One of the worst things about working in a bar is that people can come in and chat shit to me while they take advantage of the fact that I cant leave and I have to serve them. This annoyance is further amplified by the fact that I met most of the people I have recently slept with in this bar, and that they still frequent it often. I need a new man-pool and I first realised this when I was working one night, at said bar, and one person in a friendship group asked if I was, at one time, with boy A or boy B from the group, and I had to honestly answer with, “Both.” And not to forget the classic, “Hey I don’t know you but apparently we shared a sex partner, let’s be friends?!” Err no. Time to move!
BYE BOYS!
To me, the fact that these men keep coming to this bar, when they know full well that I work there, is rude. I myself have already crossed off a fair few destinations on the map of the city I live in so I can avoid any awkward encounters, for instance the other day someone came into the bar, (awkward, wish I wasn’t here) ordered a drink (try not to throw it on him accidentally on purpose) and then, had the audacity to look at me and patronisingly ask, “How’ve you been?” I mean, what the fuck is that. Do you really think you had that much of an effect on me that I am now devastated after our temporary tryst and can no longer function or leave the house, let alone GO TO WORK AND SERVE PEOPLE LIKE I AM NOW. Soon I will be forced to make like Mrs. Flax, get drunk in a bubble bath and blindly choose where to live next over a giant map of England.
It’s partly my own naive fault, I thought it was just dating etiquette, you just can’t go to certain places anymore – you cross them off the map. But sadly my home isn’t as big as the entire USA and some situations cannot be avoided, I do understand that. However, if I have to sacrifice several bars, certain floors of my own university and central coffee shops then maybe you can miss out on that signature pint of ours.
All my dates seem to be more and more interlinked and messy the longer I live here; a day after things ended with a guy I’d been seeing for 4 months, I went on a date with a guy called Steve, we went to get a coffee and was served by a man, let’s call him Pete. Me and Steve didn’t last, but then Pete and I started dating for a while, (we met later on, I’m not that shameless to pick up another guy while I’m on a date!) I originally moved away from my small hometown because I was sick of everyone knowing your business and the busy, anonymous metropolis appealed to me, but now that I’ve lived here for a while I seem to know more and more friends of friends, and if I know them, that must mean they know all about me. I don’t really have anything in particular to hide, I just live in constant fear that one day a man will stop texting me back and when I ask why it will be, “I found out you were carnally involved with my friend at one point.” Because what am I meant to say to that other than, “Ah, which one was he?”
Ex’s are a tricky subject; you once shared all your intimate moments with them, you probably thought you were perfect for each other and you wanted them to like you so much and then all of a sudden the feelings just go or they break it off and you have to move on. In this digital age there are a lot of platforms that you can use to connect with someone, but disconnecting is hard, especially if you have mutual friends and you know they will feel a pang when they realise you’ve deleted them. But you do delete them off Facebook, you lose their number and don’t Snapchat them anymore in the hopes that will erase them, out of sight, out of mind. Until you bump into them, or you hear about them, and you are torn between wanting to hear about them to be nosy or because you still care and wanting to forget them forever. And then there’s THE COMPETITION. Like Britain’s Got Talent, but even more tragic, which person has won after the break up: who has lost weight, who got a new partner, who moved back in with their Mum. All these petty things can determine who is the strongest and who is the weakest, who is the person that can prove they cared less, because if that’s you, grab yourself a gold star, you are the winner. But why? It is a scary thing that pick up artists and all emotionally stunted “LADS” are now treating heartbreak as a disease that must be cured. See: oneitis.
On the one hand admitting you care is seen as weak, and falling in love makes you frail, but then as women all we are sold is romance, what are we meant to believe, no wonder we have been reduced to Facebook stalking and taking the long way home to avoid walking past anywhere your ex might be lurking. It’s always going to be uncomfortable staring into the same pair of eyes you’ve seen staring up at you from your crotch (also please never ever do the staring thing) but you’re going to have to fucking suck it up, just like they did at one point, because unless you keep moving house you’re going to see those peepers now and then.
1001 Ways to Lose a Man 