The Diva knows a little secret. 

Given the opportunity to participate in sexual activity, she might opt out on account of her undergarments not suiting her own sense of romance, at the moment. That moment, seduced by Surprise, she's left the house in her white cottons. Her bra doesn't match her bottoms, she hasn't been waxed recently enough to suit her Fancy, her last cycle left a trace. Call her what you may- vain, rude, obsessive compulsive- it is her prerogative to only bare herself in a certain state of lace and lingerie. 

Let’s now consider all of those chaps (men and women)- you, perhaps!-  who have headed home wondering what went wrong. What was it that you did to turn off the wily diva? You should have worn the other shirt, not made that one comment (Stupid!), not eaten the last bite, and (for heaven’s sake) have gotten a different job- one that made more money- or less money and more sense- before having stepped foot into the home of the likes of Diva - or at least LIED about it! 

Or, of course… the nagging, overall suspicion that you were entirely out of your mind to begin with, for why in the world would you have thought for even a minute that you might be worthy of something as crazy as this thing called Love- from such a succulent and worthwhile creature, no less.