Note to self: throwing a tantrum to get noticed only works in like the 2nd grade

Hmm. So I guess I was sort of hoping that my freakout yesterday about not having anything sexy to write about anymore might've gotten me, oh, I don't know, a personal email or phone call from Mr. Copeland himself (and not, say, from his lawyer), but it's been less than 24 hours and nooope, there have been no phone calls or emails beyond the usual crap (and by "crap," I am of course not including the lovely conversations I've had with you, Todd, or you, Paul, or you, Missy, or you Angie).

I've convinced myself that if he really wanted to find me, it wouldn't be hard for him to find me. In cyberspace, I mean, don't go thinking my actual location is knowable in that easy of a fashion. Also, I sometimes wonder if somebody I know knows him or knows someone who knows him... and is keeping this information from me for some silly, jealous reason. I even got a little flustered once when answering the "How Am I Driving" line at work today (oh! If I could write about the conversations I have with those people, my other blog would be way more interesting), thinking maybe he was reaching out to me... by complaining about one of our drivers? I don't know, it's been a long, confusing day. Is it Wednesday, or Thursday?

See, though, the downside to the "if he wanted me, he could find me" statement is that, if he doesn't want me, I'll never be looked for.

And that's just too depressing to think about much longer.

I go now, to Culver City, flute choir, and a long drive of fantastical ramblings.