Big Fail, part 2 -- the Punishment

Here, for your reading enjoyment, is the email conversation with The Queen which followed the blog post about my epic fail with Big City Guy. It started with my assertion that the Queen would never have let me leave that room w/out at least a sweaty-palmed handshake and a “Dude, you were super!”, to which she left a comment.

Q: So true! Consider yourself tskd, tskd!

F: I even considered going back on Saturday night for the last performance, and subsequent last night reception, but I was so pooped from wandering around the county fair and I'm sure I looked like deep-fried ass, so I didn't. And thus my one and only chance for love was forever lost. I'll be headed to humane society to adopt my required additional 35 cats this weekend. Sigh.

Q: I think we should come up with some sort of penalty for you when you are in these situations and you don't take advantage of them. yeah, I'm liking that idea...

F: What KIND of penalty? Isn't letting the love of my life get away enough of a penalty? (notice the overly dramatic words here -- I'm definitely appealing to your romantic dime novels side.)

Q: Well apparently not since you let him get away without so much as a "hellomynameisfemtasticIloveyou."

…I ask you, oh best beloveds of the Internets Super-Highway of information, do you think I need a penalty for my epic fails? If so, what KIND of penalty? I’ll get the ball rolling: what about I am forced to eat a heaping bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream every time? THAT would sure show me! Your thoughts please?