Sometimes I go out to pubs and clubs—you know, to get a bit ‘merry’.
And other times I go out to pubs and clubs and get—ahh … melancholy.
It’s kind of like drowning my sorrows; except I don’t actually ‘drown’ the sorrows, so to speak; I just end up so shitfaced that I announce them (in intimate detail) to any poor sod in an emma-dee-is-having-a-pity-party-and-you’re-fucking-coming radius.
Naturally, it’s not the most attractive thing a single gal can do.
Which is why I found it hilarious when a drop-dead-gorgeous boy (I use the term ‘boy’ purposely—he was four years my junior) made a rooky era and choose to sit next to Melancholy Me when I was recently ‘out and about and being a sadsy sod’.
Yes, I was drunk. Yes, I was slightly depressed. And yes, I was about to ambush the twenty-year old babe with my despairs.
Oh—before I go on—I was wearing blue lipstick (as one does) to coincide with my blue mood. So give the bitch a bit of credit: anyone who hits on a chick with kitschy, pastel coloured lips is simply begging for a conversation with a flamboyant freak.
After praising the fabulous lipstick, spinning a few one-liners and smiling flirtatiously and oh-so-cutely, Boy decided to dish out the compliments.
Boy: “Oh my God, you’re beautiful.”
Melancholy Me: “Honey, I just turned twenty-four—that shit is not beautiful. I feel hideous and old-hagesque as hell.”
Boy: “Ha! Twenty-four isn’t even old! ”
Melancholy Me: “Oh darling, I’m like so over the hill, it’s fucked.”
Insert a few minutes of ranting about how miserable I was, having recently turned twenty-four. (Find out somewhere in the heavily-one-sided conversation that Boy is, as we now know, twenty.)
Insert a few more minutes of nostalgic lecturing about the to dos and to don’ts that I, of course, learnt when at the same age.
Boy (oddly still smiling flirtatiously and dishing out the compliments): “You’re, like, the coolest chick I’ve ever met … so fucking funny, and hot. You’re fucking gorgeous.”
Internal narration: Boy must be equally as drunk as I am. God knows I’m fucking blind; he probably can’t see shit.
Melancholy Me: “Darling I’m hideous—don’t let this (hand gesture towards face) and the blue lippy fool you … I might look gorgeous, but I’m hideous. Truly. I’m sad to the core (literally breaks out in Marina and The Diamonds impersonation of the same lyrics) … I’m sad to the core, core, core.”
Presumably, I would have thought such a comment (not to mention the fucking singing) would have Boy go-hell-bent-for-leather straight to his mates; you know, to get as far away as possible from the crazy-bitch.
But, strangely, Boy did not. (Begging for a flamboyant freak: assumption, correct.)
It turned out that Melancholy Me ended up in a tongue-lock with Boy. You know, inappropriate public display of kissing, daaarling. Which taught me a few things:
- Some guys are attracted to sad, sorrow-filled girls
- Some guys are attracted to sad, sorrow-filled girls who proclaim that she does, indeed, ‘look gorgeous’
- If #1 and #2 aren’t true, you can get sad, sorrow-filled and self-obsessed girls to shut-the-hell-up by literally shoving your tongue down her throat
- Smeared blue lipstick doesn’t look good on boys, even if they’re Hot Boy.
So if you’re like me, and from time to time, you get a bit ‘Sad in the City’, fret not: order yourself another tequila slammer, take your sorrows to a twenty-year-old toy boy, and y’all will be feeling better about yourself in no time.
And if that fails—or you realise how weird it is for a random babe to be attracted to your freakish side—just get your sad-arse and your BFF onto the dance floor!
Alternatively, you can just act like a normal happy-go-lucky person when you’re out and about. (Just don’t ask me for advice on how to accomplish this: it’s not exactly an area I excel at—or even have personal experience in.)
Stay sane. Remain insane. Either/or.
If in doubt, just add in a few ‘darlings’ … and you’re certain to kill it!