Extended bout of self pity

"If you want anyone to stay with you," she said, scribbling furiously, "you're just going to have to change."
I stared at the top of her head as she spoke, watching the elegant hand with the engagement ring flit across the table top. My mouth half open, nose scrunched in thought I headed towards the sofa for comfort food and extended thought.
Is she right?

Earlier this week J and I had something of a tiff-
"Fuck that!" he said, "You're lucky to have me! You're just so fucking self absorbed you don't realise!"
- and I stomped out and spent the rest of the day, and most of the following, sitting in the pub trying to find a solution in the bottom of a succession of cheerily coloured cocktails.
No more Cheeky Vimto, please. Ever.

I'm having a bit of a Bridget Jones moment too- I simply knew reading the books would be a bad idea when it came to future neuroses (neurosi?), but would I listen?
Would I hell.
So I'm now desperately wishing I hadn't given my FabulousSwankyPink phone to a hobo in a fit of somewhat misguided generosity fuelled by a good...*counts on fingers* thirteen hours of solid solitary drinking, since the flat doesn't have a landline as yet- out of the five of us, not a one has the patience to withstand the battlefield that is the BT system. But the real reason, of course, is that none of us can actually count without using our fingers and toes, which always makes the Division of the Bills great fun- the tally system I were taught as a child (mainly used for counting sheep, and the number of crab apples on trees) in that lovely backwater that is The Area of Cheshire in Which My Mother Lives just doesn't stand up to modern numbers.
Anyway before I rudely interrupted myself I was making a point- I don't have a phone and therefore can't check to see if he's called; but even this doesn't stop me from jumping and checking my makeup in the mirror whenever I hear a phone ring. Not that I'd answer if he did ring, of course.
Bloody Bridget Jones.

So I've spent most of the last week in varying stages of introspective inebriation, with the ocasional bout of misguided advice seeking; my sadistic streak has me asking advice from those who are least likely to be suitable sympathetic.

"I love you, but I wouldn't come near you relationship-wise with a ten foot barge pole."