“Kimmy Can Get 3 husbands And I Can’t Even Get The Ride”: Dublin Girlo On Being A Single Pringle

Every Friday and Saturday night after applying two layers of fake tan and updating Snapchat to let everyone know we are “out out”, my girlos and I face an all-too familiar dilemma in the taxi on our way into town: Where are we going that will be full of fellas who might stop swiping on Tinder to speak to girls in their location face to face?

Now I’m not saying my nights out are shite unless someone asks me for my number or invites me back to their ma’s box room for 10 seconds of madness. But I do think the last time someone asked for my number to my face was around 2014, and at this stage if someone wanted to take me back to their ma’s porch to feel me up, I’d definitely consider it.

These days my number is distributed through Tinder, through friends texting me asking can they give it to their brother cause he’s seen my new profiler and thinks I look Hunreal, or through randomers adding me on Snapchat, because like a true Hun, my username is in my Instagram bio.

In a bid to find some male interaction that could eventually lead to some penetration, I have dragged my girlos all over this fair city. From Dundrum to Wrights – and every pub and late night bar in between – only to end up alone in the chipper making love to a kebab tray.

I have spent many a two-day hangover trying to pin point what exactly the problem is. Do I smell? Is it because I am unbelievable at the robot? Am I giving off some kind of Cathy Bates vibe once the vodka hits my blood stream?
 Do I look like my head is up my own hole?
 Am I not the absolute 10/10 I have spent years thinking I am?

And the answer to all these is NO. I smell like Coco Mademoiselle. Who doesn’t love the robot?
I don’t look like my head’s up my hole because it’s not. And I am a 20/10, why did I ever let a year without the ride make me doubt that?

The problem is I come from a generation whose confidence is measured by how many likes our latest selfie gets

The problem is I come from a generation whose confidence is measured by how many likes our latest selfie gets, or how many followers we have on the Gram. All our communication now happens online. We decide if we like the look of someone on an app; we say our first hello through an app; sometimes the first time we someone in the nip is through an app, and when it comes down to face to face interaction with someone we haven’t had the chance to stalk online for six hours beforehand, we think the person approaching us is a bit desperate and a bit of a creep.

I am a confident Hun, and out of frustration over the last few months – both sexual and just in general – I thought fuck this, if I want the chats, the wear or the ride, why am I waiting for someone will approach me? It’s 2017, I am a strong independent girlo who pays her own rent and buys her own 3n1s, what have I got to be afraid of?

But I cannot tell ya the amount of times I’ve been looked at like I just asked a stranger to marry me when I’ve only asked him how his night is going.

And I’ve done it myself. I whinge to my mates, the girls in work while we’re in the canteen, my followers on Twitter that no one talks to me, and then when someone finally does my first thought is “Oh Jesus, please not you” and find myself telling them I have a boyfriend when I don’t even have someone to send a “you out tonight” text to.

But I am trying to stay optimistic, and I don’t want to sound like Charlotte out of Sex and the City, because I’m clearly Samantha, but He is out there somewhere.
 So I’ll keep asking strangers at the bar how their night is going while being looked at like I just asked him to do a number two on my chest, and I’ll keep moaning that no one speaks to me anymore while ignoring anyone that tries to. Be grand.

This article first appeared in STELLAR’s April issue. Our September issue is on shelves now!