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Regular readers of my blog may have noticed that the posts have dried up a little of late and have contained very little in the way of dating exploits. This is because for the last six months I have been wholeheartedly devoted to a crush I developed on a friend of a friend. Let’s call him Mark. It’s not his real name. I’ve changed it to protect his privacy, which when you think about it is a kind of weird thing to do because anyone that reads this who knows both of us will know exactly who I am talking about. Anyway, we’ll call this the tale of my fruitless crush on Mark. (Sorry for the spoiler. But no, it doesn’t end well.)

Things began harmlessly enough when after a friend’s celebration drinks Mark and I engaged in a night of heavy-duty dance floor pashing, which developed into some lightweight grinding and a mutual admission that we were gagging to go through with the deed, had either of us been sober enough to carry it out. We exchanged numbers, he texted that night and again the next day, and I proceeded to plan our wedding in the spring of next year and worked out how to break the news to mum and dad that I’d fallen for a ginger. Well, maybe not. But you get the idea – I was falling hard and fast, and as the girls from Geordie Shore would say, there was definite ‘fanny flutter.’

We went on a date two weeks later, a stroll around the museum followed by a walk through the park and an afternoon drink in a beer garden. I was more nervous and more awkward than I have ever been on a date. More convinced than ever that I liked him, I was frustrated by the fact that he was so impossible to read. Blessed with a string of awkward social conditions, Mark’s on-date cues were not like those of other guys. I had no idea if he was interested in me beyond the initial attraction we’d felt that first night. I spent the walk back to my car shedding actual tears of frustration, genuinely unsure whether the date had been a total success or a complete failure.

In the meantime Mark’s fledgling career as a full-time entertainer (nothing suss, I just don’t want to put his actual job title on here because then even more people will know exactly who I’m talking about) began to take off. He was busy with gigs every night and filming for various projects during the day. He had been booked on a tour around parts of Australia that would take the better part of a month and would be heading overseas to perform for another month after that. Our second date was supposed to take place a few days before his tour left but he sent me a text a few hours beforehand saying he had too much work to do, and asking to reschedule. Taking this as a sign that he was not really as interested or as invested as I was, I pulled the pin by replying with a text that said we might be better off leaving things as friends. He was very apologetic but confirmed that he was really too busy to catch up before leaving but that we should stay in touch.

About a month later he was still on my mind as I meticulously groomed and dressed myself to attend a mutual friend’s party. I’d kept in touch with some light banter and Facebook stalking and was secretly hoping he would be there. I feel it’s important to inform you here that somehow in the midst of this crush I reverted to the sensibilities and emotional vulnerability of a high school girl, which might help you to understand some of my behaviour and thought processes outlined below.

Mark walked in late, after a gig, by which time I had gotten completely drunk in an effort to overcome the fact that I only knew two people at the party and was mingling with people I had seen on TV but trying to pretend I wasn’t giddy over meeting. He made a beeline for me as soon as he arrived and stuck to me like glue. Before I knew it, he was leading me upstairs to make out on his friend’s bed until – shamefully – we were politely asked to cut it out and come back downstairs. I was stoked that he was still interested. He confessed that he’d been stalking me on Facebook too (romantic, I thought) and had missed me while he’d been gone. But I was determined not to return to that unknown quagmire of middle ground with him, especially after rolling around on a bed upstairs at a party. I needed some form of assurance. I wanted us to be “seeing each other,” not just friends who liked each other and got drunk and made out at parties. His perception of things was slightly (completely) different – he was about to go overseas for the first time, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen, couldn’t we just have fun? No. No, we couldn’t – because I actually liked him and it would make me feel used. As I got up to walk away I fell for the oldest trick in the book: I like you too. I want to be with you.

Ecstatic, I continued to mingle at the party, convinced that we had reached a mutual agreement, that we were now officially “seeing each other.” As I excitedly relayed this news to my friend Luce, she gently grasped my arm and looked at me with earnest and sorrow. “Amelia. He just tried to kiss me in the other room. I’m so sorry.”

What. The. Fuck. I know I said I felt like I was back in high school, but come on! I wish I could say I laughed it off, shook myself free of those feelings and spent the rest of the party with my dignity intact. I really, really wish I could. Of course, instead I cried. A lot. I was literally so black-out drunk that I don’t remember much of what happened after that point. I was inconsolable. I remember crying in the bathroom, in the kitchen, outside in the alley beside the house (at which point Mark approached in an attempt to either console me or apologise and I screamed at him to ‘fuck off and never touch me again’) in the back garden, in the taxi, in my room. I woke up the next day feeling hurt, humiliated and hungover. My eye sockets were so swollen and puffy they resembled testicles, but at least I was saved by the grace of the memory-loss that accompanies such an extreme level of drunkenness. Until I checked my phone.

It was mortifying.

I had sent him no less than four texts since the shit hit the fan, at which point he had apparently taken my advice to ‘fuck off’ and left the party. They were garbled, juvenile and excruciatingly embarrassing. I immediately deleted my message history and sent a quick text asking him to do the same thing, then I crawled into a hole and died. Later that day he texted back with an apology for getting so out of it and asking if I pulled up ok. Part of me was relieved that he was pretending none of it happened. Part of me was outraged that he wasn’t attempting to explain himself. I was rational enough to figure that there were probably huge chunks of information missing from his memory as well, and I made a decision that I would talk to him when I’d had a few days for everything to settle.

After running the entire scenario past two of my wisest girlfriends and deciding that the best and healthiest option for all concerned was to try and pretend the whole night had never happened, I rang him the following weekend. He admitted that he couldn’t remember much and agreed that it was best to forget the whole thing. He suggested we catch up before his overseas flight which was in a few days time, but I wasn’t ready yet. I told him we’d grab a coffee when he got back.

While he was gone, my hurt disappeared and my feelings returned. I followed his updates on FB and smiled when I saw his face on TV. I went on a few dates with guys I met online but my heart wasn’t in it. I still liked him  a lot. I decided to bite the bullet when he returned and called him to organise a date. Nothing too serious, just an afternoon coffee. I left feeling really positive. It was so nice to see him, we had plenty to talk about, nothing was awkward. I took his flirty banter and the light kiss he planted on my lips as we parted ways as indications that he was still interested. I felt like finally, we were on the same page. I was determined not to get ahead of myself this time but I was excited to be in that particular moment of uncertainty where you feel the possibility of something developing. It was a really nice feeling.

It lasted a bit over two weeks. I attended his birthday drinks last night, excited to see him. I’d carefully chosen the perfect token-and-meaningless-but-secretly-the-result-of-very-careful-planning gift complete with last minute gift-wrapping made from a page out of a Good Guys catalogue. He kissed me on the lips, gave approving looks and complimented my haircut. He seemed to enjoy the gift. He gave me all of three minutes of his time, then proceeded to avoid eye contact with me for the rest of the night.

Luce (ever the bearer of bad news – poor thing!) soon informed me that she’d just been speaking to one of Mark’s colleagues who’d informed her that he had been reveling in his newly found fame, regularly hooking up with a different girl after each gig whilst keeping others (myself included) on the back burner. Obviously this was not the outcome to the evening I was hoping for. I was disappointed; in him, in the way things had turned out, in myself for overlooking the obvious earlier indications that there were serious flaws in his character. I was upset that I’d wasted six months waiting for something that was never going to happen and frustrated that I’d invested so much in someone so undeserving.

Now here’s my problem – how do I get over someone I’ve never actually been under? I feel betrayed even though I haven’t been. I feel like I need closure but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much I actually liked (or, more accurately, like – it’s hard to switch that shit off) him.

I made a start last night by leaving without bothering to say goodbye. Oh, and before we left Luce reclaimed the book I’d given him as a birthday gift. Let’s call it a spoil of war.

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Murtaughing

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murtaughing

[mer-tar-ing]

verb; murtaugh; murtaughed.

1.  the actions of a person who is getting to old for this shit :  I just found some of last night’s vomit in my favourite hand-crotcheted bag. I really need to stop murtaughing.

adjective; murtaughed

1.  the state of exhaustion, resentment and regret that follows a period of one participating in shit that one is getting too old for :  I won’t be making it to work today, I’m totally murtaughed.

 from Murtaugh; noun; cantankerous veteran cop on the verge of retirement; partner of Riggs in the classic 1987 action film ‘Lethal Weapon.’

Lately I have discovered a profound affinity with Roger Murtaugh. I am, it would seem, getting too old for this shit. It’s not that I don’t still enjoy the back-to-back drinking sessions, social chain-smoking and serial episodes of drunken lust that most people work out of their systems in their early twenties; it’s more a case of how painful the recovery is becoming. And while I do still quite enjoy a late night sojourn for the purchase of several small bottle of spirits which are then smuggled into a dive bar and consumed without concealment in the ladies’ bathroom, it seems that I have reached an age where the ensuing 48 hours of punishment far outweighs the crime.

Outlined below are some things that I have done in the last 12 months that exemplify the kind of shit that I am getting too old for. Please note that none of these examples have been doctored or exaggerated in any way. (Sadly, they did not need to be.)

Drinking a ‘Bus Cocktail’ (every kind of alcohol found in my house served shaken, not stirred in a plastic drink bottle) on the way in to the city: Getting too old for this shit.

Uttering the question “Where did you throw my underpants?”: Getting too old for this shit.

Waking up early, commencing a morning of rigorous exercise then consuming a hearty breakfast before realising I am still very, very drunk: Getting too old for this shit.

Waking up at 6am propped into a sitting position in my bed with an uneaten kebab resting on my boobs while an episode of 30 Rock blares from my TV: Getting too old for this shit.

Eating aforementioned kebab and sleeping until 3pm: Getting too old for this shit.

Sending texts that end in an ellipsis and a winky face: Getting too old for this shit.

Pushing my way onto the dance floor of a seedy King St bar full of under 20’s on a Tuesday night and blindly pashing a stranger: Getting too old for this shit.

Sprinting with my housemate to catch the last bus home because we had to go to Maccas first even though we already ate a whole pizza earlier that night: Getting too old for this shit.

Performing a Salt ‘n’ Pepa song at karaoke: Getting too old for this shit.

Glancing over in the morning and wondering if he said his name was ‘Ben,’ or ‘Tim’: Getting too old for this shit.

Having a conversation with myself while sitting on the toilet, falling asleep, waking up and wondering why there are pins and needles in my feet: Getting too old for this shit.

Telling a stranger in the bathroom that the guy she is crying over is a total sweaty dick hole and she can do waaaaaay better cos he’s a sweaty dick hole: Getting too old for this shit.

Crying in the street because it’s too far to walk: Getting too old for this shit.

Skipping gleefully into McDonalds at 6am after a 3 hour stint in emergency, brandishing my hospital wristband and asking if I get anything for free before ordering 10 hash browns and offering one to the girl behind the counter: Getting too old for this shit.

Hijacking a busker in Swanston St and forcing him to play the chords to a song I wrote, then forgetting the lyrics: Getting too old for this shit.

Being told by the smug spokesdude of a group of bearded hipsters that they “don’t talk to wine drinkers”: Getting too old for this shit.

Well…I’m sure you see my point. it. As my 28th birthday looms a mere month away it seems it really is time to let go of my youth. Turns out I just can’t pull of shame, humiliation and regret like I used to – particularly with my colouring.

Ladies’ Night

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Let me preface this post by explaining that I have waited almost a full week after the aforementioned ladies’ night for my brain to be willing to face up to all of the details. Even now, I feel like part of my brain is curled up on the couch staring catatonically at a re-run of Two and a Half Men, unwilling and unable to reach for the remote and change the channel, determined to pretend that nothing ever happened.

As do so many of the more tragically funny episodes in my little life-sitcom, this story begins with some heavy drinking. More specifically, it begins with a bus ride into the city and a 1.25 litre plastic bottle of vodka and lemonade, mixed with the precision and careful forethought that can only be the result of a bottle of champagne and a few espresso martinis. As my BFFL Zoe and I waited for our bus to arrive and we began calling every guy either one of us had stored in our phones, the sensible part of my brain packed his small but practical Samsonite travel case and left, leaving my inhibitions looking like they might run after him at any second, which of course they did as I made my way through the happy-juice in my plastic sippy-cup.

My plan was to get just drunk enough to be carefree when approached by potentially interested gents, thus increasing my chances of going home with one. As Zoe held my hand and helped me stumble through the city streets to our destination it became clear that I had overshot the mark. Not to be deterred, I saw this as a fantastic opportunity to instead be my most extroverted and confident self. When we found ourselves in the very long queue at the door of our destination (which, while it will remain un-named, is a reputed meat-market and a sure thing for a gal looking for a little somethin’-somethin’) we naturally struck up a conversation with the two dudes in front of us. As we inched towards the door and I began making good-natured but slightly inflammatory jokes at the expense of one of our new male friends’ dress sense (a shirt with a sunset on it??? REALLY????) Zoe began doing the half-smile through clenched teeth that she does every time I get us into an awkward social situation. I deftly pulled the old switcheroo and began to focus my attention on the slightly-less-attractive-but-taller one – although I had to squint to see him through the haze of inebriation I was sure he was an option.

When we finally got inside I dragged Zoe straight to the bar for a “top-up,” noticing what seemed to be a veritable buffet of doable dudes in the beer garden on the way and lamenting the fact that Zoe can’t stand smoking. At the bar I made a sensible choice to not only switch drinks from vodka to cider, but also to order a pint. We squeezed through sweaty, erratically dancing bodies to find a little pocket of space near the cover band where we proceeded to be bumped from ever angle until we were wearing more of our drinks than we had consumed. I glanced around, scouting for talent, and caught the eye of the slightly-less-attractive-but-taller one across the room, but by this stage I was easily distracted and began whooping at the opening bars of whatever song the generic pub band had launched into.

At the risk of allowing this post to tumble into cliché, the rest of the night is a blur. I remember sculling my pint because I was sick of holding it, and returning to the bar to replace Zoe’s drink which was knocked out of her hand by some guy shuffling behind her, and deciding while I was at the bar that I may as well have another pint. I remember doing the annoying, slutty, girl-on-girl dancing that drunk chicks do. I remember telling some guy who was dancing behind me to “come find me later” as Zoe pulled me towards the toilets. I remember my mouth connecting with someone elses without having any idea what he looked like, or whether he was the same guy from before. I remember trying to scrutinise his face through the now very dense beer-goggles I was wearing, and then deciding it didn’t matter what he looked like as his brother was going to drive us home and I didn’t have enough money left for a taxi.

I do remember more details, but it would not be appropriate to recount them here. As it is I’m reading over what I’ve written with much shame and embarrassment. There was of course that horrific instant the next morning when I had those first moments of recall from the night’s events, and as Zoe filled me in on the particulars I felt my disgrace outweigh my intense and punishing hangover.

My first mistake was the special lemonade on the bus ride. Well, actually, that’s not entirely true. My first mistake was going out with the purpose of snagging some sausage. Ladies, take note – being able to say “mission accomplished” is surprisingly not as satisfying as you would expect. The bus ride refreshments will probably happen again. The single-minded cock-seeking mission will not.

Lesson learned.