I’m pissed off.
Three times in the last month, I’ve been taken for a mug.
The first one, some bloke on Twitter, started re-tweeting everything I posted. Everything. Then he started turning up at things I was at. Then he started tweeting to say he’d just seen me leaving the shop and he liked my hair today. Being the fool that I am, I said, well if you saw me why didn’t you say hello; come into my work and say hi. He did. And then he kept talking about going out for coffee, wanting to take me out for dinner, thinking I was gorgeous. As soon as I started to believe him, he disappeared into thin air.
Well, I say thin air; he’s still on Twitter, and probably re-tweeing someone else’s every move instead now. That one, I wasn’t overly bothered about. He was weird and creepy and I’m just glad to be rid of the weirdness.
The second one, I really should have known better. Someone I used to go out with started sending messages saying he missed me, would I consider giving him another chance, blah blah. I said no. He said would I let him take me out for a coffee some time (why always with the coffee? What ever happened to dinner and a movie? Am I really only worth a 3 quid fucking latte?). He told me he would take a day off work to come and take me for coffee. I said I would believe it when I saw it. I didn’t see it. I’ve bumped into him in the street twice since that conversation; no mention has ever been made of coffee. I should be relieved; I did not want to have coffee with this man, and would have felt obliged if he’d ever gotten around to it but… shit, why don’t men ever just fucking do what they say they’re going to do? It’s not like it’s difficult.
The last one, the soup bloke
, I have no clue. He thinks I’m fantastic, talented, clever, I have a lovely way of painting a picture with words apparently. He brought me soup. He was clearly flirting with me. On more than one occasion. And as soon as I start to think that actually this could be something, as soon as I start to entertain the idea of not being single for the rest of my days and dying in a house full of cats, I get the “it’s not you it’s me” bollocks. He actually told me I have a nice personality. Thanks, I’ll just go get that paper bag for my head then.
Is it just me? Do I just attract this calibre of… I don’t even know what you’d call it. It’s like they’re just using me to boost their egos, to know they could have me if they wanted me, and that’s all they want. Clearly I make a great ego boost. It must be the boobs. Or the fucking personality.