This blog is closing.

Letting go of your past is sometimes one of the hardest things to do. First, you have to decide to do it, and that’s hard. Then, you have to actually want to do it, which is even harder. Then, you actually have to do it.

This blog has been one serious dumping ground for the recording of the twisted pattern of events that has been my last year. I could wait until January 1 to close it all and start again, but this morning, I’ve woken up in London to absolute avalanche rain and gale force winds, and I kinda like it. And now feels as good a time as any to just…

Let…

Go.

I’ve got soul.

This is probably going to sound enormously lame, but this next post was written due to inspiration generated from the new Young Soul Rebels War Child song, the cover of The Killers I Got Soul. Feel slightly out of perspective considering this song is about children dying in war, and listening to lyrics makes events of my life laughable in comparison.

Now I’m listening to Groove Armada’s Purple Haze, amazing song with a slight excerpt of the Hendrix classic. Listening to music I love always makes me think about the people who created it – how did they do it? How did they go and just make music? They just DID, is how.

Reading the last 8 or so posts of what’s been this arduous dedication to what I’ve probably conveyed as the hardest, most dramatic, most unique, most astounding problem ever known to any woman or man, I can’t help but thinking about what I have created.

What have I created?

A lot of HOT AIR. A lot of HOT AIR and WHINING.

I have the accent for whining. I’m an Australian. An Australian girl with a particularly whiny voice which incidentally, some people earmark as phone-sexy (I have no idea who or what would label my voice in such a way. May he rest in peace, but it’s like suggesting Steve Irwin was the modern-day Barry White). But just because I have the accent for it, it does not under any circumstances give me the license to do it incessantly.

So I screwed around with a married guy, dumped my ex-boyfriend, and married guy’s wife had a baby. And because I’m a human and not an engineered machine, I ended up with a few feelings so I screwed around a bit more. I’m sorry, is there are actually room in the already bursting-at-seams-extramarital-affair-participant club, or will I need to join the year long waiting list?

My point is (I finally have one) – for the love of god, who cares? Nobody else, that’s for sure, and it’s high time that I didn’t either. There are people out there with actual, tangible problems, and while I’m not saying the last year of my life has been problem free, it’s all about the context.

Today, whilst filling a basket with 46 quid worth of shoes and various stockings and tights in Primark, I thought about lifestyles. I looked in the mirror while I twirled around trying on my now new pair of corporate-pencil-skirt-matching red stiletto heels (which I will wear to the office – I’m sorry, but I never volunteered for the job of making life any easier for married people), and imagined telling my sordid tale to the 13-year-old child who sat in a crowded, sweaty, smelly warehouse making these shoes.

‘Well, you see, there’s a man and… and he sort of kissed me and then you know, went back to his wife and I didn’t like that, and then you know, I might have sent him this text message and then his wife-’

‘Yeah, I have a family of five, including my parents, to support with my 5p equivalent daily wage and I’ve been working for thirteen hours. When my shift ends I’m going to go home and tend to my sick little brother and try and find enough food to feed the rest of us tonight. You were saying?’

I’m not saying the wealthy Western world should feel guilty about feeling the way we do about certain situations and events in our lives (about, about). We’re humans and humans have feelings, it’s both a fortunate and unfortunate element of our make-up (genetic, not cosmetic). It’s just sometimes – well, really, all I’m trying to say, if there’s anyone reading this who’s also feeling covered by steel duvet’s weight’s worth of problems – it can help to jump outside your head for just a few minutes and think about the globe. Once you think about the globe, you can start making changes in your life to get yourself and those around you to where you’d all like to be.

Currently, I’m listening to one of my favourite songs (Groove Armada’s Lightsonic – yes, I’ve worked my way through the album during this post), I’m looking at my new boots and red heels with a secret kind of glee (I’m sorry, but my SSS will understand -  once a stirrer, always a stirrer), and I’m waiting on a call for a new job which I’m 90% sure I’ll get. It doesn’t sound like much, but I think, as the beginning of my recovery phase, that’s a good start for tonight.

Are we there yet?

So we’ve all arduously trawled through the history of this entire mess with as much enthusiasm as a small fly stuck in a jar of honey. However, the reasons I bothered to document my time as WWH are hopefully, valid:

1) It’s CLEANSING. Cleansing to my chakras.

2) It reminds me (and hopefully you) that our lives really are a series of events that just happen – this really isn’t my version of escaping responsibility for my actions, but really? Really? When you think about it, you are the way you are, because of the things that have happened in your life. Similar, the things that have happened in your life probably may not have happened, if you were a different person. I came up with the loosely understood theory that life has to be 50% you, and 50% fate. It leaves a lot of room for questioning, but its the only way I can explain the way my life has happened so far.

Before I launch into a 1500 word post on my attempt at explaining the meaning of life, let’s return to the situation at hand. Which is, unfortunately for you, my dalliances in the world of love. And life. But mostly love. Why does this blog focus on love? Because really? Really? Underneath my cynical, sarcastic, witty demeanour, the girl who will return the look of love with an evil eye really is just one giant sappy sucker for that crazy big world. That crazy big world of love.

So. It’s almost a year since the CPWK. Almost 7 months since BoC. Almost 5 months ago, MMGF called me. At 11pm at night. Asking. Begging. Pleading. Let me come over. I said no. I don’t know why I said no. I still wish, 5 months later, that I had said yes. Not because it’s my long-lasting dream to invite married fathers to my house in the middle of the night. Just because… maybe, if it had happened, if it had started, then at least I would have seen what it was. I would have had that. And it probably would have ended. But at least I would know. You know?

And now? (Yes, we’re finally up to now. I can’t promise we won’t digress into past events, as useful reference points, in future posts. But. Still. We are here). Apart from the final let’s-sort-out-where-we-stand conversation (initiated by me after I was forced to apologise for an unfortunate, apparently childish tantrum involving MMGF, a misunderstood joke, and a chair) where we admitted it’s obvious we’re attracted to (cough – understatement/code word for in love with) each other but better, no matter what the outcome, not to act on it, the entire situation has reached a lull. The storm has an eye.

We’ve been sitting in the eye for three months now.

…

The only issue I have with the eye is the fact that the eye can’t last. The storm has another side. And generally, the other side of the storm is more furious, and more powerful than the first.

Oh god.

Ode to the list. And a how? Why? From where?

My friends and I have become addicted to emailing each other in list form. A series of bullet points will summarise our daily activities, outline our opinions on countless topics from the behaviour of our other friends to the latest X Factor result, or successfully turn into a point-based bickering session when one of us has something confrontational to say but we’d like to confront in a humourous way.

Similarly, since SSS moved away (a part in my odious blog story that has not been reached yet), we tend to do most of our communication via Skype and end up speaking in monosyllabic quips which turn into pages and pages of hilarious repartee that we convince ourselves is pricelessly winning comedic material (well, it is).

So, I’d like to dedicate this blog post to the monosyllabic quip form of communication. And I’m going to make a list.

Where were we? I say we in the knowledge supplied by my trusty wordpress stat counter that my daily view number is generally above zero, therefore I am assuming that someone, somewhere, for some bizarre reason finds this diatribe unreasonably entertaining. So, we were currently finding out about MMGF’s pregnant wife and reversing enthusiastically into unsuspecting desks. What a place to be.

In short, the final trimester of MMGF’s wife’s (MMGFW’s) pregnancy can be summarised, from my perspective, as follows:

• Meaningful Window Phase (MWP): after pregnancy revelation, MWP began. MWP consisted of multiple end-of-day MMGF visits to my office. These visits would generally follow specific pattern: MMGF stares longingly into my eyes, MMGF turns and sighs, MMGF stares out window (hence MWP) for approximately 6.5 seconds, MMGF mumbles something appropriately cryptic, e.g. ‘What should I do with my… life?’, ‘Who… who knows where we’re all meant to be?’, and the final resounding, ‘What if the mistake you made didn’t feel like a mistake?’. Spend my days in permanent state of confusion and feel sympathy for cryptic sleuths, detectives, MI6 agents, etc. Imagine deciphering things like this for a living.
• Meaningful Talk Phase (MTP): the window is not enough for MMGF and he decides to progress with something a little more concrete: MTP. MTP began in much the same way as MWP, except the time following the window phase would be one of soul purging for MMGF – tales of his marital woe and his fear that he was having a child with the wrong person were regaled with gusto. Sympathy moved from cryptic sleuth profession to therapist profession. How? How and why and who? Who could listen to tales like this from multiple emotionally confused people on a daily basis, let alone one?
• Inappropriate Flirting Phase (IFP): Unfortunately initiated by me (yes, the CPW) after I unwittingly attended MMGF’s 30th birthday party and sucked a powdered substance off his finger in front of his wife (yes, who I’ve met) before throwing up on their lounge room wall and inviting myself to stay the night in their spare room (I know. I know. I am going. To hell), this phase involved a great deal of… inappropriate flirting. Calls, texts, emails, skype chats – you name it, if it was flirting and it was inappropriate, MMGF and I did it. I’m not going to say it was the proudest time of my life, but oh my, it was a hell of a lot of fun.
• Illegal Night at My House (INaMH): Innocently prancing off the local pub for a friendly beer, MMGF and I started our Friday night with the best intentions. After all, can’t two friends and co-workers of the opposite sex who’ve been through CPWK, MWP, MTP and IFP indulge in a friendly, completely innocent beer without any repercussions? I mean really, what age are we liv- oh. How did he get through my front door? How did… how did he get in my bed? Look, now he’s there, I mean, he may as well just stay there, there’s no getting transport at 3 o’clock in the morning. I mean that would just be unfriendly of me. I’ll just ah… I’ll just get in there next to him. Oh. Um. Well, look, this was really BOUND to happen anyway, and who am I to resist the unforgiving force that calls itself fate?
• IFP Unleashed (IFPU): After INaMH (give or take a hopelessly failed attempt at a fatherly/senior-married-person’s-lecture courtesy of MMGF), needless to say IFP whipped itself (I refer to it as an inanimate, unstoppable force, because truly? That’s what it felt like) up to a texting frenzy resulting in MMGF convincing me to buy into hatching a plan for an afternoon sex meeting weeks before his wife was due to give birth. (Oh, god. I’m not a horrible person, really. I mean, I know, right now, I sound like the whore from hell, but really – I’m… I’m not.)
• Text From Wife (TFW): There’s no other way to say it. TFW. During IFPU, idiotic (ABSOLUTELY IDIOTIC) MMGF had abandoned his phone for a bathroom break and returned to find his heavily pregnant wife scrolling through his messages. (Apparently, he had thought to delete most of the messages he had sent to me, leaving it appearing like I was obsessed stalking work colleague who had been texting porn-style paragraphs to innocent by-standing MMGF. Ha.) As a small consolation, the texts that did remain featured a small amount of debate between MMGF and I on whether we felt we could (morally, of course) conduct an afternoon sex meeting given his wife’s impending labour (and obviously, feelings and ring on finger). Woke up next morning to feel blood draining from face (and rest of body, really) upon reading: ‘Hi both, as a wife I know I don’t have much say in this but if you were asking my opinion, I would say… um… let me think… don’t do it! But then again, it’s not my decision’. Felt sick. Sickness. Waves of sickness. Message was actually quite well constructed, and polite given circumstances. Once had finished analysing grammatical merits of message though, sickness returned. And height of wave increased as realised her wave of sickness on reading hideous messages was probably ten times higher.
• Birth of Child (BoC): TWO DAYS LATER. MMGFW gives birth. Birth. To. Her. Child. That she conceived. With. MMGF. Feel mortified at what have done. Feel sick. With guilt. Smoke cigarette with SSS. No use. Cannot believe have managed to play part in ruining woman’s first experience of giving birth. And feel even worse because, despite all of this, despite all possible lists items, dates and text frenzies – something is still burning in my chest.
• I still. Have. Feelings. For him. HOW? WHY? FROM WHERE?

Tweet with me.

In an effort to curb my blog vomit (verbal diarrhoea), I’m now twittering in less than 140 characters. My blog posts, however, will unfortunately remain the length of small novels.

To tweet with me, follow avajiyuu . It’s the only place I’ll let strangers follow me without hitting them over the head with my handbag and shrieking.

It’s raining men.

There are some people who have lots of friends of the opposite sex. There are some people who have lots of friends of the same sex. Generally, breeders will spend the entire course of their opposite sex friendships trying to avoid crossing that inappropriately tempting line of ‘we-could-do-it-but-if-we-do-it-will-it-be-like-doing-our-brother/sister’ and worse ‘what-if-we-do-it-and-it’s-totally-not-like-doing-our-brother/sister-and-it-turns-into-that-vile-thing-called-a-relationship’.

Then there are people who have friends of the opposite sex that are most definitely OFF LIMITS. Off limits includes friends who are dating your best friend, friends who are married, or the ultimate – friends who are married to a currently heavily pregnant wife.

We can all see where this is going.

After my brief night and day of homeless torture, I had embraced the dawn of Monday morning with tearful joy and escaped to  the office at the phenomenally early time of 7:45am. Glugging my coffee down and scrolling gumtree for share flats minus a resident HPF, I barely heard MMGF approach behind me with his usual display of stealth and fresh humour.

‘WHAT’S HAPPENING?’

I sighed and elaborated on the HPF story. Incidentally, it turned out that SV and MMGF had spent the rest of their Sunday discussing various types of weaponry and comparing their bench press limit in a masculine, rugged way. I blinked and then continued my now highly exagerrated version of events at Sextrap Manor (‘and then, I woke up in the middle of the night and found him standing next to my bed, wearing a sheet and holding a copy of Flatmates by Chris Manby’), when MMGF cut me off. Abruptly.

‘Um. Uh. Erghm. I’ve ah- I’ve got to tell you something.’

Oh, god. Here it is. It’s the confession of his undying love. The HPF incident has made him wildly jealous and awakened his passion for street battles and swooning women in who live in Chevy Chase hallways.

I blush and instinctively tilt my head and lower my eyelids in a seductive way.

‘Uh… are you okay?’

Obviously, the lowered eyelids made him think I was passing out. I raised them slightly and cooed, ‘Go on.’

‘Okay. My wife is pregnant.’

…

…

‘Um, your eyelids are kinda freaking me out, what’s going-’

‘Pregnant. Your wife. Is. Pregnant.’

MMGF shifts back and forth on his feet awkwardly. I push my chair away from my desk in an attempt at a casual ‘huh, why would it bother me that your wife is pregnant’ slide and as a result reverse straight into the desk of important character number four, who, luckily, has not arrived at work yet.

I recover from the crash and begin the fume.

‘And how long has she been pregnant?’

Perhaps it’s a new thing. Perhaps it was a wild night of try-and-save-my-marriage-sex-

‘Six months. Don’t ah… don’t do too much math.’

Needless to stay, CPWK was not six months ago. It was more to the tune of one month ago.

Some kind of chemical fissure occurs in my brain and I decide to launch into over-exaggeratedly confident I-screw-married-men-for-breakfast repartee.

‘Oh! Well, CONGRATULATIONS! That’s fantastic! I mean, that’s so exciting! That’s so GREAT!’

‘Yes, but you’re doing that high pitched thing with the ‘that’s so GREEEEAT’, maybe we should talk-’

‘No need. Really, no need. No need. To. Talk. No need. Talking. Not needed. It’s GREAT!’

‘Yes, but I feel like a cock-’

‘DON’T! Really! Don’t feel like that, it’s- it’s GREAT!’

MMGF leans against the door opening and closing his mouth, and is about to say something when important character number four barges in to the office almost bowling MMGF straight onto my chair. With me in it. MMGF coughs awkwardly and says something about discussing the reconstruction of the cost allocations for the last quarter and schleps back to his corner desk.

Pregnant. Wife. Oh, god. It doesn’t impact me. It’s okay. CPWK has happened anyway. I mean, I can’t say I’m not indignant. There is no way CPWK would have occurred if I had known about PW (Pregnant Wife).

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding. Of course it would have.

This behavior should repulse me. Off-limits and an ass, MMGF has behaved like such a… such a…

For the love of god. I still like him. This just got to a brand new level of complicated.

Maybe we don’t always have to know how it ends?

Oh… really?

I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I’m a

Fun Loving Traveling Self-Improver

Several important characters. Continued.

Okay, so for the potential three people reading this blog, if you’re thinking ‘god, when is this girl going to shut the fuck up, quit dredging up the past and actually tell us what’s going on right now?’, I have two words for you: uh uh. (So one word repeated. It’s still two words). As much as it pains me to confess, this blog has become somewhat cathartic. This little piece of webspace is now a dumping ground for the refuse that extends from the internal self healing that’s begun deep in the… blah blah blah. In short: you’re just gonna have to hear the whole sordid story from start to finish. There’s no two ways about it and if you’re bored, there are plenty of blogs out there written by neurotic thirty-somethings trying to plough their way through outdated recipe books as a pathway to discovering the meaning of life, to keep you entertained.

Important character number two. Important character number two is about to be called after my torturous night of self-imprisonment. Still in disbelief over behaviour of HPF, I stand in the cool morning urine-slash-marijuana scented West London air listening to my mobile dial important character number two and watching a squirrel flail as it tries to rescue a slice of pickle out of a bin-

‘…Crrrrrrrrr. Crrrrrrr. Shhhhhh. Mrrrrf. Mrello?’

It’s probably worth noting that important character number two likes her sleep. It is extremely important, that, except in situations of dire emergency, friends, colleagues, family members, enemies or utility services do not interrupt this sleep. She also likes drinking Budweiser beer whilst wearing her sunglasses, several humorous television programs involving internal narration and overweight cartoon characters, smoking whilst wearing her sunglasses, and wearing her sunglasses in pitch darkness.

But, most importantly, she just likes her sleep. Her sleep, which, incidentally, I’ve just interrupted.

‘Are you awake? Hello? HELLO? Oh god. The flatmate. The flatmate and then we wentoutanddrankandIprobablyshouldn’thavegonebecauseIwasalreadyslightlypissed myselfandthenIhithiminthearmwithmybag andthenwegothomeanditwasohgoditwasawful. It was awful. Hello? HELLO?’

Silence.

‘What the FUCK are you talking about?’

See. Sleep. Interrupted. Smoking Sunglass-wearing Sleeper (SSS) is angry. ANGRY SSS is ANGRY.

‘He… he tried to come in.’

‘What?’

‘HPF. Tried. To come. In. To my room. Wanted. To. Sleep with me. Can’t go back. Can’t. Go. Back.’

‘Oh, god. Oh, this is. Oh, that’s just. This is disgusting. All of them. They are ALL. Disgusting. Did he have Glazed Look? Was he drooling? I bet you he was fucking drooling, they all drool, they’re all from the same big ole’ horny cluster of breeding, staring, drooling-’

It’s probably also worth pointing out that SSS is not a Breeder like me. While SSS likes sunglasses, sleep, smoking and humourous TV programs, she also enjoys carefully selecting appropriate blonde chicks from over-crowded clubs and spending entire evenings following them and drinking, with sunglasses on. However, am pleased at nature of story I’ve called with, as has successfully distracted her from fact that I woke her up at 9:30am on a Sunday and re-directed anger to Breeder men, specifically HPF.

‘Um, I’m probably eighty percent sure he wasn’t drooling. On a side note, what do you think I should do? I mean, I can’t go back there. I just can’t. It was horrendous.’

‘Oh, for the love of god. Of course you can go back there. It’s your fucking house. He was the one that propositioned you. You rejected him. Go back there. GO BACK IMMEDIATELY. Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?’

‘Um. I’m in the park. With a squirrel. A bin squirrel.’

‘Okay, listen -’

My second line beeped. I checked my screen. Oh, god. Important character number three was calling.

‘I- my second line is calling. I have to g-’

‘Who is it? You’re hanging up on me? FINE. ANSWER IT.’

‘Okay b-’

Beep. Beep. Beep.

‘Hello?’

‘I hear you had a situation last night.’

Important character number three, also known as MMGF’s best friend and the most practical, brutally honest, Viking-like character I know. His favourite words are ’situation’, ‘no’, and the phrase ‘one of dem things’. He’s divorced, likes whisky, philandering, and carrying clipboards. He incidentally also works with me, MMGF, and SSS. Our office is like one giant incestuous pot of mirth and sordidness which SSS and I gain an unhealthy satisfaction out of continuing to stir.

‘Uh – and how do you know? I’ve only called one person and I was on the phone to her when you called-’

‘You texted MMGF last night. At 3am. Saying help. My flatmate is trying to sleep with me. I was out with him. What’s the situation? I demand to know.’

Oh, god. Oh, my text. My text. To MMGF. Saying help.

It’s also worth pointing out that SV (Situational Viking) has absolutely no idea about any shenanigans between MMGF and I as he did not attend the work Christmas party, and due to various slightly over-exaggerated bribing techniques on MMGF’s part after the whole thing, I doubt he will ever have any idea.

‘Look, it’s no big deal, he just asked if he could come into my room.’

‘HA! Asked if he could come into your room!’

‘Yeah, and I told him no, and he launched into this speech about us being adults.’

‘About you being adults!’

‘Yes, adults. And then I told him no again, and he asked me whether I was sure.’

‘HE ASKED YOU WHETHER YOU WERE SURE!’

‘This repeating everything I say thing isn’t really-’

‘Okay, well I think we’d better come round and give him a stern word.’

‘A stern word?’

‘Don’t repeat me. Yes, a stern word. MMGF and I will be happy to. I think it would help and is probably even necessary.’

I was envisioning a replay of the fight scene from Bridget Jones, and while the thought of it raining men in my street was appealing, I could not be responsible for a backyard production of West Side Story.

‘You know, I don’t think that’s-’

‘Okay, so you just say the word, and we’ll be around. We’ll talk.’

SV, who had incidentally morphed into Bruce Willis during conversation, hung up. Squandered half of morning sitting in Starbucks, staring listlessly into the mermaid logo and wondering exactly how long I could go without sleeping in own bed. Finally gave up at 9:30pm after twelve hours of pointless roaming in West London and surrounds, and phaffed back to Sextrap Manor. It was on way that I saw a removal truck outside a house on my street and realised – it was time to get out of the Chevy Chase hallway.

Several important characters.

If you’ve been reading this blog religiously over the last few weeks, you’ve probably assumed that my life revolves around myself, a weepy and hard-done-by angelic ex-boyfriend, and a married man with an apparent drinking problem.

However, surprising as it may seem, there are several important characters that haven’t been introduced in this sordid chronology of events.

They’re about to be.

Horny Presumptuous Flatmate (HPF). Answering the ad for my London share house with as much excited wide-eyed innocence as a dirty CPW could muster, I move in with three complete, but apparently fairly normal, strangers who live in rooms chronologically progressing down Chevy Chase hallway. The closest room (incidentally, sharing a very thin wall with mine) housed HPF. At first, HPF was just another emo twenty-something from the southern hemisphere who confused the line between rockstar weave with dirty-unwashed-dandruff hair. Like most emo twenty-somethings with confused rockstar/dandruff hair, HPF seemed slightly lonely-but-normal. Battering through our front door at midnight after a mojito-fuelled adventure night with an upcoming important character, I found HPF sitting alone on our one couch at the end of the Chevy Chase hallway. Looking forlorn, his eyes shone with all the hope of a lonesome emo twenty-something and he asked if I would like to turn back around and go out for a drink or two at one of the bars around the corner. Buoyed by mint and white rum, I threw my arms in the air enthusiastically and slurred ‘SHHURE!’ whilst hitting HPF on the arm with my giant handbag. HPF looked so delighted on our way out, I compared myself to a good Samaritan who had done the excellent deed of saving someone from a lonely Saturday night (therefore acquitting me of all previous Christmas-time related sins). We infiltrated a semi-packed local bar and swilled beer enthusiastically, talking about the many things we had in common (our address and… our address). Like every London pub on a Saturday, it closed at 3 and we tripped on home to our in-common address. After a small ‘well, this was fun’ conversation in the Chevy Chase hallway, I called good night over my shoulder and closed my door behind me.

I pride myself on my instinct and have convinced myself and a few other drunk-at-the-time people of my clear psychic ability. After I stepped into my room that night, I instantly felt something coming. Approaching.

There was a knock on my door.

Oh, god. Oh, no. Can we not… can we just not go he- oh, just open it. He’s probably blown a light globe or something.

‘Hi. What’s up?’

… Silence. Intense, menacing stare (which I later realised was probably supposed to be the look of love, or, as my upcoming important character dubs it, Glazed Look).

‘Well… I just… I… I’m probably a little bit drunk, but…’

‘What? But what?’

‘Well, I just…’ (Glazed Look becoming more opaque as seconds tick by) ‘…just… I wondered if I could spend the night in your room.’

‘Uh-’

Okay. Calm down. Don’t take it like that. I’m sure he just likes your doona cover. Or wants to admire your decor. Or-

‘It’s just… well, we’re both adults,’ says HPF, suddenly morphing into studious university professor with degree on human sexual interaction, ‘and we should both you know, be able to satisfy a need.’

SATISFY A NEED?

Now, it’s probably a good time to point out that I am not, nor will I ever be, attracted to HPF. But if I was, IF I was – WHERE has the romance gone? Is that what men are reducing prospecting a girl to now? They’re not even trying to pretend that all they care about is love and that they’d really like to just get married the next day and of course it’s not just about sex? They’re just cutting to the chase and talking about satisfying a need like we’re all just gorillas in the mist?

‘Um… um… erm… blergm. NO.’

‘No?’ There was actually a scoff from HPF. How? Why? What the hell?

‘NO!’ I continued, my voice escalating in pitch. ‘No, no, no!’

At this point, HPF reduced the intensity of scoffing expression and swapped it for one of dawning realisation that no need was going to be satisfied in this hallway tonight.

‘Oh. Okay. Well, uh. Sorry. I mean. Are you- are you sure?’

‘For the LOVE OF GOD!’ Door slammed.

Start shaking head in disgust, and incidentally lack of thought that clearly went into proposal, before I remember that my door does not have a lock.

Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod.

Am sure is normal, sane person who just had a little bit of an HPF moment. But could not possibly be HPF enough to open door uninvited.

Or.

Oh god. Is 4am. No one will be awake. Or if awake, no one will be sober enough to come and assist. Huh. Unless.

Of course, I take out phone, and text the person I always text at 3am, drunk. MMGF.

‘Flatmate. Crises. Asked. Me. To. Sleep. With. Him. Help. Help. Help.’

I spend the next three hours clutching my doona and feverishly wrapping myself in sheet like cocooned moth so even if room is infiltrated, action will be extremely difficult. I sleep in cocoon for two hours and wake up when body obviously realises that it cannot feel arm or side of stomach (cocoon cutting off circulation). Is now 9am. Surely people are up, at 9am, on a Sunday morning? Surely everybody has decided that seizing the day is the new sleeping in?

Unwrapping arm and side of stomach, I press my ear to the door to make sure no activity sounds are coming from other side (ugh. Don’t even want to think about how HPF ’satisfied his need’. Ughughugh) and run to the bathroom, which, thank god, has a lock. Oh. Perhaps I should have slept in here last night.

Thirty minutes later, I bolt for the front door and realise it’s only 9:30am and I have absolutely nothing to do. So. I call important character number 2.