MMMMPPPFFFFF

That is the sound that a person makes when they are trying to say something but have been gagged.

That is how I feel right now. GAGGED.

I have gagged myself, if the truth be told.

WTF, you may be thinking. WTF is that Robinson girl on about? Is she blogging at us from the middle of a sordid sexual act? Is she holding herself hostage? (and if so: wtf?) Or has she just generally lost it?

The truth of the matter is that I am still engaged in the same moral conflict that I outlined two weeks ago when I told you about The Man.

The story went as follows:

– I met a man

– I liked him

– He left town four days later

– And then I felt I couldn’t really blog about him because, well, I liked him. It felt unfair.

I have been charting my search for everlasting love (or at least a good snog… something… anything…) for well over a year now and have not felt any scruples about divulging. Perhaps this is shameful, perhaps not. The fact of the matter is that the men I met were universally awful and, with only a few exceptions, acted like utter knobheads on our dates. So I disguised their identities (carefully, I should add) and let rip.

But this one is not awful. And, well… erm… without further ado I hereby reveal to you that the ‘thing,’ whatever it is, is still very much ongoing. Friends: I am in A Situation with a Man.

I’m sorry to keep it from you! I just didn’t know what to do! I still don’t! I don’t know what to say to you and what I should keep secret for his sake! Saying anything feels bad, but I’m a dating blogger! How can I not? ARRGHHHH! Or, to return to the topic of this blog, MMMMPPPPFFFF!

Regular emailing and phone calling has been taking place. Feelings have been declared. Tentative plans have been made for his possible return at Christmas. (Followed rapidly by a panic attack on my part which saw me shouting “NO. NO. WE CANNOT MAKE PLANS. WE HAVE ONLY SPENT FOUR DAYS IN EACH OTHERS’ COMPANY. ARRRGHHHH. LET’S JUST GO ON A DATE WHEN YOU GET BACK AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS” Ever the hopeless romantic, Robinson.)

I’m at a loss, friends. The Man is nice. He is funny. He is intelligent. He is hot. He is keen. He seems reliable. He is interesting. He is interested. He is talented. He smells nice. He has texted me twice since I started writing this blog – even though he is engaged in dangerous work on the side of some inhospitable mountain.

Where is the catch?

Ah, yes, the catch is that he lives in London and I live in Buenos Aires. The catch is that in the last five minutes he has left to go somewhere even more dangerous and exciting and will be uncontactable until Christmas. The catch is that even though I feel close to him, I don’t really know him. That’s the problem with having feelings for someone. It strips you of all sense. I have to keep saying this to myself: I don’t actually know him. I don’t actually know him. I don’t actually know him. I just think I do.

I feel like I am already saying too much in this blog. The deal I struck was that I would EITHER write about it and tell him where the blog is, OR that I wouldn’t write about it and not tell him about the blog. I feel like I have possibly broken the deal. Which means I may have to tell him about the blog.

But if he reads the blog, it will surely be over. In seconds. Because the blogs I’ve written here act like a testament to my insanity. I don’t think any man could read this and not think “I would rather have sexual relations with a potted plant. This girl is insane.”

So, ho hum, a bit of a non-blog there.

I’m confused. About him, about me, about whether to blog.

Help.

 

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