At primary school, friendships were easy. You befriended the person who sat next to you in registration. This secured your bond for the next seven years through the alphabetical order of the British schooling system. You slowly killed your Tamagotchis together. You traded Pokémon cards illicitly on the playground. You stole pick ‘n mix from Woolworths, thus ensuring the collapse of the franchise. Then, breasts, Twitter and iPhones happened. We’re not on the playground anymore, Dorothy.
If you think about feet for too long, they start to look really strange. Why do we have this other pair of hands at the bottom of our legs? Why is my second toe stepping out of line and acting like it’s the big toe? Who are these people picking up pens with their toes and how do we kick them out of our homes?
The same is true of love. Stay with me.
Some kids on the World Wide Web refer to the number of sexual partners a person has had as their “body count”. When I discovered this, I wanted to delete today’s blog and just publish this sentence instead: the only time a body count is relevant is if somebody has died. Then I could have logged off, sipped on a sweet Rubicon and spent the rest of my afternoon watching Frasier instead.
Content note: references to PTSD.
As a Cool Internet Person, I feel very secure when using my voice to give unsolicited advice to strangers, critique Jake Paul vlogs and rate pictures of dogs. But I’ve waited nine solid weeks to use this platform to talk about mental health in any meaningful way.
Everybody lies sometimes. Ed Sheeran, Omid Djalili, the guy who voices C-3PO, they’ve all lied. Even I, a perfect angel, have told a lie in my life. That being said, I’m a laughably bad liar. I can’t look someone in the eye and lie convincingly without getting flustered, or spinning a yarn about being late because a raccoon stole my shoes.
Once upon a time, a man turned to me after sex, looked deeply into my eyes and said, “Y’know Nikki, you should really get a boyfriend”. It was late, but I told him I’d see what I could forage from the dumpster in the morning. Prince Charming’s throwaway statement reveals so much about how we view sexually liberated, content, unattached women. I didn’t want to be this man’s girlfriend. I didn’t want to be any man’s girlfriend. I wanted to be single.