Darcy, where art thou?

Exhausted from the travel, and the thought of having to talk to a stranger, I find myself restive. My pile of laundry stares at me. As does my assignment. I mean I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by. But really, I switch between Friends and Pride and Prejudice to take my mind off the awkwardness of making small talk. I don't laugh at the stupid jokes I can't otherwise get over. My heart doesn't melt at the sight of Darcy even though deep in my heart I yearn for 'him'.

And I blame my mother's generation for having mislead us girls or not having produced a generation of gentlemen. I well up, and yet I feel dead inside. Almost mechanical. I'm tired. Exhausted. And I hope all of it would get over. Or for Darcy to show up.