Q's an A (hole)

So I went to the signing last night, and I had ten messages from Q. For real. Ten messages. I was waiting in line, getting my poster signed, and home. Ten messages. Cause we didn't go to dinner last night. Like we normally do. Ten messages. All about the same. Notes. That he could have emailed to me. Like I like the guy, but it's like we're dating. Except, of course, not. Q favors prostitutes. He gives me the line about "I don't pay them to stay, I pay them to leave," but he's flaked at least three Sunday brunches cause of his respites in Vegas. I told him I'd be busy writing this weekend, but I could squeeze him in on Sunday, but he's acting a right pisser. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.