We've all been that soldier.
I don’t know what day it is or what time it is because I’m on my holidays. I just came in from some Jersey Shore club after inhaling a slice of pizza and committing a horrendous sin on the way back to my hotel room.
Girls… I sent the fella I’ve been seeing some mad shit via Snapchat and then via WhatsApp and THEN by voice note when he took more than two minutes to reply to both of the above. I don’t even know where it came from, I was and am quite happy living our unofficial dream.
We see each other when we want to, we have the chats during the day when we have no one else to talk to and one of us, and by that I mean me, is still… or was still, going on dates with a certain bloke who I never ended up sleeping with but always wanted to. And now here I am sitting on my king size bed, alone, with the spinnies, telling you how I made a show of meself before Vicki kills me for submitting this column late.
It all started the last time I was in his. It was a Sunday morning, nothing special and not too long ago. As I lay there on my back like I have done so many times before, I couldn’t help but notice there was a lip gloss on his locker. It was prostitute pink which meant it defo wasn’t mine.
So what did I do when I copped it? Nothing. Well, I completely shit myself. After all I had spent weeks, if not months telling my girlos and telling you Huns that this didn’t mean anything and he was just scratching an itch I couldn’t reach myself. How dare I, Dublin Girlo of Instagram and Twitter fame, ask him WHAT THE F*CK IS THAT when I’ve been on dates left, right and centre. How could I throw that double standard in his face?
And then the holiday vodkas hit me like a double decker and it came pouring out of me like the shits after a dodgy Zaytoons. “Who else are you riding? Cause we haven’t since before I got here and I am defo not the last person you entered, like you are mad for it so I just don’t believe like you would go that long and like it’s fine we aren’t like official or anything and you don’t like owe me anything I just want to know like…”
A ‘like’ in there for every shot I had before I sent that message. Kill me. The reply I got was short and sweet… well at least I think it was, I was white girl wasted after all. A simple ‘Wow’ on my notifications bar was there when I woke up to remind me of all the mad shit I had forgot about for 30 seconds while I peeled my mink eyelashes apart.
So now here I am, scaaaaaaarlet to mention anything about it, still replying to the how you getting on messages as if nothing ever happened, waiting to make a joke about it so I can say “Sorry about drunk me but do you still wanna have sex when I get back…” There should be a law against sober people opening messages from drunk people or there should be a law against drunk people sending them over the age of 23. I’ve been sending them since I was 15 and still die inside every morning after.
But when I see him and he asks me where did that whole heap of crazy come from, I’ll be straight with him. I’ll be telling him that Stun Huns don’t wear prostitute pink and if that’s what he is into, he wont be in me ever again. So God help me, Huns. Stay Stunnin’.
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