This is a post that I wrote nearly four years ago now, but this is where my love for blogging began.
People make out that the single population are hiding their secret pain. That they cry hopelessly every night into their empty bed. The coupled up people of the world truly believe if they come across a confident, happy single person that they must be putting on a front.
I am here to tell you the truth.
All of the above happens. Although, I do feel compelled to say that not all singlers feel that way. There are some genuinely happy ones out there, look at George Clooney. He can just buy a broad for the night, the week, however long he needs them. No problems occur as there isn’t enough time for him to fart in bed or for her to leave a toothbrush behind. That guy has it made.
I’ve spent the past three months believing I was my towns answer to George. Yet the tissues and empty chocolate wrappers that are currently surrounding me, whilst I lay in the same spot that I have been in for the past ten hours would suggest that I wasn’t. I’m not saying that I haven’t been happy. I had the obligatory flash of immediate confidence when I realised I could flirt outrageously without any consequences, sleep in my holey marvel underwear and not shave my legs for weeks at a time. Then it all crashed around me, my once happy bed space had turned into a pit of crumbs from the endless visits to my local shop. The visiting became so frequent in fact that I had to make a schedule to use different shops in my area so to not look sad or pathetic, unless they have figured me out in which case my credibility is officially ruined in the grocery circles.
After a hard day at work, instead of seeing friends and taking advantage of all of my free time I went home and concentrated on self-loathing – my new hobby.
If only I were 21 again, when you drink to forget, party until you’ve licked the faces of at least 5 unfortunate men on the dance floor and are more than content with a deep and meaningful chat with the takeaway man at the end of the night, explaining why you are so happy that you haven’t got a boyfriend anymore.
Now if I get drunk I dissect the simplest actions from men, I ridicule myself for this and then call every man in my phonebook to gain some form of self-worth. I’ve learnt how to cover up the alcohol embarrassment by making fun of myself and seeming ok with the whole charade. Unfortunately, it has now got to the point where I am only willing to drink once a month and dread the hangover blues a week in advance. This is no way for a woman to live.