An open letter I offer to myself (and anyone else who is 100% relating to the piggo in the picture.)
To whom it may concern,
If you’re reading this then the correlation between you and a loveless pig swimming through a pool occupied by interlocked lovers is worrying. As much as I appreciate your majestic piggy-breast stroke, you’re destined to drown in a lonely life. As such, I’m going to offer you advice, with varying degrees of importance and accuracy. If you don’t want people to look at you as though you’ve got a cluster of tiny disfigurements before urging you to go back and ring your precious bell tower, then please read on. Don’t feel you need it? Oh, right. Well, can you please tell me a little bit about your relationship with your left hand? I thought so. Let’s continue.
Your expectation of dating is so low that the most common bit of advice you hand out to friends about to go on a date is ‘don’t get murdered.’ To you, that would constitute a good date: Your limbs remain attached to your body and you don’t wind up in the meat freezer of a guy who, only hours before, bought you a caramel macchiato in Starbucks. You like to remind people that there are guys out there (and women of course) that they could date who are waiting to turn them into a lamp shape. Their skin, specifically. There are various-types of nice-guy serial killers, you like to warn.
I’m not a psychiatrist, although if you added up the amount of therapy sessions I’ve attended I’d say I was more than qualified to be one, but I’d say your dry, humorous approach to love is a way of defending yourself. You like to execute borderline sociopathic behaviour in a bid to fend off any form of happiness. If someone comes along that threatens to make you happy, you flee like a vampire before garlic. Whether this behaviour was born from a string of shitty relationships in the past, or a by-product of your parent’s divorce I cannot say. Either way I would advise that you place the tiniest crumb of human-compassion on the fat free muffin of sociopathic detachment that is your love-life and see how it tastes. Otherwise you’ll end up that creepy old guy on Grindr that greets people with flaccid dick-pics and is shamelessly forward about wanting to sniff your trainers.
You have been given a lot of unsolicited dating advice, mainly by people of a gender you don’t date, and the advice received from people of the same gender, you’ve probably had some-form of sexual encounter with; thus, rendering their opinion on any romantic matter null and void. Thinking about it, you’ve been given more dating tips in life than you have job and career advice – which paints a fairly self-explanatory picture of why your life is currently at a standstill. On a blisteringly hot summers day. Whilst you’re wearing a parka. And being chased by a hoard of zombies. Despite this heavy serving of advice, you’re still starvingly single.
The first helping of advice I will offer you, or rather us, is that sometimes you get particularly enthusiastic about guys that made it painfully obvious they aren’t relationship material. I would strongly suggest you not become that person who calls eight times on a drunken night out and embrace the fact that the guy is not interested. The next is that you should also speak your mind. This tip-toe-around-honestly policy you’ve got going on isn’t working. If you aren’t into it, say. It’s not fair to jerk someone around like a love-sick marionette purely because he/she makes you feel safe. There is nothing wrong with not feeling the same vibe back; just be honest. And kind. Always be kind. If you are into it, also say, but in a low-key way, otherwise they will hear the Psycho theme every time you message them. Also, don’t put out. Nobody wants to buy a cow if they can get the milk for free. Also consider: you’re not a cow and nor do you want to be bought.
I will also advise you to be weary of how much bleach you slap onto your head and implore you to never cut your own hair again. I would also suggest frequent if-not-obsessive use of facemasks to stop you from breaking out before you go anywhere with any guy. Nobody wants to kiss an oily face. Don’t keep a condom in your wallet, because it will fall out at the most inopportune moments – like that time in H&M at the cash desk in front of that six-year-old girl. Don’t be offended when the guy doesn’t call you back. Books over boys any day of the week. Moisturise with religious conviction, but don’t be too harsh on your skin. Also moisturise your neck, otherwise it’ll get wrinkly. Side note: It is bad-news when you find someone attractive and learn he’s eight years younger than you.
Furthermore, I’d strongly suggest you don’t be a ho. Otherwise you will be greeted as though you’re a witch or a jezebel at your local clubs – ironically by guys that are bigger, more established sluts, who don’t want you bottoming on their turf. If you’re going to go on dates, you cannot ask for references. Perhaps if people started treating Tinder like the Airbnb app then this would be a lot less complicated: Thom comes very highly recommended. Very clean, clutter free. Minimal knives. I would say he owned an appropriate number of knives, none of which he waved at me. My only critique is that he wasn’t overly zealous about his appearance and that he could have been more cautious to the smear of Nando’s sauce across his face. Other than that, it was pleasant enough. 7/10 would visit again.
If none of the above works then I offer my deepest apologies but it’s probably because you’re bat-shit crazy. Like, Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction level of crazy. You’re the sort of person that after a fairly potent heartbreak would seek redemption by murdering small children’s animals – but on the plus side, you make a great rabbit stew. Don’t worry though, because there will be someone out there that likes your particular brand of crazy; maybe your gran or some other relative. Failing that, get a cat or twelve.
Best of luck!
This message was brought to you by penicillin.