Hell is Other People

The hunt for digs is on. What fresh hell will I discover this time round.

I hate flat hunting.

It’s a reminder that you can put a price on freedom and it’s somewhere between  £600 and £800 pcm. It’s a small price to pay for sanity I suppose. That’s only if this group of flatmates doesn’t drive me up the wall.

On the whole I’m a live alone type of gal.

I did it for 5 years quite happily and enjoy my own company. There was no one to answer to. I could have whoever I wanted over, for as long as I wanted. No one complained about me smoking, or told me I couldn’t have a pet. I could dance around in my underwear eating Cheetos, listening to Nina Simone.

They were truly great times.

The only downsides were when I’d freak out after a Special Victims Unit marathon and barricade myself in the bedroom with the cat for protection. Or when my pervy landlord would decide to pay a visit while I was in the shower.

It was still bearable for a rent controlled, two bedroom apartment in an up and coming part of Mexico City. And all at the bargain cost of £350 a month.

I should never have left.

I definitely shouldn’t have moved into student housing.

Sharing a bathroom is the quickest way of learning that hell is other people. There’s nothing like realising someone’s been using your razor to shave their face, or your Femfresh to shower, to make you want to use their toothbrush to clean the thick ring they left in the bath tub.

I don’t like inconsiderate people.

How do you fail to realise that your hair won’t clean itself out of the drain?  Or that screaming about your love life with your rabbi over Skype at 11pm on a school night isn’t considerate?

It’s a catch 22 situation.

They seem nice, like all people do in the wild. But you’re only going to really get to know them by living with them. Sometimes it’s great- like my first flatshare in Barcelona- or the well intentioned, albeit stingy, clown who would practice his schtick on me.

And sometimes you are woken up by a woman who has decided to dress exactly like you, in your clothes, and even squeeze her size 5 feet into your size 3 Nikes.

It’s like Russian roulette. Only instead of shooting yourself, you may end up with a flatmate who gets drunk and mutters menacing threats through your door, as you cry into a body pillow.

Let’s hope speed flat mate hunting holds a regular couple of alcohol loving, neat freaks to bunk down with.

Pray for me.

 

Haters Gon’ Hate

Why have some people got their panties in a bunch about loving Pokemon Go?

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Shout out to my fellow trainers. “When Pokemon hunting is lit”

As a Pokemon fan from way back, nothing has made me happier than the chance to update my pokedex, get out there and meet other like minded nerds.

We’re adorable.

Think of us like asexual doggers, wandering around parks and scenic routes,looking for invisible creatures, which we then get mad excited about and try to catch using our smart phones.

It’s great fun.

I’ve met people in my community, had lovely conversations and laughed with people in the sun. It’s been really interactive and in a healthy, positive way.

So why is it when a group of people look like they are having completely harmless fun, someone will come along and either a) try to ruin it b) try to take advantage of it or c) criticise it?

Yesterday a group of hackers took down the  game making it impossible to get online. Why? I don’t know, why does someone step on your transformer when you’re about to launch a stealth attack? Fuckery.

Then there have been the stories of a few opportunists who have seized on the whole excitement to mug people. Yes. Mug people.

“There’s a rare pokemon down this alleyway….Now give me your wallet.”

Ok, some users need to be more grounded in reality. But what a bummer to be reminded when you’re trying to have fun, that some jackass will do anything to spoil it.

Which brings me to kill joys.

Why does Judgy McJudgerson care how old I am and if I know what I look like?

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See? Hawt

  I look like a hot pokemon trainer. If I choose to run around my local park, smile on me like a Cheshire cat, and I’m having fun, why does it bother you? If you don’t want to play, fine. But please don’t project your misery onto me under the guise that you’re worried I’m making a fool of myself.

Guess what? I give zero fucks how I look.

I may take it a step further and go Poké hunting in my Wonder Woman costume. If this makes you uncomfortable, guess what? That’s you not me.

People need to lighten up. There are far worse things happening in the world today.

Now if you don’t mind, A Snorlax has been spotted by the duck pond.

Gotta Catch’em all!

Pokemon trainer humour at Cosmo for the Go lovers! 

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/news/a61383/hilarious-pokemon-go-pictures/

D-sensitised

I think I am 95% desensitised to penis.

When I was younger and I used to worry that my enjoyment of uber violent films meant that I could find myself in a Die Hard style scenario, and would simply sellotape a pen knife to my back and throw myself into the mix without batting an eyelid.

It was a theory that was somewhat proven when I got held up at gunpoint a few years back.

I refused to give the gunman my bag without some kind of negotiation. My companions had either cleverly shoved their mobile phones into their knickers, or peremptorily handed over their bags, while I rued the day I decided to wear a dress and no underwear, whilst clutching onto my shopping.

The gunman told me not to be an idiot. But why change the habit of a lifetime?

“Because he could have shot you.” The police officer sternly informed me, surprisingly unimpressed by the fact I managed to save my purchases.

I was pretty sure the gun was fake. I’d seen plenty of guns. On screen. The officer kindly unholstered his gun and asked me if it had looked like that. Hmm, his looked fake too.

Whoops.

Penis has become guns for me.

And it’s all thanks to online flashers.

The threat of the 80s flasher, accessorised in a  filthy mac, bumbling his way towards you, then whipping open his coat and waggling his willy at you, has now been brought into the digital age.

The sexual ambush that I have been subjected to on dating apps though amusing, is also quite disturbing. When did it become acceptable to send someone an unsolicited picture of your genitals? Or even worse, a video of you vigorously abusing said genitals?

The idea that you have ‘earned’ viewing rights to the horniness you unwittingly inspired is not as flattering as the sender thinks it is.

If someone tried to flash you in public it would be considered indecent to most.  But social media functions like a blanket of anonymity  for flashers to disappear into once someone hits report, block and delete.

There are no real consequences, other than the reduced chances of offenders ever getting to communicate with that person beyond a screen.

I, for one, don’t want to be sent another surreptitious picture of a penis in an “Oh my gosh you’ll never guess what my dick did….’ fashion again.

If I ever see one in real life again, I’m only going to think it’s fake.

 

 

Tinderlude

1655856_10153590962320552_5826856312381107258_n (1)When I first met my ex I told him he should go on Tinder. He’s a good looking guy and was single. I thought he would clean up. I hadn’t thought I’d be dating the guy. I was off to Mexico a month down the road. Plus he had seen another man’s penis on my phone.

Long story short: never show a married friend a dick pic. She will tell her husband. He will make you show it to everyone at breakfast when you are too hungover to quickly sit on your phone.

It’s a miracle our relationship ever got off the ground.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me when he popped up on my Tinder feed after the break up. But I deleted the app off my phone all the same. It was like he could see me.

Dating has always been my go to move when things are going badly in my life. When I say dating I mean Tinder. I have no desire to get to know someone in the hopes of cultivating a relationship. Not when I’m heart broken. Shameless superficial hottie snap, and texts filled with innuendo is all I look for when moving on.
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I had signed up again because I thought I needed to move on swiftly. I needed to remember that other good looking men existed.

The shock of seeing his duck face staring back at me in various poses made me realise I wasn’t ready yet.

Cue Rio: a city where the word Sex is literally everywhere, and everyone is hot and semi-naked. It was a disappointment to find out that Sex- Dom was not a sensual version of the Crystal Maze, but the equivalent of Sat-Sun abbreviation. More of a disappointment was the fact I just wasn’t into anyone and would have had no use for a real sex dome unless I could charge my Kindle there.

My trainer acted like we’d conceded a goal when I told him I had just enjoyed the sights.

“What’s wrong with you?! Get laid woman!”

It had been 4 months. The ‘Get over it’ was coming in thick and heavy.

I decided to give it one last swipe.

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Straight off the bat I gave a cute guy my number. Almost immediately his penis was on my phone, completely unsolicited.

The penis was a shock. But not as much as the fact the guy had been so quick to whip it out that he had forgotten to hide the bald patch he’d disguised in his pics.

He apologised for the penis, but couldn’t explain the hair. I no longer felt compelled to respond to his messages.

That’s when my Tinder game changed. How it happened I don’t know.

Instead of cuing me up some hot sex  I built a small support group for the texting wounded.

Now all my messages seem to be pasta recipes, or stories of dates gone wrong. It’s almost like having a stable of boyfriends, who every now and then suggest a meet up.

I’m finding it hard to say yes though.

I said to one guy it was timing and location. If he wasn’t where I was at the right time then it wasn’t happening.

I may yet go on a date. I leave it to GPS, alcohol and wifi connectivity. But It’s not my priority anymore.

I won’t be deleting the app this time.

How will I know how ‘Strap’ and sex dungeon boy are doing on their quest for love?

Anyway, Dario told me he’d send me a recipe for cannelloni that I want to try this weekend.

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Thanks to #TinderNightmares for this bounty. Mine were too explicit, or too boring to post. 

Why didn’t I just show her the video of the sneezing panda?

  I have been promising my mum that I will show her how to use the internet for over a year now, well, I say promising, I mean threatening. She is happy to only listen to Capital Gold, which is now playing music from the 90s I hear, and likes to give anything you plug in (with the exception of the iron and microwave) a wide berth. A few years back she finally came around to the idea of owning a mobile phone, which was a huge leap for her. Sadly, she still seems to think it will switch itself on when messages arrive and keeps it in a handbag in her wardrobe for safe keeping. I would just give up, but after years of sporadic contact through Skype (her looking frightened, then slowly and awkwardly over enunciating questions about my eating habits) or the occasional letter reminding me to be demure and quiet if I wanted to trick a man into marrying me, I decided something had to be done. So, as one of various summer projects, I have decided to be her spiritual guide on her journey towards dominating the web. Worst. Idea. Ever.

Why I decided to start with Youtube I don’t know. Maybe because I thought I could show her some videos to make her laugh, move her from radio to moving image. She’d been looking through wedding pictures from a mate’s wedding on my dad’s iPad and seemed to be feeling comfortable with the new technology. Suddenly she remarked ‘This isn’t what a South Indian wedding is like.“ Seizing upon this opportunity to get her online, I suggested that she show me what a traditional wedding looked like and talked her through how to find videos on youtube. Big Mistake. What ensued was a self-inflicted hour of my mother sharing her disappointment at not having a daughter who was married yet through pictures and video. I managed to ‘accidentally’ close the Youtube window of the wonderful obedient girls who had married when my dad got involve. All of a sudden I was being held hostage and shown poorly videoed footage of my cousin’s wedding, while my mum explained each stage and my dad explained why the flute player was excellent marriage material (‘He played at the opening ceremony of the Olympics. What do you think of that?” Strangely enough dad, not much.)

My mum has tolerated my ‘special friends’ for years in the vain hope that I would eventually stay still and quiet long enough to trick one into marriage; for some reason she equates finding a man to marry with killing gazelles when I am concerned. My recent break-up seems to have spiraled both my parents into a panic which forces them to remind me that I won’t be attractive forever and that my eggs have an expiry date, facts that aren’t welcome at the best of times, let alone when you’ve broken up with someone you love. When we finally got to the last photo my mother exploded “These are your people! This is what we do! So just look happy and accept it.” This outburst was promptly followed by her trademark narcolepsy, robbing me of the opportunity to say anything in my defence. It was like a ‘You-should-be-married-by-now’ drive-by. In retrospect, not being in touch when I’m out of the country may not be the worst thing that could happen.