14th December 2016
I was considering writing something Christmas-y for
my final blog post of the year (twelve posts quota met! Woo!) And I should be
getting all warm and silly over the festivities, and the food, and the
Christian/Pagan/Commercialist hybrid of a holiday - but I’m not: partly because
the near forty-degree-Celsius temperatures are warming me quite effectively;
and, also, because I’m getting warm and silly over someone who is quite
effectively trumping any Christmas-appropriate thought in my dopamine-drenched
brain. They’re actually trumping every thought in my dopamine-drenched brain. Why
you gotta do that?
Do you remember getting your first crush? And not
the crushes where you’re like “they’re hot, I would probably snog them.” I mean
crushes where you’re borderline vegetable because your capacity to do anything
productive is severely impacted by their indescribable capability to dumb you
down to a legume.
I don’t remember my first crush: I think it gave me
some form of neurological trauma. In fact, I’m only able of remembering two
crushes at a time: the last crush and a current crush. And if there is no
current crush, then I only remember the last one and pray I don’t ever run into
them because our most recent conversation probably went along the lines of…
Crush: “Oh,
hi, Meg!”
Meg: “Did you
know that all duck sex is rape? It’s because the drake has a corkscrew penis
and it doesn’t fit right in the lady duck’s nu-nu.”
My relationship prospects are not bright. Which I’m
not all that fussed about, really; but is it so hard to not bring up poultry
porn around attractive people? And can you believe I’m not like that just around
the people I’m attracted to? Okay, you probably can. I have the social prowess
of an eggplant. (I really like my vegetable analogies at the moment. Probably
because of all that fibre.) Back to the point: if I’m speaking with anybody I
consider remotely pretty, you can bet your arse I’m telling them about how I
was stalking them on Facebook only two hours prior.
And, like, I mean what is the appropriate protocol
for initiating any communication with a person of desire? I don’t know what it
was like two hundred years ago (because, fun fact, I wasn’t alive), but I
imagine it would have gone something like…
1816
asker-outer (most probably a dude):
“Good
morrow, beautiful lady, I must have you to make me my dinners and to bear my
children. I have your parent’s permission to ask you to marry me. Here, have a
flower.”
1816
recipient (most definitely a woman because, I’m pretty sure, guys couldn’t get
married back then. Oh wait, they still can’t…):
“I would
rather go to university and have a career, but societal expectations dictate that
I say yes. What for dinner, and how many children?”
The accuracy is questionable, but you get that it’s
really awkward. Now, it seems, people ask you out like this…
2016
asker-outer:
*Sends
photo of penis*
2016
recipient:
*Vows
never to use Tinder again*
I don’t have Tinder, or a penis, so that’s not
really an option for me. How do I do it then? Should I send them a message to
suggest we meet up for coffee? Or salads? Or Netflix? Or should I premeditate a
route so to run into them at their place of work, and then ask them in person,
and pray I don’t vegetate right then and there? If I ask them in person, am I
supposed to suggest that it’s a date? What even constitutes a date? Is it a
date if I give them a flower, like old mate 1816? Do I have to confess my
infatuations via poem? And what if it goes well? Do I have to ask them out
again? Having to do all of this twice does seem excessive. And is it only a
date the second time? And was the first time just a hangout? Or “chill bang” as
the youths call it (okay, I call it). I haven’t even asked the all-important
question of how to successfully flirt for months online.
This would honestly be so much easier if talking
about duck sex was acceptable.
Merry Christmas, guys. xx