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.
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.
If I know memes (and believe me, I know memes), we’re supposed to hate our exes. Your ex-boyfriend is trash. Don’t pick up the phone; he’s just calling because he’s drunk and alone. Based on my extensive research, most people don’t actually loathe their exes. The majority of relationships fall apart in a slow, sad and confusing way. There are more shades of grey than a poorly written Twilight fan-fiction.
Content note: psychological abuse, gaslighting
I’ve been called a lot of things over the years. Somebody recently described me as “brazen, enchanting and doting”, which I would like to formally request as my epitaph, many thanks. The year is 2017 and I don’t need to tell you that ‘crazy’ is an inherently problematic term which minimises the reality of struggling with mental illness. It’s a lazy adjective and about as good-natured as Nigel Farage and Katie Hopkins’ imaginary lovechild.