Apparently, in 2002, I was under the grand illusion that I was Bridget Jones (Who couldn’t relate to her idiotic grasp of life and relationships?). I started writing a diary. Complete with ‘Weight’ and ‘Number of Cigarettes’ heading the pages of my shiny, new, extremely hippy-ish note book. (Bought on Glastonbury high street no less, that grungy haven I used to escape to as a teenager. I was clearly serious about writing.) My optimistic first entry reads,
“Fab New Year’s Eve spent at an extremely rough pub in Glasto. Met all sorts of random hedgers, didn’t pull, so my wish of getting laid before the year was out was pushed out of the window.”
I think that night marked the beginning of a trend that has been my friend and foe ever since. Constantly confident and hopeful, pinning all my hopes on a brief moment. Only to be disappointed in the end. It’s almost comforting, I can excuse each epic fail with reassurances of, “Oh I’m used to it, this ALWAYS happens”, “No, I know he thinks I’m awesome/witty/charming, but I totally get it, we are just meant to be friends”. I am now the Managing Director of the ‘Friend Zone’. I’ve earned my life time membership, got my gold star and have the pension scheme. But it also means I have male friends coming out of every orifice, and quite frankly it’s getting tedious. And the Same. Keeps. Happening.
I am an overly optimistic, idealistic kind of gal who builds things up to dizzying proportions, only to either royally fuck it all up myself (quite how I fuck it all up is what I’m trying to figure out) or until the beautiful, new Persian rug that I am so comfortably reclining on is abruptly pulled from beneath me causing me to crash loudly onto my hardwood floor.
This cycle has been churning away for the last ten years. The Dizzying Heights. The Comfortable Recline. The Hardwood Floor.
And generally this cycle takes about three months to churn.
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