For some reason this year feels like it might be ‘the one’. The year where I might find a non fuckwit who has a hut near one and isn’t going to use me to smuggle coke which sees me ending up in a Thai prison singing Madonna songs and lending people my Wonderbra.
Of course I could be entirely wrong and I might spend the year wading through weirdos again but after having my poor little heart smashed to smithereens by ‘Giant Bellend of Doom’ (as he is so called, lovingly though because I’m a massive sook) it feels like I might at least be ready to try and find someone. Don’t get me wrong, my self-esteem is still through the floor and I frequently wail into a wine glass (at home alone I’m not a masochist) about how I’m completely and utterly unloveable and how I’m going to die alone surrounded by cats who won’t even eat my face off, so hideous I am. But who am I kidding because Hobo can’t even wait half an hour for his kibble so he’ll be gnawing on my face before my body is even cold.
Inherently there’s nothing wrong with me, I have all the right bits in all the right places although granted they could be a bit smaller in parts. I can’t cook for shit but I do it in a loveable calamitous way – I once served a man risotto which could have made decent wallpaper paste and then burnt almond friands which he ate through gritted teeth and claimed to enjoy, and I’m funny in a hopefully ha ha way and not in an ‘oh god she needs committing’ fashion. I care about people and go out of my way to make them happy, and am a good kisser (so I have been told I am not just tooting my own kissing horn).
The problem I think I’m going to encounter is that I can’t help but think that all the decent ones have been snapped up leaving the slightly dented mystery tins which may contain peaches, but might also contain cat food or marrowfat peas. Or adult babies. My friends have no single men about their persons, the idea of speed dating fills me with abject horror, and I have no hobbies where eligible men are involved. My aquafit class is filled with old ladies, my cocktail cabinet has no men hidden amongst the gin bottles, and there are none in my bed during nap time (mores the pity).
Which leaves online dating (again) which so far has been a World of married men, bizarre fetishes, and people who just really don’t tickle my pickle. I know I know, it’s hard to come across properly through pixels on a screen but I think I’m quite a good judge of character. The last one I wasn’t sure about who I let slip through the net turned into an unmitigated nightmare.
Sat in the pub having a slightly awkward drink when we get onto the subject of University. He’d dropped out which was no issue because yours truly had also divebombed my way out of my ‘ology’ degree at the end of the first year. The issue was that his parents had high hopes for their darling son and leaving Oxbridge was NOT in the plan. Cue a rant of epic proportions about how he was a grown up and could do whatever he liked, he ended this by shouting ‘I don’t need my parents, I don’t need them!’. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole as people were staring at this man child throwing his toys firmly out of the pram.
Still I guess the silver lining of going on dates with screaming men, men who wear nappies, and those who admit to Googling me before telling me my life history is that it will make some excellent blog fodder.
Hang onto your hats kiddos, this could be quite the ride.
*10 LTA points if you get the reference without using your Google-Fu.