Crazy, Stupid – Love? (No, Just Batshit Crazy)

I fancied a date (it was a Monday – and I was really bored) so looked at who was about (deciding the male who had followed me on Twitter, sent a DM – then proceeded to add on Facebook and send multiple charms on Happn would most likely be readily available).

We met for a drink and I arrived wearing my double denim. Some people pull this look off well (other people, me – look like a man from the 70s). I ordered my drink of choice – a small white wine, expecting this to be a one drink wonder (from his previous stalker like tendencies). And we began chatting (he seemed nervous) apparently all my dates now think they are just a setup (nice work, Debs). So the drinks continued to flow and we made those vital first impressions (“Once I got so bollocksed I broke into a 5* resort and got chased out by security – how did you find Thailand?”). We ordered another two (three, four, five) glasses – I was pretty tiddly (completely trollied) by the time we got called inside. (And eventually were booted out as I began crawling all over the furniture like a confused puppy).

He decided it would probably be safest to take me back to his (I had no idea who I was or where I lived – he had no choice).

We got back and went inside, but just as he closed the door I panicked (not because I was in a stranger’s home) – “What about Alison?!” (Alison was my imaginary friend when I was 5, we haven’t been in contact for around two decades). “Alison will be home soon, don’t you dare shut that door” (and I chose that moment an appropriate time to rekindle our lost friendship).

So the boy (obviously very scared) was forced to leave his front door open – when he suddenly heard banging from the living room (sadly I hadn’t collapsed into unconsciousness), I was taking down his wall paintings in the lounge (and took a particular liking to one I named ‘Ronald’ a dragon head figurine – who I placed carefully in my bag).

By this point the boy was lost for words (and absolutely petrified at the disillusioned psycho he had let into his home) so he put me to bed (in the spare room). He said goodnight (and I, apparently instead of saying words, attempted a windmill motion with my head as my own adaptation of ‘good night’).

But (the nightmare wasn’t over) at around 5am the boy was awoken, I was in desperate need of the toilet but couldn’t see the bathroom (so thought his desk would be an adequate substitute) just as I was settling down he yelled and leaped out of bed (treating me like a naughty dog as he put me back in the spare bed, pulling my knickers up).

I woke up the next day (absolutely dying – on a Tuesday) the boy was pretty keen to get me out of his home (unsurprisingly). So I got up (after a minor tantrum which was shut down when he mentioned the toilet/desk scenario) and made my way to the front door “thanks for having me?” (attempting some form of etiquette).

“Do you still have Ronald? (…who the fuck is “Ronald”) the dragon head you stole last night which is in your bag’.

(When I saw “Ronald” sat in my bag, I knew I had been exceptionally weird, and quickly handed him back with a small apology).

I messaged to apologise and he responded with a Youtube clip “Crazy hot matrix – Guide to women. (I fell in the danger zone).

I don’t think we will be seeing each other again (until I am properly potty trained).


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