On cheese alerts

So I've had three rather successful dates with The Boy, and that's been quite marvelous. We entertain each other, we make each other laugh, we have both stimulating and idiotic conversations ("Did you know that you have the softest arm hair of anyone I've ever met?") and we cuddle during movies. Wonderful, right?

Except my intuition is telling me that...well, basically that I'm not really his number one choice. Mind you, he clearly likes me - I mean, good lord, we've had three dates, and we're planning a fourth for next Monday. Who'd be so masochistic as to go on that many dates with someone whose company they don't enjoy? But there's just...something. I don't really know what it is. Maybe tiny hints my conscious mind has glossed over, but that my subconscious has picked up on, which collectively suggest to me that although The Boy likes me, he has his reservations. I have my insecurities, but I don't think that's them talking. There's just...something piercing through my usual armor of excessively over-compensating self-confidence. (That was a joke. Laugh, dammit!)

Of course, I could be excessively overthinking this. Because clearly I don't overanalyze things, or obsess about tiny, stupid details most rational people wouldn't even notice. *Eyeball roll*

Anyway, to keep my entire post from being a self-indulgent whine-fest about The Boy (Oh, you know what? This is totally idiotic. Chris! His goddamn name is Chris!), I'd like to add a little advisory to anyone who's planning to purchase a house. If, in the contract, it's listed as a short sale...run away. Run away like there's a t-rex up your skivvies. The fact of the short sale makes actually purchasing the house SUCH a bloody chore that unless you're paying SUBSTANTIALLY under the market rate, it's just not worth the trouble. I've been wrangling with lawyers and loan agents and real estate agents on behalf of my mother for the better part of three weeks, and it's getting to the point where I just want a zombie horde to chew all their faces off, I want a meteor to fall on Wells Fargo's national headquarters, I want a herd of elephants to stampede the house in question into so much inedible pancake, and I want violently malevolent fleas to eternally plague the original seller of the house for not paying back his mortgage in full.

If cosmic justice is the order of the day, I think Wells Fargo deserves some divine smiting for the shit they've put my mother through the last month or so.