I’ve been told I should start documenting my stories

So before my already loyal followers read and think ‘ey, this is old material’, I’ll explain what I’m up too…

I have left my job, sold my car, and bought a oneway ticket to Africa. My travels are undetermined and for the first time in a long time, I have absolutely no distractions in front of me other than, what is my next meal going to be. Most likely wali maharage, rice and beans. YES my farts have been mega.

I’ve been away for two weeks and I’ve already finished an entire book, The Power by Naomi Alderman, fucking read it, it’s a bloody page turner, made me feel like a powerful woman, and then also kind of terrified me.

An open schedule has given me time to think and reflect on what was really a pretty fucked up 2017. To mentally unpack I began by reading and editing my old private stories, and then started writing untold stories.

Now I’m no professional writer, as thoughts come up, I put them onto my grubby little iPad keyboard. I’ll be starting the blog as though it were the start of 2017 with some jump ins from whats going on with present me, surely something juicy, so here we go:

January 2017…

Well my most recent love, the hot af pilot/psycho and I have ended. It came as a surprise because things were really heating up, only the weekend before the end he took me too a nudist beach and secretly fingered me on the towel whilst shrivelled schlongs and bouncing boosms passed by us. The erotica of that public act lead us to banging in the back of his van, van sex lead to a romantic dinner of fish and chips, a natural transgression. Things were seemingly heading down relationship road…

Lol how bloody boring would this tale be if it ended in a loving relationship? Not long after beach shenanigans I decided to get a copper IUD put in (which I can’t recommend enough), and though I wasn’t ‘getting it for him and I,’ like I really wasn’t, but I kind of was you know? We were both clean and I was sick of either risk-taking baby making or the shitty need to whip a condom out in a heated back of van moment. After the procedure he had promised to come and bring me takeaway but yet again, learning to become a pilot got in the way and he went to study how to stop a plane from crashing or some shit.
This total shit bloke act catapulted me out of the ‘love eyed’ bubble I had been in and reminded me he was not going to be my boyfriend, or be the boyfriend I want, ever.
And so I ended it, at Grill’d, classy. We small talked awkwardly until I got to the crunch and in a flood of tears declared “I need to be with someone who wants to be with me!!!”

Quite poetic of me don’t you think?

Lucky for me, a past tinder fellow reemerged right when I needed him. I had someone new to focus on and I was excited. I went on the date and much to my unrealistic expectations building self he was not the Dev Patel look alike I had so hoped for, nor was he anything else that I had conjured him to be in my mind. For one, he was short, SORRY I know as a petite person I’m not allowed to care about guys being short, but I do. And two, our ‘date’ was walking around the fucking Tan with me listening to how much he had gotten baked with his mates recently. Oh and looking at about 25 pictures of his pet turtle. HA, if a guy I was into showed me his turtle, I’d probably be saying “OMG and… he has a pet turtleeeeeee” with an over flowing esterogen squeak in my voice.

Needless to say, when I saw my first available tram, I hopped on. The ‘how great I am’ message I received the next day, was responded with a prompt and polite extended version of ‘yeh… nah, we were sparkless, so no hangs needed.’ #honestypolicy

This let down of my own Dev Patel, mainly due to my own unrealistic expectations, got me really questioning why I ended it with the pilot, and so to deter from messaging him I tindered hard.

It’s 8:30 on a Sunday night, I’m bathed, robed, and have some trashy tv showed lined up, when I swipe right to a nice looking fella. He doesn’t hesitate, and asks me out to dumplings right then and there. I’m in no state for company, let alone wanting to leave the house, but I always say I love spontaneity. So it’s on. He picks me up, good boy, and as soon as I get in the car he is a delight, hilarious, playing great music, instant banter, yada yada. We go to dinner and he eats but I just drink, I’ve already had dinner, remember we’re at about 9.30 now, I’m not fucking Spanish. The banter continues to a point where you know the waiters are collecting their bets on whether or not our tinder date will be a success. He goes to pay and realises he’s left his wallet in his car, I say “all good just transfer me.”

We walk to get gelati, he puts hand around waist, it’s all heating up. You get the picture. We get our gelati and he hands his card over, sorry we only take cash, I lol and give the woman my money, he says never mind I’ve got the next night out. We chat for ages till he drives me home, as I go to leave the car he grabs my face and tongues me like an excitable P-plater, but in a good way. I escape his mouth and say goodnight, he says I’ll see you on the weekend.

I’m feeling pretty good, I let Monday roll by expecting a message on tinder as no phone numbers had been exchanged. None roll in so I send him a cool/casual ‘hey last night was fun, here’s my number for real world communication’.

NO RESPONSE. NO TEXT. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND MEN. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND MY JOKE OF A DATING LIFE.

Oh and you owe me $30 fucker.

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