Thursday, January 26, 2012

The Beginning...

This Diary, journal, rant book or whatever it may turn into is the product of a long, boring and lonesome Friday evening. What nineteen year old female stays in her room by herself whilst most people her age are out in a club pickling their livers and getting hammered? Me. I’m ****. My full name is ******* ********** but most people only use anything longer than **** when they are angry or disappointed in me. I, like many other people my age, am studying at university, for a degree that will probably count for nothing in later life. The long and short if it is that right now, I don’t have a whole lot of other options. I have A-levels, that much is true but what can you do with two D grades and an E? I always said that maybe I should give up on becoming a Midwife and just become a professional Labourer. Not the manual labour kind that involves getting dirty, just the kind where I pop out baby after baby to give the midwives of the world something to do. Although the benefits, a free house and child benefit for life, outweigh the flaws of that plan in terms of numbers, the flaw is pretty major. To be a professional labourer I would need a male to help me out, after all, it would be pretty difficult to conceive twenty or more times completely alone. The male involvement in my life right now is an entirely different kettle of fish.
            While most people my age have dabbled in the art of being a hoochie or a man whore for at least a few weeks of their life, or maybe even just a drunken holiday, I find myself being the anomaly. It is certainly not very often that a girl my age can count her male encounters on one hand.
            First, there was *****, a ginger boy with freckles and a weirdly skinny frame. I will remember our first and only date purely for the awkward fact that whilst we were sitting in the back row drinking Pepsi and eating gummy worms, his parents and little sister were sitting three rows in front to keep an eye on us. We were ten.
            Next was ***** and we met online. Yes I can hear your warnings already but what can you tell a fourteen year old social phobe that is blinded by what she thinks is true love? My mother went with me to meet him that first time. I saw him in the distance, not much taller than me, dark curlyish hair and a slight premature beer belly. I was with him for three years on and off although looking back on it today I often wonder why. The first time he dumped me was when he was convinced I was cheating on him with somebody named Graham. I didn’t know a Graham then and still don’t to this day so he must have clearly lost his mind. The penultimate dumpage was admittedly my own fault. The lesson I took from that is to never tell your boyfriend’s sister that she’s a horrible person. You can guarantee it will always be turned around to something along the lines of ‘‘She called me a fat cow.’’ Finally after three years of being on and off we broke up due to his adolescent obsession with sex. What is it about the male population that makes them think about sex all day every day?
            A few months after *****, came ***. We met whilst on holiday in Newport, Pembrokeshire, the most beautiful place on earth. The coastal walks, the beach, the harbour…everything about Newport is perfect. After sharing many holidays there, *** eventually came to Birmingham to visit his sister at university. Naturally I invited him to stay at mine for a few nights. Nothing really happened until the last night when sex was the only thing on his mind. I haven’t seen him since.
            Finally, bringing my total count up to four, there’s ****. Tall(ish), Dark hair, Handsome…just what every female dreams of right? The day **** moved into flat twenty three I was shocked. I was beginning to think that there wasn’t a single attractive guy in the whole of my accommodation building. You can imagine my dismay when he took an interest in my flat mate, *****. Halloween night I sat there in a club and witnessed them canoodling and dancing and flirting between themselves for hours. Knowing ***** didn’t want anything more than a friendship from him I began to flirt around him. People were beginning to notice me and **** getting closer and becoming more involved and then one night it happened. I was sitting in his room keeping him company whilst he did his online training and pow.. Things have seemed different since that night, not awkward, just a little strained. I hope things don’t become awkward as I have to spend the rest of the academic year sharing a flat with him!
            And so, late on a Friday night I find myself reflecting back on the last few years and have only one question for myself. Am I a normal nineteen year old or could it be that I am in fact an anomaly?

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