GROW SOME BALLS, OR GET OUTTA TOWN

Dear friends, it's GUYATUS SEASON once more, and just in time for my birthday (happy birthday to me!)

The Public Defender did, indeed, turn out to be a unicorn (and a fucking pussy of a unicorn, at that). After the phenomenally romantic weekend in San Fran, he apparently flipped out because I emailed him a few times in the followng week (when I say a few, I mean just that). I only know this because he told our mutual friend. Who told another friend. Who finally told me.

Now, if there's one thing I cannot stand it's a man who cannot MAN UP long enough to do his own dirty work. You wanna break things off? YOU BETTER GROW SOME BALLS AND DO IT YOURSELF INSTEAD OF BEHAVING LIKE A 12-YEAR-OLD AND DISPATCHING YOUR FRIEND TO DO IT FOR YOU.

YOU FUCKING PUSSY. GROW SOME BALLS, OR GET OUTTA TOWN.

And that, dear friends, is all I have to say.

I am calling a permanent Guyatus (it's like a hiatus, for those unfamiliar with the terminology) because obviously, this is not worth my time and energy. You can expect a lot of blogs about food for the rest of my life.