…And I’m fine with that, I honestly am, I’m not angry YOUR angry!…
Hello readers! I’m back in England and the last five days have been absolutely crap, Bordeaux’s dating scene was bustling like a prostitute’s fanny compared to this bloody place! All is not lost though my friends, I’m flying to Barcelona tomorrow so instead of these lazy British bastards I might meet a sexy Pablo instead… (Pablo ironically being the most normal name I’ve made up on this blog)
It hasn’t been a complete waste of my time coming home, I don’t live in the desolate wastes of North after all (sorry everyone who lives above the M25). Determined to get myself out there and meet my future husband, I have been out three nights this week and have been met with 3 different types of rejection… Fantastic… Being a dating optimist I’ve tried to find the lesson in each one, (triple your money this week guys *wink*) but I’m also a classic Leo so I’m fucking pissed. I’m at the point where I’ld angrily sleep with a hobo to prove I’m desirable, a phenomenon we’ll call ‘swings-and-fuck-abouts’.
I also have some minor updates regarding Hank and the gang, *spoiler* I’m more enthusiastic about dentists than I am about talking to Hank, one serves a purpose. So strap yourself in for some pity and badly thought out aliases as rush toward rejection number one…
Noun: When your friends are in states worse than Nagasaki and Hiroshima circa 1945 and people avoid you by association.
This is the easiest type of rejection to receive, and at least you look like Mother Teresa looking after the your alcoholic friends. I went out to see Whorey Spelling when I got home from France because it had been two weeks and I was desperate to find out what I had missed. Funnily Whorey was not my personal penis shield but it was their friend (we’ll call…) Heels. Heels has earnt the namesake because Whorey has colourful friends and this one happens to be a drag queen, tonight he arrived as a boy head to ankle, he’s feet however were camper than Liberace (a hot up to date pop culture reference there). He was wearing 9 inch red stilettos which would make Paris Hilton’s vagina blush…
The night had been going fairly well, Whorey had disappeared to complain to management about some grievance (Their second favourite activity, they like dick and then being a dick) so I was left with Heels… I was at the bar chatting to a cute guy but Heels interjected with:
“DO YOU LIKE MY ELSA CLUTCH?!?”
No Heels, he would like to make out with me but your slunk up like a U-Boat to stop that ship sailing… credit to the man though, he shrugged it off and kept chatting to me. Unfortunately I hadn’t noticed the full extent of how much Heels had replaced his blood with raspberry Sambuca, and he ran off in tears to the smoking area. My now perturbed Casanova followed me to the emotional ground zero, I gave him an a look which suggested ‘look, I’ll try to fix up this busted car so it can travel to the taxi rank and we can make out’. This was not meant to be though, Heels was having an alcohol induced breakdown, he wailed:
“I think I’m Trans! Not just a drag queen!”
For someone who can’t have periods Heels sure had a flair for replicating hormone induced sobbing… I’m not down playing these types of sexual awakenings, but much like train suicides, don’t mess up my day too (have some decency and do it at home with a bottle of vodka and some sleeping pills you commute ruining bastards). Cute Bar Guy (this is literally all I have to identify him as) folded, Heels had gone all in to win my full attention and he had to leave the table. The rest of the night turned into drag creche, mostly picking up dropped Elsa clutches and stopping my baby tranny from slut dropping on the unsuspecting straight guys…
Top tip #143: Use props to repel unwanted attention, like emotional drag queens or a severed rabbit foot.
Okay so that was the Friend-jection, but hold onto your Sunday bonnets for…
…The Malaysia Airline Act.
Noun…ish, similar to ghosting however rather than a slow winding down, overnight a genuine connection completely disappears off the map. Your left wondering how something so large could of disappeared so quickly whilst analysing emotional undercurrents for years trying to find where they could be.
I’ve been ghosted before and that’s fine (for those not in the know, ghosting is when a guy slowly cuts contact with you, hoping you’ll get the idea). The fact a guy can’t be honest and tell you that he’s found a new girl/turned gay/became a furry is rude, but you do get a warning. This did not occur with (we’ll call him…) fucker Alex.
Alex and I met ages ago back in March and we have been talking ever since. This occured in London over a couple of drinks and he was the sort of man that you want to raise your children. Now my type is usually more emotionally unavailable or broken but we had a spark and have since sent each other messages here and there to keep in contact. We promised to meet each other for a catch up when I got back from France but when I returned he straight up pulled a Houdini on me and fucked off. I’m still shocked by it, his last message to me was:
“Yay your home! Can’t wait to see you x”
Well clearly you can you bastard. I replied about meeting up but he’s just vanished! Literally into thin air, his number doesn’t even work! Where are you Alex?! Part of me blames my puns or being ‘cool’ to keep him keen, the other half wants to skin my personal ‘Becky with the good hair’ for hypothetically stealing him. I just don’t know, life is not like CSI kids, Alex has joined Madeleine McCann in some remote part of Fuck Knows. I hope he’s dead, there’s either a tragic star crossed lovers vibe or the fucker had it coming for tagging me along, both bring me comfort…
Managing the Malaysia Airlines Act (try saying that quickly) is all about perspective. I’m choosing to believe he’s dead and that has brought me the closure I need to move on with my life and straight into the arms of…
Verb (I think… to be honest I’m winging the grammar), to be rejected by anyone because your so goddamn thirsty it’s sad.
This is the final and worst type of rejection I have experienced this week. A guy disappearing off the map might make you lose a smidge of sanity, but being rejected (by someone below my league I might add) for looking desperate will make you lose your dignity too.
Being desper-jected happened last this week. I had come home from France feeling like a summer flower but after three days of boring, scared and vanishing men I turned into a Russian turnip. There’s a guy who regularly sees me and he’s pretty gross so I always palm him off politely, he’s nice but not my type (but not in a Hank way, Hank had some potential). We were chatting whilst I walked home and he offered for me to come round which I’ld usually reply with “ooooooh soooorrrrry I have to be awake really early for my dogs” or some crap. Tonight however was his lucky night, I had the self esteem of Lindsay Lohan and the self control of… Lindsay Lohan (get your shit together babe).
I actually agreed to spend a night with this ogre, and he suddenly changed his mind! It’s like I flipped a switch in his head by saying yes and his inner monologue said “Fuck Sams in a bad way, why say yes? I’m clearly a slug masquerading as a human.”
He made his excuses and promised to meet up soon which pissed me off because that’s my job. If I voted UKIP I’ld of shouted “Go back to your own country!” But I was angry not racist. They’re similar but I know I’m mad at myself for poor self control, racists are mad too but are to dumb to work out why…
Top tip#104: Be desperate AND racist to widen your audience to all the terrible men.
So these were the three re-gifted lessons the wise men bestowed upon baby slutus.
If your getting rejected because your friends are drunken idiots, don’t date when your out with them, or have a backup mate there to tag in.
If men disappear on you then wipe that shit from your mind because wondering won’t get you a husband.
And finally it’s better to invest in good sex toys then let the elephant man go home with your self respect but leave you hanging.
I know I promised an update on Hank and the gang but this week I’ve been a Chatty Sally so I’ll write a footnotes thing mid week about it (he’s not worth a full article anymore…)
Cigarettes: Haven’t been rude to me once this week so they can stay.
Diet: I want to eat because I’m furious at all these men but I want to be skinny so I can attract nicer men so I’ve been eating rice crackers viciously.
Emotional Level: Excited to go to meet my Spanish husband but tinged with praying mantis anger.