i've been writing about the future in a sort of kind of way

Just because he was handsome and from London didn't mean he meant anything to me. Only at the time it meant everything because I was a wine-drenched wreck of a human being. The kind who was scraping a few hours of sleep from her bed every night and kept a copy of Bridget Jones's Diary on her coffee table. Like that's really a coffee table book. God knows what I was thinking. Actually, I doubt he knew either. What I am saying here is that I didn't care about him because of anything to do with him; I cared about him because at the time, Bridget Jones's Diary was my coffee table book.