Men have always defended their chaunvinistic rights and tendencies with one little excuse: we women, we lucky women do not have to confess undying love for anoyone, we are the ones at the other end of the issue: we recieve declarations of undying love and devotion till death, right?

In my case: WRONG.

I'm seeing this guy. Yes, whatever starts that way cannot be good. And it isn't. He is great, actually, considering my past experiences (Napoleon-obsessed megalomaniacs with narcissistic tendencies and awfully nice guys with girlfriends and a more or less declared queer nature, if you catch my drift). We talk a lot, about history most of the time, and we really do click. He is witty, and horribly sarcastic and cynic (those who know me must be thinking 'Match made in Hell' tenderly, and yes, sometimes it does feel like it).

There is one tinsy, itsy, bitsy problem, though. A little... Well, not really. More like a GIGANTIC error of nature. He is totally clueless. And slow.

I've been "dating" him for like two months. Or more, maybe. And not a hug, not a peck on the lips, not an endearment, not even an "I like you" or a "You look beautiful tonight". Granted, it is not his nature, but we are NOT going anywhere!!! My family and friends mock me, and I feel as if he is waiting for something more than a signal (Because believe me, short of hanging a neon sign above my head with the feelings spelled out I've done everything). He is waiting for me to say it. And that ain't gonna happen, mister.

No way. Really. No way in Hell. I've never been kissed even, I'm not admitting anything. Not even now. I don't know whether I would say yes or no, he has to ask for me to know. And I'm losing my bloody patience. Fast.

If you are reading, then it means that I want to drop dead right now from utter embarrassment. So you better do something, because I no longer care that you had bad experiences and you are afraind. We all are, all the time.

Fear is the essence of life.

I must tell you that it feels wrong not to be writing "Musings of a Left-Handed" anymore, but I guess that High-school, and all that it conveyed, is over for me, so I can't really go back to writing my High-School blog, which I erased from the face of the Internet for good after my mother took hold of it (Yes, it was Hell to pay, thank you for enquiring). Augustine is back, though, the snide little voice inside my head and as she was demanding an outlet and I wouldn't let her feast in the actual ups and downs (more like downs and downs, but who's counting?) of my life we capitulated and founded All the Pretty Things Go to Hell, paraphrasing with a twist a phrase of a singer I admire, David Bowie. It is in his honour as well that I decided to call this voice of college Alassin Zane (A lass inzane) after one of his most famous carachters, the genie Aladdin Sane (a ladd insane).

Unlike my Musings this blog has no public, nobody ever will bother to come read it as it happened with the other, and it will affect my style of writing. But I hope that, all in all, Augustine will be able to have fun at the expense of everyone, as she usually does, while I wallow in guilt.

I hope you are ready for the bumpy ride, because between the decadence of today's society, this youth bound to no commitments and the current state of my life this blog can be nothing but bloody. And sinfully fun. And awfully gothic. So for those who don't mind coming to this cathedral of mine, sit down by the gargoyle, and mind not the bust of Pallas and the crow perched above it, for it will leave Nevermore. Just relax and enjoy the place were the hero is no beacon of shining light and where the villain is the man you always end up falling in love with, half angel and half monster, and always a genius.

Yeah, I think I'm definitely going to have fun with this one, don't you think?