Date # 1 Analysis

Because I am basically the worst I went out on a date with Date #1.

For the record he is not mental, or awful or ugly. He is French and perfectly adorable. He may, in fact, be one of the nicest people I have ever met. He is clever and charming and cute and respectful to and about women (his shameful secret of really liking Britney Spears notwithstanding). He is so European. He is hardworking and funny and has literally the sexiest accent ever. We had a lovely time. He is so nice I agreed to have dinner with him (yes, it was the third glass of wine that tipped me).

In the cold harsh light of day, however, I have realised I do not want to out with him. Because I know that he’s really not the person for me and I do not intend to Fuck Around with this dating thing any more than I absolutely have to. I’m really only doing it because my mum keeps harassing me about it, I think boys are nice and I may have a slightly crippling anxiety that I might die alone (don’t we all? Don’t we?)

Anyway. Fact is – and this is the worst part about dating – that he likes me a lot more than I like him. He now, I believe, has expectations for future dates and hand-holding and cute text messages and whatever the fuck you coupled up people do these days.

As I am typing this, he has just sent me a text asking me how my day is going. He essentially thinks I’m going to marry him. Great.

And I am not being up my own arse about this. I know. I can tell. Especially after the speech about how Australian men are not romantic at all, his thoughts on absolute monogamy and basically how men should treat the ladeez – as if he was at a job interview for a relationship with me. Which I suppose in a way is not the furthest I’ve ever been from the truth.

It is so much easier to be rejected than to be the rejector. Like that time I went out with the hot lawyer guy for about a minute and then he stopped answering my calls and I was all like ‘oh. That’s not good.’ And basically got on the hell with my life. I do not in any way want to upset Frenchie. He is lovely. He is like a Labrador puppy. It would feel like kicking a puppy in the face.

I’m literally going to have to kick a puppy in the face. Soon. I actually hate myself.

How do people cope with this on a regular basis?


About ohhellwhatthehell

I like gin, mittens and otters, not necessarily in that order. Here's some stuff I felt like writing down when I'm not chained to a desk writing other things for a living. Please use caution when using this site; there may be sweary words, cute animals and general bullshit. Don't say I didn't fucking warn you.
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