Angus is on the phone. I think he’s nervous. I feel evil.
It’s wet and miserable out, but he didn’t know it. He called me as soon as he got up. We’re talking hours of sleep and accident damage. Politics has come up as well, the scotsman uncertainty of poetry and republicanism. It’s been almost two hours. I’m still being referred to as having asked him out on a date. I’m so very in trouble.
Shane apparently last night caught word and referred to me as the “undiscovered country” where he “fell hard when he struck out”. The ice-queen aura made of sweetness and light and asexuality has apparently been re-attached to me through the poets.