Birthday Boy

What is the internet for if not to spew out the dumb things that your head thinks when you thought you were in control of it and were wrong?

So there's this boy.

There's always a boy, haven't you been listening when I speak?

His birthday is coming up.

My brain keeps thinking/hoping/fantasizing that he will call. As a sort of birthday present to himself to hear my dulcet tones and make me giggle. OK, for this boy he'd probably call me to berate me for not calling him to celebrate the momentous occasion of his birth and his dulcet tones and some other parts of his, er, make up. The fantasy part involves me, quite coyly and to great effect, explaining that my birthday present to myself last month was not to call him and to be strong and feminine and to have moved on, Mister Man.

But the other part of my brain, the one that doesn't quite have a rein on the fantasizing part but is trying valiantly to keep control, realizes that he probably is waiting for me to call, if he's thinking of me at all. He's probably expecting an apology for one of the numerous misunderstandings, again, if he's thinking about me at all.

And, apparently my brain is big because there's another part that just piped up, "Bitch, this is the fucking internet, he can find this. Shut the fuck up."

Shutting up now.