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On Saturday, I was sitting in the middle back seat of a car (otherwise known as the Uncomfortable One), surrounded by four boys. “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” was blaring out of the speakers and I was bopping around like a ping-ping ball.

The most hilarious part is that it was not my choice of music (and Mr Music Man is perhaps the most heterosexual man I know).

 

The relaxing (read: drinking) weekend confirmed the obvious, that it is not just girls who want to have fun: Boys also like to drink copious amounts of scotch and then dance on tables. Either that is a sweeping generalization, true or I spend my time with alcoholics. All of the above? 

 

But nothing sobers me up more than a drunken declaration (so is the lifestyle I have chosen).

“We need to talk on Sunday,” One of my male weekenders said to me.

“OK,” I said. OK. Slurred.

“You know I am in love with you?”

 

Ninety dollars (a lax estimate) down the drain, as I was sobered up instantly. That is until I bolted straight to the bar and then nailed myself to the dance floor.

 

Why would someone be in love with me? Have they met me? I don’t do that crazy little thing called love.

 

When I returned back to the GC, I had to focus my thoughts on fixing the situation.

“How do you tell someone that you are not in love with them and never will be?” I asked.

“Tell them to fuck off,” My father responded.

As I am a bitch with a social conscience, I stayed focused.

“How do you explain to someone that they really need to get over something?”

“Tell them to go fuck themselves,” My brother offered.

As I don’t encourage asexuality, I continued thinking.

“How do you show someone that you are not interested in them?”

“Go an fuck somebody else,” Mr Music Man advised.

As I apparently surround myself with crude and rude men, I decided to take the most female approach I could muster and kindly explain the situation.

 

See, the cliché is applicable: It’s not you, it’s me.

A cyborg of Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Johnny Depp could offer himself to me right now and I still would say, “Thanks, but no thanks.” I just don’t want to be in a relationship with anyone. I thoroughly enjoy my own company, I would find solitary confinement enjoyable and I love having an entire bed to myself. And I am reading a really good book.

 

Unfortunately, my explanation (and rejection) did not go as smoothly as I planned. As ignorant as I am, I imagined that He would be all, “Oh, sweet, no problem, what was I thinking anyway? You’re not loveable!” But he did not.

No, instead I dedicated eight hours to explaining Why It Wont Happen. By six PM I wanted to follow all of the advice given to me, but I just couldn’t. I’d fucked myself.

 

When I think back to all of the relationships I have had (all…four of them), my mind quickly wanders to the claustrophobic moments and suffocation I eventually felt, and the rebellion I employed to combat it.

“You never let me hug you anymore,” one said.

“Are you a robot?” another asked.

“Where did you come from?” the nice one observed.

“Will you scratch my back?”

Suffice to say, I am a horrible girlfriend. But I am a great friend.

 

I don’t want to inflict my horrible girlfriend skills upon a friend who I actually respect. I don’t want to be restricted to one person. I don’t want to have to answer to anybody. Because, sometimes, girls just want to have fun.

 

I told Him this. And he fucked off.

Post By Salium