She's trading me in...

This morning, I'm awoken by an email: I'm trading you in.

I'm wondering how this is different from yesterday. I ask why.

I found my journal entry when I went to the psychic. I'm trading you in.

Okay, so now the both of us are re-racking our lives based on tarot card readers? We're like Mrs. Reagan and her influence on Dutch.

Again, I ask why.

She said I was going to meet my true love soon. That it is not you... something about mail and documents and I shouldn't sign.

Great. There goes the damn agreement (see October 4th, below).

So, me, I went back to the Marriott to find Angela, the southern twanging bartender. No joy.

And, needless to say, no sex today either.