You know that your life is bordering on guilty inactivity when you have a significant other and a Saturday night... and they are not meshing. I made him a birthday cake. Without a box. I hope it doesn't kill him.
He's leaving for Valentine's Day. I think everyone has a Valentine except me. I suppose I still do... only, he'll be in California. Maybe I'll make the best of it. Maybe it will be like those queasy, quixotic eighties movies where the girl is sad because her boyfriend goes away, and there's a scene with a window seat and stretch pants with large sweaters over them and lots of rain, and then everything turns out in the end.
Maybe if I poison him, he won't go. Then I could put him under my bed.
That's a vaguely morbid thought.