Please, Pilcrow; just hear me out. I swear to you, it meant nothing. It’s just you weren’t here. I couldn’t get on-line. I had too much coffee to drink. And, well, one new Word document led to another. I was lonely.
But nothing happened. Honestly. I don’t remember anything after the fourth semi-colon. Next thing I knew I woke up with the mouse still in my hand for Chrissake so nothing could’ve happened. Except for that one paragraph. I can’t even remember the font’s name. Comic something or other. I recall thinking it was a bit too matey for a font I’d just met. A bit full-on.
It felt like my thoughts were being channelled through a children’s TV presenter to a two-year old. Or Scooby Doo. Not like your dulcet Frances McDormand-cum-Christopher Lee tones. I know that probably makes you sounds like Joan Burton on paper. But Joan’s words are dragged down a blackboard in Gothic size 80. They’re not deliberately small letters like yours, like my tight tiny handwriting that some say is proof of my secretive side.
My secrets have always felt safer with you. You get me. And no, this isn’t remotely like the one-night stands I had before we met. I’ve seen you eyeing up Twenty Twelve and Adelle, so you can’t really blame me for trying. Admittedly, Next Saturday was a mistake.
You’re my first serious theme and I really want us to give it a go. I can change. I can be better. I can make a better effort with visuals. I’ll throw in the odd quote, if you really want me to. Exclamation marks? I’m on them already!!!!!!!!