Long Time Coming (Or: A Crushes Of Yore Megapost)

I know, it has been weeks since I last updated this blog, and I wish I had some stories to tell from my absence (don't worry, there's some good news in there) but for the most part it's been an emotional roller-coaster for me. Cliche'd though it may be, there's no better way of describing it from my end. I hope to share more good news with you in the future. 

For now, however, I must share this...

It is with great sorrow that I am announcing my conscious uncoupling from Jeremy Renner.


I would like to say that it was a tough decision on my part, but honestly? Secret babies only work for pirates and Greek tycoons, and unless you wanted to play one any time soon (which you obviously won't) I don't see this whole thing working out for us at all. And not to sound like an ungrateful nagging wife, but COME ON Y U NO GET NOMINATED FOR AMERICAN HUSTLE? Because, really, what would it really take for you to be that likable again without shooting arrows at Loki's henchmen? And don't tell me I have to wait for this, because life's too short to wait for you to play the same cards that Matthew McConaughey did with the Academy. It says a lot that I might cast a vote for Benedict Cumberbatch over you. Yes, the same Benedict Cumberbatch that you've been jealous of ever since you found that USB drive full of Sherlock episodes in my possession.

Look, no derp-face! (Taken from the set of the Alan Turing biopic The Imitation Game)

And speaking of jealousy, what the hell did you think you were doing when I caught you looking through that folder of David Gandy photos in my browser?

Aha! So you thought that I was going to post something from that NSFW Dolce & Gabbana book, were you? 

There's more, so much more, but there's so much drama that a girl can take from her guy, and sometimes the kindest thing that one can do in this situation is to cut bait. And so: Parting as friends, respect our privacy, difficult time blah blah blah. Thank you for all your support.

(But seriously, girls, he's all yours. Or at least until he has groveled enough for my satisfaction.)

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