SOME GUYS JUST AREN'T CUT OUT FOR A 9 TO 5…
So I was wondering the other day whether there were any women out there who were as ‘unlucky in love’ as I appear to be, when I stumbled across this gem from Curious Emily. Whilst she’s not quite as self-sabotaging as me, she certainly knows a thing or two about chasing lost causes. But don’t take my word for it, have a read and see for yourself.
Apologies in advance (rest of the world) for all the Britishisms. And for her appalling language. For a lady she really does have quite the potty-mouth. But then again that’s also part of her charm.
Bollocks to fate (see what I mean); anyone with half a brain knows that everything – including matters of the heart and associated organs – comes down to luck. Sometimes things work out for the best (or worst) just because you’re in the right place at the right time.
Usually I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time. Here’s just a few of “the ones that got away”.
Fit David was the only bloke at my artistic roller skating club and I was completely infatuated with him. He was fit even when he tore his groin this one time trying to do an arabesque and had to take two weeks off.
OK so it’s not an arabesque
but I’m sure one could tear their groin just as easily doing this
Unfortunately, my best friend Hannah also really fancied him, which was sad for me as she was leggy and blonde and nine months older, which counts for a lot when you are twelve. I was completely heartbroken when he asked her out, but love’s young dream is often fleeting and they broke up within two weeks, much to my secret delight. Alas, I still had three tyres and more chins than a Chinese phone book so I didn’t even get sloppy seconds, but if I couldn’t have him I was at least happy that nobody else did either.
FD is now bald as a cucumber and, as far as I can tell from my extremely well-developed Facebook stalking skills, one of the most boring bastards alive. So actually this one was probably for the best.
I usually cycle to work, but if I have somewhere to go afterwards I take the bus. Sometimes a man I like to call Bus Bateman gets on and graces us all with his sexy presence. There is no doubt that BB gets dressed next to a framed photograph of Christian Bale from American Psycho, who is without doubt the finest example of a man there ever was. I can’t really argue with her on this one.
BB even has the hair – chestnut brown and slicked back – which, although a bit of a dickish hairstyle, he totally rocks. He wears well-cut wool suits with shiny shoes and once, on one glorious summer’s day, a skinny tweed tie. I know BB is my kind of guy because he does nothing to hide his disgust when people get on the bus in jogging bottoms.
Nothing will ever happen with BB because I am 95% sure he is gay. Not to be unfair to straight dudes, but it’s rare that someone as well-dressed as him likes to fuck women. Also, one time he sat in front of me and I sort of leaned forward a bit to see if he smelled of Paul Sebastian for Men, which is what Patrick Bateman wears in the book. Sadly, his attention to detail was not as good as I had thought; not only had he neglected the all-important cologne factor, but he was also browsing Grindr on his Blackberry. Which obviously the real Bateman would never do.
I was recently at a club in Covent Garden and decided to leave at around 3am because I’d lost everyone except the friend of a friend who was trying his best to put his hand down my trousers. It wasn’t happening though. This was because he
a) was shorter than me and
b) had regaled us at pre-drinks with the story of how his ex-girlfriend once blanked him for a week because he fingered her arsehole and wiped the run-off on her own wall. His words, not mine.
There are simply NO MEMES to do (b) justice. Trust me
Five minutes later, the attendant came back with my jacket. “That’s the one!” I said, relieved, as she opened a pocket to check that the contents matched my description. Unfortunately, I’d completely forgotten about the pair of emergency pants stashed in there. Only sensible, really, in case you have to crash unexpectedly at someone’s house or get so drunk you accidentally piss yourself (it hasn’t happened yet but it is one of my greatest fears), but Crinkle-eyes looked so appalled I decided there was no coming back from that and called it a night.
The Greatest Mystery of All Time
GMOAT is a man I met at university who seemed really into me up until the point that he actually had to do something about it. We met when I worked in a bar and he gave me his number on a scrap of paper along with the quid for his bottle of Heineken. At the time I thought it was one of the most romantic things that had ever happened to me. (When we were twenty we considered the pinnacle of chivalry to be when a bloke ties off a condom so you don’t get spunk all over your waste paper basket, so this was definitely something to get excited about.)
For years after we graduated he’d sporadically pop up on Facebook and suggest we go for a drink, but nothing ever panned out. It was so fucking weird I was sure he was a homosexual in denial. It was like he kept running into the great foaming sea of gash (she paints quite the picture, doesn’t she?) with rip-roaring enthusiasm and then changing his mind and running away as soon as he got his toes wet.
One night we both happened to be out in Soho at the same time and I ended up going back to his along with his friend Jules, who was staying over and allegedly flew helicopters for a living. I assumed it was On until we got there and GMOAT disappeared for about an hour to buy Lucozade at 4am. On reflection they were probably on drugs. When GMOAT came back he suggested a devil’s three-way and I ran off to sleep in a spare bedroom while he and Helicopter Jules got cosy. Obviously I was furious but also consumed with Smug because I was right about GMOAT being gay all along.
And there you have it ladies and gents; proof that I’m not the only one. For more cracking material – whether it’s personal anecdotes or her take on issues that affect many of us – head over to IncurablyCurious.com. From past experience of mentioning other bloggers, I know you’re a very reluctant bunch when it comes to making that extra click but if you liked this, you’d be a fool not to check her out.
And if you still need convincing, she was Freshly Pressed last week (for the non-blogging readers that’s a pretty big deal) and recently featured in the Evening Standard as one of London’s 20 best bloggers.
Though if I was a WordPress editor, I’d have picked her piece, Should you Follow Your Dream, which is second only to Weebles’ What you don’t see, as the best thing I’ve ‘read’ so far this year. You don’t want to know what the best thing I’ve ‘seen’ is.
What’s my angle I hear you asking? Nothing; I completely lost interest in her after she refused to take part in the devil’s three-way. I just found this fucking hilarious – especially the run-off line – and thought you’d all enjoy it too.
Just a heads-up, she’s generally a bit rubbish at responding to comments (she gets there eventually) though she’ll have no choice but to reply here, otherwise I will on her behalf! And unlike me, she doesn’t rely on memes or gifs to sell her writing (I added them in). But I do, so fuck her. And on that note.
It’s like watching me and Nova on a night out
If you liked this then I suspect you might also enjoy my book. Or not.
Either way, thanks for reading; particularly to those of you who share these stories and/or leave comments.