June 25, 2009

Do you ever get the feeling where you’re so excited, you could literally be sick?

I’m seeing Julia Nunes tonight. You do the math.



June 21, 2009

My boyfriend is a little over 2 years older than me. I’m turning 19 next month, and he’s just had his 21st birthday. Don’t let my throwing around of numbers fool you. I’m still a massive child, and as such, I like to remind him of the fact that as he was waking up on the bathroom floor of an unfamiliar woman’s house, after somehow managing to get through the deadbolts on her front door, and then being kicked onto the street whilst it was snowing and not wearing any shoes or having any semblance of a clue as to your location, which all apparently translates into “celebrating your 18th birthday and subsequent foray into adulthood”, I was a wee bairn of 15, and probably tucked up in my bed wearing pjs with feet in them and cradling an Ed the Duck toy.
It doesn’t really matter that we didn’t know each other then. We became friends at college, when I was at least 16. Even then we weren’t proper friends, so it doesn’t really count. I still like to remind him how close he came to being a paedophile.

Speaking of which…
I was recently beginning a night out in my local town, and was waiting, alone, in the bus station, as I had half an hour to kill before my friend was due to arrive.
I like to be early. I think this time though, I maybe should have just not bothered coming out at all.
So there I was, all dolled up (or at least as dolled up as one can get without wanting to stray into the territory of mahogany coloured Barbie/Fame throwback) and sighing coyly whilst wistfully staring into the middle distance.
Really, I was just sat on a chair.
This man comes and sits on a chair a ways along from me, and makes an “Ermm…” noise. Instinctively, I clutch my bag closer, knowing that he’s going to rape me given half the chance. Hey, I live in the Internet-and-Crimewatch era. Nobody escapes suspicion.
He begins to make small talk, initially asking a question about buses. As if I am some kind of figure of authority. My bus knowledge barely surpasses ‘Get Pass Out, Show Driver Pass, Thank Driver For Being So Kind As To Let Me On His Vehicle Of Wonder And Then Sit Down. Put Pass Away.’, so I don’t exactly know what he was trying to get from me.
Maybe I look like someone who knows about buses. Awesome.
I start texting my friends, willing him to stop talking to me. I’m uncomfortable enough with my friends making conversation, let alone Bus Station Rapists.
My buddy Josh suddenly starts calling me, and I’ve never been more grateful for a conversation break in my life. He owed me a fiver, and was already in town (what luck!) so agrees to meet me and pay for my first drink. I get up to leave, but am placed in a dilemma. The Bus Station Rapist could well just be a man in a bus station making conversation. Should I say something before I go?
I do. And it turns out, I shouldn’t have.
“Well, I hope you manage to catch your bus.” I smile and start walking off.
Then, I hear it. A clearing of the throat, and then…
“Can I just say, before you go, I think you’re absolutely gorgeous.”
My heart sinks, my soul dies, my feet ache and my bladder gives. Five minutes of uncomfortable banter goes on, in which appear such gems as “Say you’ll come on a date with me. Go on, what’s the worst that could happen? You could be eating pizza with me next week.” No, Mr Bus Station Weirdo. There are a lot of worse things. A lot. I happen to like pizza. Pizza would be a bonus. Having my innards pulled out whilst dangling upside down over a gaping ravine would be a whole fuckton worse than pizza.
He also goes on to compliment my jewellery, eyes, smile and shoes.
And this is a man who thought I would be stupid enough to put my number in his phone. And one who hits on girls a decade younger than him. And in a bus station, no less.
Needless to say, I took his number, for drunken phone abuse purposes, because that’s the kind of wild cat I am.

A few days following this frankly traumatic incident, myself and the aforementioned boyfriend (New James, and hereby known as NJ) trundled on over to the aforementioned buddy Josh’s house for what is known as a ‘BBQ’. Yeah, letters make things hip.
I was growing increasingly apprehensive about meeting up with Old James (OJ) and his new girlfriend Cara, whom I’d never met before. This had potential to be the most awkward meeting since Hitler and Gandhi avoided eye contact that one time at band camp.
Turns out, I shouldn’t have been building it up at all. Cara seems lovely (although seems she’s known for being a little dim, as a Facebook quiz outlined her inability to distinguish between waxworks and REAL PEOPLE), and OJ was his usual bullshitty-but-in-a-kind-of-funny-but-not-the-kind-where-you’re-being-laughed-with-way.
The bassist from The Clash started a fight with him, because he wouldn’t share his sandwich. Sure.

So there we go. Three anecdotes about blokes with which I’ve recently had encounters. Bus Station Rapist Man, which was highly unsettling and I’d much rather it not have happened; OJ, which had the potential to be strange but turned out to be fairly pleasant (there was food, so I was sold.); and New James, who is constantly reminding me why I’m glad he isn’t still a paedophile.