It is 9:47 PM, and I am tucked safely into my bed at the Lizard. I tried, I really did, but it seems that going forward, my after work hours are probably best spent eating gelato.
My debut into the expat journo scene was a wash. There were no romantic prospects, and the panel discussion was led by a couple of British males who seem to think they hung the moon. I call them "AP Reporters." That stands for "arrogant pricks." It was an interesting debate, about how foreign (e.g. white trust fund babies like Ernest Hemingway and Karen Blixen) have shaped the perception of Africa through the decades. I contributed my two cents, but it was nothing to stick around for.
I'm not saying I won't venture out any more, but I will say this....if Mr. Right doesn't crawl into my freezer and wait patiently for me to open the door and gouge him in the ass with a spoon, I'll probably spend the rest of my life single.
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