking me whether the ex had called since that tiny disaster of a conversation during which I callously clarified my desire to be left alone. I replied that, thankfully, no further contact had ensued. Our conversation eventually took us to me logging into my Facebook account after rehearsal, which led to this pleasant surprise!

Regardless of the means by which this adorable little intrigue fell into my lap, it serves a fine little conclusion for this all-too-long saga of painfully jejune proportions.

On to more important matters: Paivikki's nephew. Oh my goodness, heisabsolutelygorgeous. I've never been awfully attracted to blondes, but tall, Finnish, footballer who slaps a killer bass, speaks four languages, loves classical music, and has triceps to spare? A tad pale for my usual liking, but built like a viking. I always find it doubly amusing when my clauses rhyme :)

Anyway... I say it's about time I visited Helsinki.