X needs no introduction. Thank you, sir, for writing this guest post. I can only hope that someday you will grace the internet with your writing again.
***
I have my faults, but I never hesitate to apologise when I am in the wrong. I started to compose a new email.
Sorry for being so immature last time we spoke. Just want to clear the air.
I sent it.
Her response wasn’t as quick as it had once been. It used to be that, back when we were absolutely and sickly infatuated with each other, we used to bounce messages back and forth, dozens every day. She’d never admit it if you asked her, but she used to love hearing from me. The timestamps on the messages made me feel as though she did nothing but sit, prettily waiting in front of her computer, checking her inbox for a message telling her how I couldn’t wait for the next time I’d see her, then reply and tell me how much she couldn’t wait to have me hold her tightly in a strong embrace.
Things had changed since then. We’d grown distant recently, alternating between blowing up at one another in bitter arguments and ignoring each other. I had almost forgotten that I had sent her an email by the time I’d received a reply:
There is nothing to “clear”. Leave me alone.
Where I pride myself on not holding a grudge, she apparently hadn’t gotten over me breaking up with her and fucking her best friend.
I don’t claim to be an expert on relationships because given my track record, claiming such a thing would make me a liar, and a liar is not something I claim to be. I am, despite that, treated as though I am a relationship expert, and people often come to me with questions, the people mostly being girls seeking to improve their understanding of the opposite sex. One thing I am asked over and over again by girls is, “where is this going?”
It is, despite its appearance, a valid question. It is valid in the sense that an answer can be given, much like the similar questions, “what is your problem?” or “can a fist actually fit in there?” Much like with those questions, however, a straightforward answer is rarely possible, and much explanation is often required.
I can preface the following with “no word of a lie”: every time I have been asked where “this” is going, I had not thought about the destination of “this” until that exact moment. The reason for that is that the endpoint of “this” only seems to become an issue to women after they create a situation in which there is no concrete reason for men to care about where “this” is going. If you’ve just implored me to push three of my fingers in your vagina in an alleyway (and my fingers are not small, trust Amanda on that one) then it’s highly likely that I don’t want things to get any more complicated than they already are. I’m not sure your vagina could take the four-finger salute without adequate preparation.
While fitting four of my fingers inside that girl’s snatch proved difficult but eventually possible, it has become harder and harder to say the same about picking up women these days. There’s no challenge left in it any more. If there’s any one thing about a woman that sets me after her, it’s her not being easy. It’s not solely about being pretty, it’s about being attractive, and believe me, your sale price for the cow is definitely not looking attractive when you’re round every morning delivering your milk to my stoep.
By all means, ladies, if you want to score, go for it. (Sam’s got my number.*) All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t try to use sex as some sort of bait to try and trap a guy into a relationship. As the old saying goes, how can you expect a guy to respect you if you don’t respect him? Or even yourself, for that matter?
And that’s all it really boils down to. What I’m really on about here is treating yourselves the way you’d like to be treated: with some fucking respect. Otherwise he might end up in a relationship with that hot best friend of yours whose legs weren’t so easy to part in the first instance.
---X
* I’m just kidding. My girlfriend is better-looking and smarter than you, whoever you are.
---------------------------------
Trish, my fellow American, my Virginian lover, my English sidekick. You are too random and hilarious for your own good. I miss you. Thanks for writing this for me, Poodle.
***
How does one describe a girl who gets so drunk that she doesn’t even remember her own flatmate because she dyed her hair brown? Well, I guess that would be a good way to.
Ahh, I remember the day I met Samantha ------, in the smoking room of the airport because the Customs Woman made me cry. Bitch. She, ever so shyly, came up to me and asked me for a lighter. Little did she know, that I possessed no lighter, but in fact matches. I would hope that they would have suited her, and they did. The rest of the time was spent smoking cigarettes. Hers, might I add. Cause I had none. And I probably still to this day owe her loads of cigarettes. I should bring her back a carton. Effort. During that first encounter, we judged each other. Harshly. Because that’s what we do. She thought I was one of those ditzy bitches who’s vindictive and malicious. And to be fair, I am. Sort of. I’m more blunt then anything, and I shant lie when you ask me a question, even if it's mean. Then I judged her. Probably hasn’t left her computer for 14 years. This is a first for her, leaving the house and all, I thought to myself. Here’s the kicker:
I, too, “haven’t left my computer for 14 years” and she, too, is “one of those ditzy bitches who’s vindictive and malicious”.
Here’s another kicker, just cause I like saying the word.
Turns out, she’s a computer geek, in a that-could-probably-get you-somewhere-in-life.
I play World of Warcraft.
And the whole bitch thing? In this case, I’m totally better than her. Only because I’m nice to people when they drop their bags in the middle of the tube station. Samantha walks right by cause it ain’t her business. I feel compelled. She goes up to people and yells at them when she’s drunk simply because she is drunk. And bored.
Samantha is the kind of girl that I can walk into the Bop with, when it’s covered in confederate flags everywhere, and we think to ourselves silently “we’re home”. But we know we’re thinking it. We have silent conversations. FREAKS.
She and I both, however, are slowly but surely, becoming Blair and Serena. No idea who’s who, but we’re doing it.
She got me to start blogging again. I haven’t done it much, but I do it. She’s convinced me to diet with her, and to smoke less, and we gossip behind people’s back within earshot. She has introduced too many T.V. shows that I have missed out on. And what have I done for her?
Stolen her cigarettes. I know. I’m awesome. But I knew you’d miss it! (HAH! MEL TOLD ME!)
We scare people. No, seriously, we scare people. Pete got scared. Swindon got scared. I’m pretty sure half the University knows us as “those two americans” or “those two yanks”. Can I just make this clear? We are not yanks. There, I said it.
God I can’t wait for my Chinese food to get here. OH! It’s here!
It’s funny whenever people type like that because it seems like I typed it out all together, but really, there was a good 15 - 30 seconds where I was just staring at the door like a weirdo.
We’re the kind of people who say to each other “if you don’t have anything nice to say, then come sit in the corner with me and talk shit about everyone”. But at the same time, we’re also the kind of people that say to each other, “I love you, but if zombies come after us, I’m tripping you”.
So much love.
The rest of the years that I have known her were filled with alcohol and boys. Stupid, stupid creatures with their stupid, stupid…alcoholness.
Annnnyhoo, it wasn’t until 2nd year where we became as close as we are now, and I learned the truth about Samantha:
She’s a blogger. And a drunk. And lazy.
But I knew those last two in the first year. And yes, I am aware that I have misused the use of a colon (hehe..dirty). But you know what? I don’t care. And do you, fellow reader, know why?
Because I am hung over.
SO, when Samantha asked me to write this entry for her, I felt no less than honoured. I just want to take a minute here to say that yes, this really is how I am in real life. Samantha is a dear friend who feeds me when I am hungry, gives me drinks when I am thirsty, and feeds me addiction when I am fiending. Such. A good. Friend.
Every bumper sticker that you see on our profiles on Facebook from each other, is totally us. I mean totally and completely.
So this is my ode to you. I love you Samantha -----. One day, we will have our babies. But please, please don’t tell my children that Free Willy is dead.