Crabs, Jobs and My Dream Guy

I haven’t done this in a while. Somewhere between the last post and learning how to be a journalist, I stopped writing. True to my nature, I made excuses for it. I blamed singlehood, antidepressants, too much sex, too little sex and even threw writer’s block into the mix. But it was and is me. 

I have never thought of myself as a brilliant writer. But because I am narcissistic as fuck, I lap up the attention that comes with the title ‘writer’. 

The past ten months have been interesting. I’ve dated two men, had my second nervous breakdown, met my dream guy, made lifelong friends, caught crabs, recovered from crabs, lost 3 phones because when I drink I turn into a moron, worked for a magazine and most importantly, I’ve realised that being alone  isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Dream guy? Well he’s a published short story author. He reads,  introduced me to 1 litre Black Lable and had me spend a weekend with him where we did nothing but attempt to fuck and talk. Why didn’t I try to make it work with him? Well, he’s younger than me and I still suffer from heteronormativity. Also, I don’t think he liked me the way I liked him. A week later, I sent him a rambling text confessing how fascinating I find him. Surprisingly, he didn’t run for the hills.  He called me “brave” for my confession.  We all know that’s code for “forget it,  weirdo”. But it’s all good. 

I had my first STI ever. Somehow, I managed to catch crabs. To the less slang savvy, I had pubic lice. Now, it was a dark and confusing time in my life. All the men I had been with had a clean bill of health(of course I asked!) Where had these little buggers come from? I then remembered that I had been to a seedy hotel one Saturday morning after too much partying. The timeline matches. I am happy to report I am crab-free. The miracle that is Tea Tree Oil and emergency e-wallets. 

I had my second nervous breakdown in August. It was one of those “I’m going to kill myself” scenarios again. As a result, I am (albeit begrudgingly) back on antidepressants. My psychiatrist had me sign a suicide contract. I know it sounds creepy and to me, it is. Basically,  in this contract, I promised not to hurt myself.  Does it sound like I gave away my autonomy?  Because that’s how I’m interpreting that damn contract. I am technically sane now. The meds help,  I guess, but the real stars are the people I call my friends. 

Ok. I’m tired of doing this. Did I mention that I’m job hunting again? Next thing you know,  I’ll be a 28 year old Intern. Such a queer stereotype. 

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