Heart-exploding l'amour!

So I don't talk about my boyfriend a lot on this blog. Because he's an asshole.

No, he's not. He's lovely and wonderful and funny and smart and handsome and all that crap. Still, I try to leave all the vomity sentiment off of this blog. Because I know you will be insanely jealous and, in a stubborn stance of green-eyed defiance, stop reading the good old Cup of Pizza. And I can't have that. Until today. Because today, my boyfriend wrote a song for me. And it's called, "Eat Shit."

I will pause for a collective sigh of vicarious ecstasy.

Rewind: I realised on the way into the office this morning that I had forgotten my mobile. So when I got in, I rang Rob to let him know this and that he would only be able to contact me on the office line today and after that he was out of luck. He was, at the very best, underwhelmingly nonplussed. But I didn't think much about it until I got back from a meeting and had a voicemail from him. This voicemail wanted to let me know that he had forgotten his personal mobile and that the only way to reach him was via his work mobile. And it was dripping. with. sarcasm.

Rang the brother back and pointed out that when he can't get ahold of me, he has a tendency to whinge like a small infant. And he shot back, "Know what my favourite song is right now? It's called 'Eat Shit.'" And then he sang it for me:

Verse 1:
If your first name is Eleanor
And your last name is Quin
Eat shit!

Chorus:
Eat shit!
Eat shit!
Eat shit!

So Rob, 1, Eleanor, 937,322,705. But purely for a quick wit and catching me slightly off-guard. . . my songwriting skills are CLEARLY superior. Natch.