Category Archives: Wine Induced Thoughts

Watching Explosions in the Sky:

When I was younger, my family and I would go to a council run bonfire event every year – usually in Durham, sometimes in Newcastle: there would be food stalls serving an abundance of gluttonous, sugary snacks – huge lollipops in bright colours, baked goods slathered in sticky sugar, burgers with sloppy sauces and questionable meat sources. There’d be the occasional ridiculously overpriced stall where you could throw balls at poorly placed targets, where if you were amongst the very rare and lucky to win, you could find yourself the brand new owner of an enormous stuffed toy that would be beloved until the moment it became too arduous to carry. They were family affairs that, despite the bitter cold, helped you feel the comforting warmth of being enveloped in layers both physical and emotional, keeping the harsh sting of winter away, despite standing in an open field, watching explosions in the sky. I remember those events fondly, but now that I’m older, they don’t have the same resonance as they should – it was just a firework display with food stalls… nothing special, not like what fireworks should mean, what you longed for them to mean.

As I got older, I would become slightly addicted to people watching; so much so that I would walk into people, or lose my group because I would stop dead in my tracks to watch a small family: Mother and father, with a small child perched happily on their dad’s shoulders, or an elderly couple holding hands, standing so close together for warmth that it seemed they were enclosed in a bubble no one else could become a part of. To me, the older I became, the less bonfire night meant to me. I didn’t want to stand in a cold field, covered in mud, shivering despite many layers, shuffling from side to side waiting for five minutes of mediocre fireworks, before I join an enormous queue and shuffle impatiently back to the car, before sitting in a traffic jam, bored, tired and desperate for a cup of tea. You see, Bonfire night now bores me. Fireworks hold no resonance for me. Displays make me feel impatient and indignant; I don’t want to be a part of a crowd of people, listening to some locally known, predominantly failed DJ talk in that annoying accent only DJs know how to speak in; playing chart hits I don’t want to hear, standing alone, cold, wet and bored.

Yet, despite all of this, I love fireworks. I love standing so close to a bonfire that you can feel the soft kiss of its heat touching your skin, smelling the air, thick with smoke and fire, mixed with an abundance of different food smells. I love tilting my head to the sky and watching it light up with primary colours and hearing the generic ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ of parents and children alike. You see, I don’t hate bonfire night. I don’t hate the tradition of standing in a dark field, watching the skies. As an avid people watcher, I became obsessed with my idea of an ideal bonfire night; one that evoked in me the feelings I got when watching other people – I wanted bonfire night to mean something to me. I wanted to be snuggled inside of a thick layer of wool and scarves, wearing mittens and leaning in a casually absent minded fashion into the side of someone tall and solid, someone who would wrap one of their gloved arms around me, clutching onto my shoulder or my hips, tilting their head into mine; unable to feel them, but feeling the pressure of our woollen hats touching each other – a distinct intimacy that I always thought was an unattainable desire, something movies created to make us believe that romance isn’t something that everyone can achieve or experience, but that only people who are truly in the know, people who feel the irrevocable bliss of true and comfortable monogamy, truly know. Our heads focused on the sky, watching fireworks explode, both of us occasionally sneaking glances at the other, watching the other’s eyes light up, a small smile tracing their lips as the explosion booms throughout the sky, the soft glistening of their eyes as they squint, enjoying the moment for themselves. A pair of lips touching my hat covered head in a manner that screams I love you even though the contact period is less than a second… the intimacy that standing in a group of hundreds of people can truly illicit in two people when love is their only thought.

It’s such a silly desire, because I have that every single day. I get kisses on my forehead often. When he wakes up before me, I am awoken with soft kisses all over my face; I am looked at constantly when I’m in my own little world, smiling at nothing or crying at something ridiculously sentimental on TV, having tears wiped from my face, for no other reason that me crying is upsetting to him. I don’t need to see fireworks to know that I am irrevocably adored, yet the selfish and childish person in my longs for the Hollywood style romantic situations: Spending national holidays and events together. Doing the whole ‘standing in a freezing field smiling at the sky screaming at us’, snuggling into one another, smug in the knowledge that no one in that giant field staring at a giant fire full of old furniture know just how in love we are. I want to be the inspiration for some dorky, introverted, lanky human who let her dad choose her practical and warming blue, peg buttoned winter coat that despite it’s terrible fashion choices, kept me warm and it’s practicality is still displayed daily by the mother who walks her dog wearing said coat ten years later, who wears glasses and has spots all over her face, who doesn’t quite fit anywhere, but longs to be a part of a team that consists of two people; who wants to be loved, adored and cherished in spite of all her blatant flaws… I want her to be able to look at us and think yep… that’s what I want. That is a blatant example of two people who will adore each other until they’re elderly, decrepit by a life well lived, holding mittened hands, foaming that the winter made their bonfire night so cold, wishing they were back home, but unable to because their grandchildren are just SO excited by the explosions in the sky, far superior than what they were when they were younger… I want that. I want a life and a love inspirational to others and events like bonfire night; the true romanticism of it to be an aspiration to anyone who believes in love. Bonfire night isn’t just a night of glutton and cold, heat and fireworks, an event steeped in a bizarre and crazy tradition (terrorism, let’s not forget that), it’s a night where romance is alive and that’s how I feel about the evening. Which makes it all the more bittersweet: I have my ideal human… he’s just watching the St Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra… So I am sat alone drinking wine. Sad that I didn’t get my picture perfect bonfire night with the love of my life, but so proud that he’s such an interesting, intelligent and well educated individual. He’s awesome and even though I didn’t get fireworks, I am still irrevocably in love and aware that I’m adored just as much, if not more, in return. Love you, Brain.

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My Vagina is a Mood Ring.

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You know those people who categorise people into two sections: Those who follow their heads and those who follow their hearts? I don’t believe in it. My head is far too fucked up from all of my anxieties and general bizarre self-esteem issues to be a reputable decision maker and all my heart does is flutter about thanks to my bearded male human / Ryan Gosling / Shoes, so if I were to rely on them for anything, I’d get nothing done. The rest of my body is hopeless as they are all crippled with lack of confidence and tend to only thing about meal times with any resemblance of vigour. No, the only rational part of my body is my vagina. She’s the part of the body that says things like ‘look here, see? We’re gonna do this thing and we’re gonna be great at it, see? I’m taking the wheel head, shut up heart! I’m the boss now, see?’ because I think she might be a 50s American gangster and a bit of a control freak.

She makes all of my serious decisions for me. Like, do I want to have sex today? Should I eat mackerel for lunch? Is it wrong to want to drink prosecco at midday on a Wednesday? My vagina has said yes to all but one of these answers, which means she is a genius and I should refer to her more for serious life decisions as well as smaller, less important daily decisions. I simply can’t trust my head to make these decisions. If I asked my head if I wanted to have sex today she would stand me, naked in front of the mirror, noting my rolls and scars, the fact that my legs don’t have a thigh gap and almost vomit at the sight of how pasty white I am and decide that no, no I don’t want to. I should take a duvet and fashion a mu-mu out of it and hide myself forever. If I ask my heart if I want to have sex, she will probably say yes, in all fairness, so she’s an unreliable example. But she would probably take the side of my head and think ‘what if the beard thinks you look disgusting with all your rolls and paleness?’ and I’d be back sewing a mu-mu with faux-fur lining for the winter.

Do any of you feel that your vagina is the one who makes all of your decisions? The one who guides you towards positive and healthy life choices? Mine doesn’t tend to do the healthy life choice thing very much as she is pretty focused on sex and wine, but at the same time, sex is exercise and wine is grapes, thus fruit, so really she’s a fucking genius. I think we need to take more time out of our lives to thank our vaginas from keeping us entirely from going insane thanks to our supposed leaders in thinking; brains and aortic pumps. So, I’d like to take a moment to raise my glass and say cheers to my vagina for being an awesome, bitchy control freak. Thanks lassy xx

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“From Now on, I am Going to Live my Life According to Martin Scorsese Films.”

I often say things when I’m drunk and make a mental note to remember them, delving further into my mind grapes in order to make sense of the shit that comes out of my mouth after one too many glasses of merlot. In my mind’s eye, I am incredibly prophetic and I use my wine glass as a mouth piece, as a part of me in order to emphasise my point; I often imagine that I am like Catherine Zeta Jones in High Fidelity during the scene where John Cusak still thinks she is incredibly important and not at all empty and vapid, when really I am more like Tina Fey in 30 Rock sitting about in a slanky eating night cheese (which is so something every single girl living alone should do).

When I discussed this with my friend, who informed me I was also discussing Jack Nicholson in depth, I realised I was talking about The Departed and assumed it must be the quote that I always close my eyes and smile at when I hear it:

I don’t want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me.

It’s one of those quotes where I like to interpret it to the point where it makes absolutely no sense in the movie, but has been warped into making perfect sense in my reality, therefore incredibly important and relevant to my blog post. However, I think this does, in some pointlessly convoluted way, actually make sense, which is both surprising and strangely healthy for me. Since breaking up with my ex, I have had a lot of people tell me that I am better off or, that they mean well, but what they’re about to say will offend me to my very core, causing my eyes to prickle with tears as I smile and tell them that no, actually, it’s totally fine, tell me exactly what’s on your mind and why the man I thought I was going to marry was ruining the very essence of me, it’s totally fine… what, these aren’t tears, it’s raining on my face. Some of it is really harsh, but I think it’s just my pride trying to defend and justify five years of simply existing, rather than living. And here is how I think that it is totally relatable and relevant to my Frank Costello quote. Here we go:

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my relationship. I liked waking up every day next to the same face and smiling, leaning over to kiss the person I love on his sleepy mouth, not at all embarrassed or disgusted by the mingling of our vile morning breaths. I loved our life together and I loved our house; the bickering over whose turn it was to get the drinks in, or how to cook a chilli:

“I’m a chef, Doris; I do this for a job, go sit down and drink your wine!”
“BUT YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!!”
“I am not doing it wrong, I’m just not doing it the way you do it!”
“Have you even PUT any red wine in it? Or any CHOCOLATE?!”
“No, because you’re drinking it all and already ate all the chocolate! Sit down and shut up!”

Turns out he knows how to make a mean chilli, but fuck it, I am high maintenance. I also loved even just having someone to hold my hand or a arm nook to curl into when I was crying hysterically over something pointless on the TV, or something I’d read on the internet. However, since breaking up with him I realised that we had hit a plateau; that our relationship was stuck because neither of us were willing to mould ourselves into the relationship expected of us – we lived very close to our families and his family in particular were in their early twenties and had children and engagements etc. We had become a product of our environment and I, in particular, felt pressured by that and felt that I shouldn’t be looking for a career that would allow me to save money to travel and live a life I’ve always dreamed of… I felt pressured into believing that my dreams and desires were entirely selfish; that I should be nesting and creating a home for the eventual pitter patter of tiny feet. Looking back, I know that he was incredibly uninterested in committing to me beyond living with me, even tidying up and respecting his home was a challenge and sometimes he wouldn’t even come home at all because he needed his ‘space’, which really isn’t all that hard to find in a three bedroom terrace with two bathrooms and a pool room (as in the lounge game, not the swimming)… I now realise by ‘space’ he meant ‘being single for a while’. Not necessarily cheating, but not having to think about anyone but himself. Which is fine, I guess, but you don’t move the fuck in with someone and then wander off pretending to be single for a night whilst she sits at home and cries, wondering how the fuck she became this person she hated.

Since becoming single, I’ve realised that I am now in the latter stages of that quote: that I am now making my environment a product of me. Not in the exact sense as Costello was talking about, but I think in my own wine-induced way, that’s also exactly what Costello was talking about. Probably. Again, I don’t want anyone to read this and think that I am chuffed to be rid of my ex boyfriend, that he was this weight on my existence forcing me downwards until I was a miserable middle aged twenty-something woman with resentments towards everyone around me. I loved him. I really did and I still look back and think ‘jeez, if only we hadn’t done this, or not let people influence us…’ the reasons are endless, because a relationship ending, regardless of how toxic you realise it was, is sad. And it is sad and I am still pretty sad about it, but I’m also glad it ended for the aforementioned reasons. I wasn’t ready to throw my life away for The Stanley Dream; pregnant by my early twenties, unemployed living off benefits, feeding my kids cheap, processed foods because it is far cheaper than buying organic (not that I buy organic, but still). I always had a grand ambition and I studied so hard to be the type of person that I wanted to be and only now, after five years of being head over heels (to the point of fault) in love with someone, unable to see their own faults, it’s only now that I am able to see that our relationship was a mistake. The whole thing. And that is because I am overly romantic and believed that love conquered all; that none of my dreams mattered because I had found someone who loved me in spite of all my flaws (like drinking too much or wandering into traffic).

It has only been a few months, but since then I have become an entirely different person. My parents tell me that I have become the old me, but with slightly better morals and more experience, thus more wise. Like an owl or Patrick Stewart in Star Trek Next Generation. I am also a hell of a lot happier… Like, even when I wake up alone and spend the day alone, drink wine alone and then fall asleep alone: I am SO happy doing that too. I have become a more rounded human being right down from losing over two stone in weight and starting this blog. I am also trying to establish myself in a proper career (not like in a call centre role where essentially, I am working for peanuts whilst a giant corporation hands out bonuses to arsehole board members with double chins and mistresses… a proper career) and have become a generally nicer person. I even do nice things for charity now. I know! And no, before you roll your eyes and pass me off as one of those people who took a #nomakeupselfie and didn’t even donate money, I do volunteer work for an old people charity, so shut your stupid judgmental faces and praise me like you should. My entire outlook on life is entirely different and my morals are back on track and being treated with the respect they deserve; I no longer let people walk all over me like I don’t matter and I no longer let people treat me like I don’t mean anything. I am very important and I am very nice and my environment, at least, is very much a product of me, which I think is the ultimate goal for anyone.

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What’s With All the Dick Pics?

For those of you who know me well, or for those of you who don’t, but have been following my blog in the past few weeks (thank you, by the way!) it is no real secret that I am single after half a decade (how awful does that sound? I realised this recently and have startled myself into complete denial with that discovery) and am now somewhat tentatively taking my first unsure, unconfident steps back into the world of single men and the ‘dating game’ (which isn’t really a game at all, guys. A game should make you laugh and there should ultimately be a winner and possibly a trophy. It should not include anyone, under any circumstances making shit conversation and spending an entire evening bragging about themselves and their accomplishments whilst you sit there wishing your drink would automatically refill itself with arsenic so you could put yourself out of the misery of being in that horrific situation. Or, where you get so bored you imagine stabbing yourself in the ears so that you never have to listen to some jumped up narcissist in bad shoes speak ever again. And you’d get a free bus pass. It’s more like torture. Social torture. Dating torture) and it’s only very recently I realised that the concept of dating etc has changed completely and I am now a confused and floundering fish on land, hopelessly gasping for my life and flapping my body off the floor until my eyes get glassy and I drift off into a peaceful fish death, confident that my last moments of abject agony and asphyxiation were far more enjoyable than being a single woman in 2014.

I have always been a pretty modern, liberal woman and having grown up in an age where technology is insistently rampant and ever changing, I never thought I would become intimidated or terrified of being a smart phone owning single female. However, since becoming single, that is exactly what I am. I have been inundated with men who aren’t at all interested in me as a person or being my friend, but more interested in and persistent in showing me their dick. Or, if not showing me their dick, talking about it constantly in both its aesthetics, and its ability to make women everywhere squirt out their entire collective body fluids until they resemble a very old, very dried up sponge with flaky bits coming off and a distinct ‘stale’ odour emanating from their once fluid filled bodies. There isn’t even a preamble to this horrific revelation, no build up or warning at all, just a full on picture of their dick, invading my phone like a tyrannical war lord. When this first happened to me, it was through the app Snapchat, which I had previously only used to show my friends just how horrific I can make my face look by simply showing them my double chin or maybe a picture of overweight women with their thongs hanging out of their see through Primark leggings like string wrapped around piles and piles of flesh coloured wool. I had never even considered that my friends weren’t sending pictures back because they couldn’t find anything more horrific than my face and fat women in thongs, but because they were all too busy sharing ten second snippets of their fanny flaps and ball sacks. Who knew? Certainly not me! I was gob smacked and not just because this person had actually dressed his cock up to look like a human face (oh yeah, you read that correctly), but because I barely even knew this person in any other context than simple Facebook friends with many, many mutual friends. He was someone whose statuses I found really funny, not someone whose cock I wanted to see first thing on a morning wearing glasses with a playful ‘you like? ;)’ caption (FYI, no, I didn’t).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude. I think my previous posts and general cavalier attitude towards sex makes that abundantly clear, but I just don’t want to receive pictures of someone’s cock before I’ve even had my morning cup of tea. If someone were to do that in real life and thrust their cock at me for ten seconds screaming ‘LOOK AT MY COCK! DO YOU LIKE IT?!’ I could prosecute and have them arrested for being fucking creeps, so why is this now seemingly part of the process when chatting to men all of a sudden? I’m not sure if I’ve been in a relationship for too long, that I missed the cursory email society sent around saying that it was now obligatory for us to show off our intimate bits to the opposite sex before embarking on any form of polite conversation, but I’m pretty horrified. Or maybe it’s just the type of people I attract. Maybe I’m like emanating this lonely desperation and longing for some kind of cock catalogue so I can flick through it on a night time before strumming my clit until I’m practically humming the National Anthem in ecstasy. I’m not sure, but what I am sure of is that every male I have spoken to since breaking up with my ex has generally been uninterested in me in any way shape or form, other than in a sexual context. Even people who have added me on Twitter and sent me a ‘you’re hot’ message (Just out of curiosity, how are you supposed to reply to those and why do people send them? Surely a comedic quip and a dazzling of wit would be more appreciated? I mean, for me it definitely would be, because I just find my normal retort: ‘tepid, actually’ baffles them into thinking I must be thick, so they persist and tell me why they think a picture of my face equates to me being super hot and thin and smooth and fuckable) have immediately foregone any form of social graces and inundated me with terrible banter pertaining to my tits and how, because I’m single, I am of course gagging for cock (their cock to be precise) and I must want it in every possible orifice available. It’s not even subtle and there isn’t even any form of prelude through tantalising, flirty conversation or even a simple ‘what’s your favourite colour?’ type questions; it’s immediately sexual and as liberal and cavalier as my attitude tends to be… I just find it very off putting and infantile.

What happened, fellas? What happened to blossoming friendships and the uncertain potential involved with talking to a lady? Getting to know someone through staying up really late chatting passionately about books and films, instead of pushing your phallus right up to their faces, begging her to indulge your every fantasy with a sexting session? It just seems to me that no one seems to want to ‘court’ (old fashioned terminology, but it’s valid) any more – sex is put on the table almost immediately so that you’re pretty aware that the guy you’re talking to doesn’t find you interesting or funny and doesn’t care that you have a first class degree, you just have really nice tits and your face looks like it could do with a smattering of spunk (and yes, that line has been used on me before).

Of course, shit like this has been happening since the dawn of time and if Billy Crystal in When Harry met Sally is to be believed, men and women cannot be friends because the sex part ultimately gets in the way, but at least in those days there was at least the illusion of friendship, rather than Harry just whipping his dick out and asking Sally to suck him off. I mean, if you’re out in a club and you see an attractive person, then yeah, it’s understood that you are there to get off with them and have a bit of a feel, rather than standing in a corner having a passionate debate about this week’s episode of The Walking Dead. If you meet up in a club, it doesn’t really mean anything more than two people expressing their carnal desires whilst dancing to a terrible techno-y remix of a shit song. But, when you talk to someone over a social media platform, I just think that we should expect a sense of decorum; that it should be less blatantly sexual and more conversational, as though you’d sat down next to them in a coffee shop and asked them what they were reading or whatever. I don’t really want to open my messages from someone I’ve never met before telling me that he wants to bend me into awkward positions that might not actually be possible and fuck me until I am inside out and probably a bit broken. Call me old fashioned, I suppose!

I imagine that, ultimately, it’s because our phones are such massive parts of our lives now and regardless of where we are or what we’re doing, we are accessible twenty four hours a day. We’re constantly online and we can instantly message or chat to someone we find attractive and because we share our lives and opinions on the internet and are told to accept that this is ‘sociable’, it’s not really surprising to discover that some people will take it a little too seriously and use this as a method of meeting someone so they don’t have to go through the arduous process of meeting someone in real life. And, if they find you attractive, they can constantly see what you’re up to and who you’re with and because we can speak to them every day if we so choose, it’s easy to be duped into thinking that this is an escalated form of ‘dating’ or whatever and it’s also easy to be deluded into thinking that someone replying to your messages and liking your statuses means that your feelings of attraction are ‘reciprocated’ when really, they have no real clue as to who you are. I just feel, being newly single and all, people put too high a price on social media and it warps the whole experience into believing it’s something that it really isn’t.

I guess if there’s any knowledge I can impart onto any men who are reading this and have done or are considering sending a woman a picture of their dick: Just don’t do it, guys. We don’t really appreciate them as much as you think we do and we don’t want to pander to you in order to massage a fragile ego. Instead, maybe try to treat a girl online exactly the same way you would treat her if you met her in reality; you wouldn’t flap your dick around in her face in real life, so just don’t do it.

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Dating: Society’s Cruellest Trick.

I do not like dating. Like, at all. It’s not something I’ve ever really enthusiastically participated in and now that I have come out of a long term relationship, it’s not something that I want to participate in, in my future either. I am actually quite seriously contemplating a life of spinsterhood except instead of cats, I’m going to buy pugs and eventually I am going to move to a big farm in the middle of no where and become a pug farmer, because how cute does that sound? I won’t sell these pugs or earn any money from the farm land I am on. Instead I will simply live a meagre life, writing witty things online in trade of wine deliveries made by a rotund, bleary eyed gentleman named Bob, who will always come in for a cuppa by the fire and before he leaves he’ll turn to me and say “It amazes me that you’re single, Doris, you’re such a catch and so skinny!” and I will nod and tip my wine glass towards him and say “Oh, Bob, if only you were fifty years younger!” and he will chuckle and pat his belly before getting back into his van and driving off into the sunset. Okay, I’ve gone off point, but seriously, seriously this should happen. Back on point: Dating… I don’t like it. Okay, here we go.

Living alone allows for some very awesome things. Like watching Johnny Bravo back to back on Netflix and doing the monkey with him during the theme tune from the couch, stuffing biscuit after biscuit into my mouth and washing it down with beer at 1pm on a Sunday afternoon. Or never leaving bed for an entire weekend, but instead of having awesome sex with a really hot person, I’m reading and napping for hours on end. Or ordering loads of takeaways and hiding the evidence in case my parents visit unexpectedly. But it does also allow for some pretty shitty things, like not being bothered about cleaning up so I can’t invite people round in case they judge me for being slovenly and then I descend into partial madness as I struggle to find things to keep me occupied now that I’ve watched all the cartoons on Netflix. My most loathed part about living alone is allowing myself to think. Mostly because my brain is a cock and she makes me think about things that I don’t want to think about like responsibilities and the future. So, of course, fuelled by wine, I recently decided to take a trip down memory lane and think about all the men in my past. Healthy, right? Yeah, tell me about it.

Somewhere in my mind, I decided to try and remember a really good date that I’ve been on and of course, my mind actually drew a blank. Instead, terrible dates and faces I’ve tried to suppress in the deepest, darkest caves in my mind came flying at me like the most terrifying 80s montage experience you can think of, the Rocky theme tune playing on a loop as memory after memory accosted my thoughts and I began weeping profusely into my wine glass at the prospect of dating humans in the future and that I should just ask Google to find me a sparse farm land somewhere for my future pugs to run around on. It’s not that I have horrific taste in men, or that the males I’ve been out with have been unattractive or weird (at first). I might have really high expectations of dating, or it might all be in my head and actually, I’ve never been on a date or been in a relationship, I’m just that socially awkward and hermity that I make it up in my head and tell people how terrible dates were in order to at least appear totally normal and functional and that my impending life of spinsterhood isn’t as tragic as it might sound to normal, emotionally stable adults. Then, I had another terrible thought and decided that it must be me that has the problem, because who would take a really sexy, fully functioning adult on a really shit date and then just tell her all these ridiculous things and do stupid things to make her repress them all in such a wobbly manner? I’m like a drunken, English, chubby Taylor Swift, except instead of writing horrible songs about Harry Styles, I repress memories and cry into wine glasses.

There was this one guy I dated for about two weeks who I’d met online. We had mutual friends and he went to the college near where I went to college. He was studying to make films and (no this isn’t going to end up with me half naked in a warehouse somewhere having enormous cocks slapped in my face as I cry and wish for simpler times… Calm down) he asked me if I knew any dramatic types who’d like to be in a film, so I said yes and we all met up to discuss this venture thing that would eventually lead to me being super duper famous because, low and behold, I was a writer and I was going to write it. Turned out I didn’t write it and the whole thing was just this weird ploy to get me to go on a date with him. He was really lovely and he was funny, so I let him take me out a few times and when I didn’t see him, we’d chat on MSN like everyone did back in the olden days. He would tell me I was pretty and liked my eyes, then photo shopped every picture of myself and changed my eyes into a totally different colour to what they actually are (blue/green became sapphire blue) and then he told me I looked like Anne Hathaway and Ariel the Little Mermaid and I’d forget that he changed my appearance at all and be charmed into thinking I was adorable. I don’t really know what happened to him, but I think he’s married now, presumably to someone who doesn’t mind being photo shopped into a better, bluer eyed version of herself.

Not long after that, I decided to accept a date from another person that I knew vaguely through some other friends of mine. One of my friends told me he was a bit of a douche bag and I didn’t believe him, because that friend didn’t like any males I dated because he used to like to get stoned and have sex with me and if I was dating, we couldn’t do that. It’s okay; he’s one of my best friends, so it’s not as sordid as it sounds. Anyway, this guy I went on a date with was really nice, I thought. He bought me pizza and didn’t judge me when I ate the whole thing in super quick time, then picked at the leftover chips on his plate. He then asked me if I’d like to go for a walk, which I was less enthusiastic about. Mostly because I’d just eaten an entire pizza, but also because physical exertion isn’t really high up on my list of things to do unless I’m shopping or running away from zombies. (Side note: Why do people run away from zombies? Don’t zombies traditionally walk really slowly? When did they start running? Like World War Z they all ran and I’m pretty sure they did in 28 Days Later too, but I can’t remember and don’t want to Google it in case I scare myself. Also, In The Walking Dead in the first episode, a zombie actually tried to open a door and another tried to climb a ladder… Zombies don’t do that shit. Seriously, what’s wrong with people?!) So we went on this walk and we were getting along quite well and talking about films that we liked, which was really great. Then he stopped and turned towards me, actually took my face in his hands and kissed me. Just like out of a film! No one had actually grabbed any body part of mine when they kissed me, unless you count my arse or a tit grab in a club one time, so I was pretty impressed the first time he did it. Less so when he did it every few feet, in the same chaste way before smiling and sighing, then taking my hand and walking a bit further. I was confused and also a bit sick of the face grabbing. Like, seriously, why was he grabbing my face and trying to control the kissing situation? I didn’t like it at all. Then I realised that he was doing this under every single lamp post we got to. It was winter and it was dark and the lamp posts were casting an amber glow onto us and presumably bouncing off my face in a really appealing way, hence the sigh? I started to get a little scared and wondered if he asked me to go on a walk so he could take me somewhere really secluded and hack me to death, then peel my face off so he could add it to the collection of faces he’d already collected from other girls he kissed under lamp posts. Needless to say, I ended the situation pretty quickly and made him take me to my bus stop and back towards civilisation in case I went missing (witnesses, guys, do not underestimate witnesses if you think you’re going to be killed). He asked me out again and I put him off for a while, until he quite bluntly asked me why I didn’t want to go out with him again. So I told him that it was the weird kissing under lamp posts and asked him what his deal was and he said it seemed like something Tom Hanks would do and ladies tend to like Tom Hanks. Oh, okay then.

I decided from a young age that I hated dating, but people tell me that this is how people find their future husbands and stuff like that, so I am encouraged to do this by all my friends and my family, who I’m convinced secretly hate me and set me up with fucking idiots so that I get drunk and cry about how terrible my dating history has been. I have also watched far too many teen driven shows about upper middle class American people who take the girls they like on really awesome dates like booking out the entire mall and covering it with loads of balloons and hearts or taking her to see Kelly Clarkson and then having Kelly shout ‘CHAD LOVES YOU’ to the crowd of however many fans Kelly Clarkson has as he hands her a bouquet of the most awesome flowers that actually smell really nice and not actually like a waste of money. So suffice it to say I do have a really warped expectation of dates. But, overall I think I don’t like them because I think it’s weird that people actually go out and feign all these social interactions in order to determine to themselves whether or not they like the person enough to want to have sex with them without getting really, really drunk first. Does no one else think that’s really weird? Like, why not just say to the person: Look, you seem nice, emotionally stable, you’ve got great tits, and should we have sex and see where this goes? I think dates would be a lot more successful if people were more up front. Like, one time, I went on a date with a guy and he actually looked me up and down as though I was cattle being sold at a market, then when he reached my face told me that he didn’t usually like tall girls, but he’d make an exception because I had really nice tits. So I knew that once I’d eaten the most expensive thing on the menu and drank two bottles of wine, that I’d ‘go to the bathroom’ before the bill came and then run away. See, being up front cost this guy a lot of money, but because he was an arsehole. But if executed in a more respectful and kind way, it’d be pretty successful, I think. I said to my friend a few days ago that I would quite like men to come with a CV and a covering letter, to lay out his plans and expectations of a date, and then I could decide accordingly whether or not I’d like to go out with him. Then I realised, I’m pretty sure that’s what online dating is for, then started to consider it before I snapped out of it and realised I’d rather die alone than meet some half breed online, who only resorted to online dating because there was so much wrong with him that women in real life screamed in horror and ran away as though they’d seen a hoard of zombies sprinting towards them over his shoulder and decided that they’d rather see him die than socialise with him in any way, shape or form.

So, after all the wine was gone, I decided that I will simply refrain from accepting invitations anywhere from men of any sort just in case they turn out to be weird or behave like Tom Hanks. Instead, I am going to buy an Xbox and play online with all of the other single losers who have no interest in dating because their gamer score is so high. And maybe buy a pug.

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