Dammit.

It's not a guy that is making me want to cry, thank you.

It is the fact that I have nothing I can say to a guy that made me upset - and that I can't write about being upset without sounding like a pathetic girl - that is making my eyes sting a bit.

I sat at the Paradise Lounge last night, surrounded by friends brought unexpectedly together by the small world nature of the scene. I was taking in oustanding performances by Jarrod Gorbel, Josh Radin, Cary Brothers and Tom McRae. I was drinking Red Stripe, for Christ's sake.

And yet a particular song made me start thinking about someone who didn't deem it important to return a phone call I'd left with nervousness in the pit of my stomach.

(I'm not even going to get into the haughty form letter response component of my weekend.)

Thoughts of an idiot managed to invade the Hotel Cafe Tour performance I'd been looking forward to for weeks. Granted, they were fleeting. But they were there.

I'm done.