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Okay, so I’m scrollin’ X the other night—procrastinatin’, naturally—and I see this post: “Sex-dating tip: bring condoms AND a charger.” I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my coffee. Pretty, pretty good advice, though! Battery dies, mood dies—tragedy! Made me happy, y’know, seein’ some wit in this cesspool. But then—THEN—I match with this chick, total smokeshow, right? We’re chattin’, it’s goin’ great, and she goes, “I only date guys who’ve seen ‘The Royal Tenenbaums.’” I’m like, “Honey, I AM Royal Tenenbaum—minus the tax evasion!” She ghosts me anyway. Ghosted! Me! I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “This is not a world-class sex-dating story!” I was pissed—PISSED! Wasted my best Wes Anderson vibes on her.

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So, I sit down, and I’m trying to focus, but my mind’s racing. I mean, Partanna is beautiful and all, but the stress is real. The old buildings, the narrow streets, they’re all staring at me like, “You better get it together!” I can’t even think straight. I’m thinking about that gelato I had last week at Gelateria Pino. Best stuff ever! But no time for gelato daydreams. Gotta crunch those numbers.

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