I hate Danny O'Donoghue.
Excuse my rude, Diary. But I'm not in the mood for any happy introductions today. If I'm honest, I couldn't even care less if you had a bad day. Not that you could. You're just a book. You don't have bad days. I'm the human one in this equation. I'm the only one out of the two of us that can have bad days. And you guessed it. I had a bad day. I had a really shitty day.
I'll give you three guesses as to who it was that brought upon this horrendous mood. I don't think you need it though. You're a clever bunch of pages. You know me better than I know me. But just in case I totally misjudged you, which wouldn't be the first time misjudging has happened in the past few hours, I'll just illiterate it for you.
Daniel O'Donoghue. The smarmy, arrogant, know-it-all Irishman that's swanned into my life without my permission. That's the reason for this onslaught of anger and hatred spilling onto your pages. Blame him entirely for this. I encourage it! He needs his face bringing down to walk amongst the rest of us here in the world of 'considerate' people...
I'm sure you're wondering what happened, aren't you? You're just getting a whole load of angry words in your face without much explanation. And you're right, after all. Talking it through with someone always lightens the load. But I think that I'm just too damn angry for talking to help.
But what the hell. I've got nothing better to do with my evening now that it's been ruined entirely. So listen up, little Diary. You're in for a treat.
So as you know, today marks mine and Dan's six month anniversary. Six months. That's a pretty big deal, right? Half a year since that day he asked me to be his girlfriend. Not since we first met though. We don't count that. That was just dating. Figuring each other out and all that. That was nine months ago. So, in fact, tonight is an even bigger deal...
Anyway. Six month anniversary. You knew that, right? And you know how much anniversaries mean to me. Everyone who knows me knows how big of a deal it is. How I go about for weeks beforehand finding the right restaurant and the right tables and the right music and the right freaking everything. You know that, right? Right?!
Right. So how the hell does he not know this? How does he, the man that I call my boyfriend, not know how big of a deal this was to me?
Let me elaborate: After spending weeks finding all the right elements to this perfect date of ours that would happen at exactly 8pm this evening, after spending hours getting myself ready to meet him in that exact spot at the exact time, the idiot doesn't even show up. That's right! He doesn't even freaking show...
Who does that? Seriously? Who doesn't turn up to a date without at least giving that person some forewarning? Daniel O'Donoghue, that's who. Stuck up prick left me sat there for an hour, looking like some pathetic lowlife that everyone should pity. Even the waiter came over and told me that my 'date' was most likely standing me up.
Once 9pm hit, I left. I was not going to sit in that place for a second longer. I was humiliated, upset, angry...all kinds of things. And all because of my so-called 'boyfriend'. Sure. Like boyfriends do that to people in the real world.
Got into the taxi and lo and behold. My phone started to ring. The culprit himself had finally, after an hour and a half, decided it would be a good time to call me to tell me he was stuck in traffic. Stuck in traffic, my foot. That stupid idiot had gotten to invested in that stupid little band that I was stupid enough to help put together and now his stupid self was stuck in stupid traffic on his way to the stupid restaurant where we were supposed to be celebrating our stupid six month anniversary.
