My Engagement Story

I got engaged on Saturday night.

Okay, admittedly it was fake so we could try and get free drinks but it was magical all the same.

So SD finally came back on Saturday morning and we met up for drinks once I'd finished work. My friend at work and I had come up with an ingenious idea to test out whether tequila gave you a hangover or not. So I had reluctantly agreed to try out the experiment. Which was basically to drink tequila all night. Two tequila shots at 8pm? But of course. However the bartender was so not on board with this. Two tequila shots at 8pm? She was a dick.

Naturally, during the entire course of the night, people were coming up to SD to ask him about his height and my height and get pictures of him. He's used to this - he hates it, but he deals with it so well - whereas it still shocks me a bit. However whilst he was getting photos, I was bonding with the women who wanted them. I'm going to put this out there right now: he is a cougar magnet. They adore him. It's one of the greatest spectacles I've ever witnessed.

This one woman was saying to us what a great couple we made. She then caught sight of my left hand, shrieked a little bit and asked if we were engaged. I usually wear two antique rings on my wedding finger because, although I don't really like wearing anything on said finger, they are just too damn pretty. And they don't fit any other finger.

So obviously, I said yes. I said yes we were engaged. We came up with some whole story about how it happened and how long we'd been together. By this time there were a group of middle aged women clustered around us, wanting to hear about our true love. They eventually dispersed and SD and I got our drinks. Then I turned to him and said, 'do you think if you actually proposed to me, we'd get free drinks?' The possibility of free alcohol? He was all over this plan.

We decided to see how many bars in which he could propose and try and score us free alcohol. We even pinky promised on it and everything. So we made our way to Vodka Rev. We got some drinks at the bar and then SD told me to wait there for a moment and he disappeared into the crowd. When he came back, he wouldn't tell me where he'd been and we walked over to a table. I had already given him one of the rings from my wedding finger - the most engagement-y one - and had put the other in my pocket. Then all of a sudden, the music died down.

As the DJ turned the music off, SD got down off his chair and bent down onto one knee. There was a crowd gathering around us. Girls were starting to squeal. People were taking pictures. And then he asked me to marry him. I said yes, he put the ring on my finger, we kissed and everyone cheered. It was the most ridiculous thing that has ever happened. It was bloody brilliant. I spent the next 20 minutes talking wedding plans with a girl on her hen party and was hugged by countless other girls.

And yep, we got our free (v posh) sparkling wine. All in the bucket with ice and everything.

Once we'd gotten drunk enough, we went to one of da clubs and managed to get free VIP entry because we were newly engaged. SD had even had someone take a video on his phone of the proposal as proof. I'll have to get him to send it to me. I mean, it was the most magical moment of my life, I need to have evidence it happened.



In other news, my boyfriend's pretty damn awesome.

Why Right Now At University Kinda Fucking Sucks

Now I wouldn't call this drunk blogging as such... Maybe we'll just stick with tipsy. Does an entire bottle of wine and an oddly delicious mixture of tequila (obvs), peach schnapps and apple and raspberry juice count as tipsy? We'll work with what we've got.

Here's the honest to God, actual, true as fuck deal. I have literally no idea what is going on in my life right now. So I am going to ramble at you. Bear with.

So I mentioned in my last post (possibly, who can be fucked checking?) that I wasn't sure about university. I am studying English literature and it's just not right for me. To put it mildly. I cannot think the way they want me to think. To put it simply; right now, I have more of a mathematic brain than a literature brain. At this current moment in time, I am much more suited to the way of thinking that involves rights and wrongs. I am not down with theological essays debating the merits of Frankenstein.

But this never used to be the case! I was always fucking awesome at English. English was my thing. I was going to successfully move out of a small town and go to university and be the greatest thing that had ever come out of my said small town. That was what I was kinda destined to be. Ish. So maybe not the greatest thing. Just a thing that didn't stay in the small town and get pregnant by whatever small town boy I went to high school with. I mean, seriously. It is utterly ridiculous the amount of pregnancies that have occurred in my hometown at my age. About 10% of my year got pregnant at around 17. That's about 20 girls. In a town of 8,000 that's a hell of a lot. This is why I'm so pleased I got out of there.

But now I'm in Aberdeen. I'm at university like I was supposed to be. I'm halfway through my 2nd year. And it fucking sucks. Because I have lost all motivation and general interest in my course. I do not want to be at university right now.

I think of it like... You're in a job that you hate for another 2 years. And you know you can leave this job and find another one in a completely different career. You know it's not the most sensible thing to do; leave your job for another uncertain job but it's what will make you happy.

I cried non stop for about 3 hours tonight as I was stressing like I have never stressed before over university and my future. My mother wants me to stay on and do one more year so I can come out with a degree. It makes sense. That is the sensible thing to do. Nowadays, employers look for degrees, regardless of what they're in. But the idea of even one more year at university terrifies me. Right now, I hate university. I have absolutely no interest in staying but I thought that yes, the sensible thing to do would be to continue on and do my 3rd year.

But I cannot bear that thought right now. I honestly cannot bear the thought of even staying on an extra week. I do not want to stay at something that makes me unhappy. I feel I am young enough (and able enough) to make the decision to not continue something that makes me unhappy. And I honestly am unhappy. I am not the type of person to get stressed about something. But I have been so unbelievably stressed these past few weeks that I don't know how much longer I can handle it for.

If you asked me honestly where I'd like to be right now, I would tell you: Paris. Paris is where I would like to be right now. I have been to Paris once and I fell in love with it. I could see myself living there. My friends could see me living there. And hopefully my family could see me living there too. I would love to have a tiny garret apartment up by the Moulin Rouge. I would love to be able to take picnics by the Eiffel Tower. I would love to wander through the antique markets and stop off to see the view at the Sacre Coeur. I feel that Paris is kind of a part of me. Is that very weird and white girl of me? I don't think so. I think it feels like home.

So I would, quite frankly, like nothing more than to leave university right now. To work in Aberdeen for a year and a half and save up some money. To become... I don't know... An au pair in Paris. Yes, these are very romantic dreams at the moment. I know I haven't yet thought through the logistics. But if it's something that would make me happy, then isn't it worth it?

And Mum, I know it's not the sensible thing to do. But if I have to stay another year at university, I think I will go utterly insane. I will lose what little sense of self I have left. I always told you to let me make my own mistakes and I am very much aware that this could be a huge mistake. But I am sensible. And I could deal with the consequences. And right now, I would much prefer to be happy than crying my eyes out alone at the kitchen table.

Also, SD? He is perfect. He has been perfect. He is just... I don't even know. He's the real deal. I can envision a proper, legitimate future with this man. I could honestly, at some point in the very near future, be in love with this man. Right now, he is keeping me sane. I have never felt like this before but it feels so right and natural. And he will be back onshore in approximately 24 hours. I cannot fucking wait.

What do you think? Do you think I should be sensible? Or should I think that life is fucking short and I should damn well live it? Or am I being a complete idiot in every single way? I need your help... Please help.

Tequila Made Me Write This

Tequila also made me write 'right' in that title. That's what we're dealing with here.

Welcome to drunk blogging part fuck knows. It has been too many times.

So here's the deal.

It's Valentine's Day.

I was very much prepared to spend the entirety of tonight with sparkling wine, tequila, chocolates and Grey's Anatomy. For the most part, that has been true. But what I wasn't counting on was a parcel from SD. He'd sent for it yesterday morning from the middle of the North Sea and it had arrived whilst I'd been at work today. Inside the parcel was a box of fancy chocolates and a Latin For Beginners textbook. There have been countless times I've been texting him telling him I'd missed my Latin classes. And he sent me that textbook.

I'm sorry but I mean... Isn't that just...

He sounds bloody perfect, right?

Well. I think he does.

So then, pray tell, why am I texting TBB about how I am alone in my flat and wondering if he was wanting to come round?

 I know, I know.

Collective disapproval at my general tequila sluttiness.

But I like SD. I really do! He makes me smile, he makes me laugh, I miss him when he's not here...

So why am I being a dick and trying to sleep with TBB??

I feel it's like it was with Troy (lol Troy #tbt - is that a thing? I feel so old) around this time... I feel that SD might be Troy in this case and TBB might be TGI. Fuck me, I do love some codenames, I really do.

Am I freaking out? Am I freaking out that this could be a possible (shudder) relationship? I suck at relationships! I broke up with Troy the day before we went on holiday together! 

But I really, really like SD. I mean, I like him enough to tell him I like him after only really knowing him properly for a weekend... I hate my honesty sometimes.

But I'm still trying to convince TBB to come over after he finishes work...

Tequila really does make me slutty.

I love tequila.

You know what else I love? Lee Pace in Pushing Daisies. Please tell me someone else knows of this most fucking fabulous TV show and this gorgeously eyebrowed man....?

God just look at him.

I think he's my dream man.

I do.

I would.

Man, if I could...

You know I'll update you tomorrow on whatever presumably godawful decision I make. I can only hope, for my sake, it ends in sex. It's been too long. TMI? (Is that still a thing? Again, old. Do you remember the TV show TMI? Was it CBBC? CITV? Shut up now, Nancy.) Anyway, TMI about my sex life? You are reading the wrong blog...

So, Friday

I'm just going to put this bluntly at the very beginning of this post instead of leaving it to the end as I usually do:

I like LB.

Hands up who had already realised this before I had?

Image via harrypotter.wikia.com

So, Friday.

PIC and I went out one last time as she was leaving early on Saturday morning when I went to work (cue me turning up to work slightly drunk and somehow getting away with it). We'd decided to go out just before midnight so hurried to put on clothes that weren't pyjamas and vaguely make our hair look halfway decent before leaving.

When we got to da club - the same da club as on Wednesday - we went straight to the bar and got a few drinks. We were nowhere near drunk enough for da club and, as it turned out, nowhere near drunk enough to witness what we did.

Having been in da club for approximately an hour and having spotted LB a few times on the dancefloor, we went to get another drink. LB had made no forms of acknowledging my presence there but I was positive he had seen me. And then, as we were walking away from the bar, I saw him kissing another girl.

That's it.

Just kissing another girl (one who was very much shorter than him, I may add. It looked ridiculous).

And I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I genuinely stumbled back and could not bring myself to look away. It was one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.

I told PIC what I'd seen and we quickly left to go home. I was trying so hard to keep it together. So, so hard. I am not one for crying unless I am drunk and I can assure you, I was not drunk at this point. But I couldn't help a few tears rolling down my face as we walked down the street. Public crying, again, is not my thing.

I texted my flatmate to tell her what had happened and why we were coming home early just to prepare her for the wailing mess that she would undoubtedly be confronted with. And wailing mess I was. As soon as we got in the door, I collapsed on the floor in the hall and started properly bawling. My flatmate came out of her room in a duvet and sat on the floor next to me and hugged me as did PIC. Then my flatmate started crying about something to do with a boy just as my other flatmate came rushing through the front door and into the bathroom and started throwing up. If you think about it, we are the perfect flatmates.

Once we'd calmed down a bit - and put Flatmate Number 2 into bed with a bin - we all cosied up in my room. I had a quadruple vodka cranberry and Flatmate Number 1's man thing was round singing happy birthday to me as he put a cymbal on her head and played it in time. It was wonderful. And also the cause for the 3 hours sleep we eventually had before having to get up for work/trains.

But after the aforementioned vodka cranberry, I decided it was a bloody marvellous idea to text LB and tell him precisely what I was thinking. For once, I managed to write something eloquent yet short and to the point. It went:

'Fuck you.'

Thank you, thank you, I am a lyrical genius.

He texted back right away claiming confusion. I replied that he knew I was there so what the dick was he doing kissing someone else? In so many words. He replied to say that no, it was not his best decision and was in a way, quite glad that I had seen and had this reaction. I was very confused. Pleased that I was acting like a jealous fuck? I asked him as much and he said yes, yes that was it because otherwise he didn't know how I really felt.

If all of that looked incredibly bumblefuckish and confusing then you are experiencing just what I felt at that current moment in time. I told him as much and asked him if he wanted me to spell out how I felt. He agreed and, with as much eloquence and aloofness as before, I told him that; 'I want you to like me. That's it.'

I now realise that I should have phrased it better because his reply in the morning of; 'Sorry, I do like you. And now I feel like a cunt x' confused me even further.

Like? Like me? Or like like me?

Words are the worst.

To cut an even longer story slightly shorter, we are now pretty much back to where we were before all this. Except he knows I like him and I am none the wiser about his feelings. Which is a bit shit and frustrating to be honest. I like things to be spelled out for me. This is a bloody cryptic crossword if ever there was one. Why are there cryptic crosswords anyway? What's the point in them? How do they even work? Who even writes them?

I know that it is nicer and easier to convince myself of the romance underlying these texts - even if it arises from reading between the lines and using my imagination to an extent of which I am not proud. It is easier to see things in the daylight where the shiner parts are illuminated and the darker truth is hidden away. But one cannot help but think, as darkness closes in, that once the magic of midnight and moonlight has faded, there is left only blackness. This blackness is the truth that you do not want to face. It is the horrible feeling that truth brings that you ignore time and time again because you want the stars back and you want the daylight. And you try and convince yourself that if you wish hard enough, the darkness of truth will disappear and be transformed into the light that you so desperately wanted.

Does that make sense? Does anyone know what I am talking about? Because that is what's going round my overtired mind at the moment. I know it sounds pretentious but I cannot for the life of me think of a way to describe the feeling using normal words.

Does anyone know what I should do? What do you think of this? Does he like like me? Or does he think I am a complete idiot?

Men are a nightmare. A bloody nightmare.

Manly Men & Delicate Fairies

Have you ever wondered when you're going to achieve your peak hotness? You see all these TV shows about 17/18 year olds played by 25 year old actors. And they all look crazy hot and you're like, what the dick?

Case in point:

Elena in The Vampire Diaries is supposed to be my age. I can assure you I look as much like that as a I do a potato. I probably look more like the potato to be honest. And guys get it so much better than us. I was discussing this with Troy in Budapest and we thought I'd hit my peak hotness at about 26 and it'd last maybe until 29 if I was lucky. Whereas he, as a fairly average looking man at the moment, would reach his peak hotness at 35 and it would continue for the next 20 years. By which time I would look like a raisin. It was a good conversation.

Speaking of people being older and better looking than me...

I have LB news. I have so much LB news. Some minor but still confusing TGI news but we all know how irrelevant that is.

So it was my birthday on Thursday. Officially in my last year of my teens. Which is about bloody time because I am so sick of being a teenager. My gorgeous friend from Edinburgh - one of my bestest partners in crime - came to stay for a few days and I took her out to see the cray cray nightlife in the 'Deen.

We got all dressed up in dem short dresses and went with my flatmate to one of the pre-drink bars for cocktails. PIC (Partner In Crime) got chatted up by a random New Zealander which we were all very impressed by as that has never happened to one of us before. Making out with people in clubs is not the same.

PIC and I went to one of the clubs as we had taken many tequila shots and were therefore drunk enough for clubs. My flatmate went to be with her scary punk friends with all the piercings. She quite rightly hates clubs. Anyhoo, PIC and I were in the queue when it hit midnight and turned into my birthday. We were incredibly excited about this so got more tequila as soon as we got in. Obviously. Then we hit the dancefloor where I showed off my Shakira moves. Again, obviously.

Then a medical emergency occurred as someone dropped a bottle or a glass on PIC's foot which caused general bleeding and grossness. Being the super friend that I am, I did not freak out at said bleeding and grossness and took her to the skanky first aid room to get multitudes of plasters.

Then we decided she was fine and we should go dance again. Which is where LB comes in. 

I heard a deep manly man voice behind me saying 'happy birthday' and when I turned round, there he was. Looking tall and just ugh. Manly.

WAIT. TYPING BREAK. I'VE JUST REMEMBERED I HAVE WINE GUMS IN THE CUPBOARD. I MUST EAT THEM. BRB. 

Update: I have now eaten practically all the food in my house in under 10 minutes.

So yes, LB. I am afraid to say, I do not recall what happened in da club but I doubt it was very exciting because very soon, the lights were up at PIC and I were leaving. As we got outside, who should accost her but Very Forward New Zealander! VFNZ engaged her in conversation - very persistent conversation - and LB magically appeared in front of me.

So we kissed and shit and were generally, even if I do say so myself, pretty damn cute. Then I realised that PIC was being an ultimate wingwoman by having VFNZ's tongue shoved down her throat. To be fair, it was my birthday so I deserved some LB time... But not that much so we shoved VFNZ away and buggered off home.

And LB followed us. HE stalked ME. I know right. Isn't this a plot twist. Not a fucking exciting one, I know but we work with what we can. PIC and I ignored him as we walked back until we got to the end of my road and he had to walk past. So I left PIC with her bleeding foot in order to run after him in my bare feet and tell him off for stalking. Also, when we kissed, I had to stand right on my tiptoes. I have never felt so delicate and girly and fairy-like in all my days.

Once PIC and I got home, I proper medical-like bandaged up her foot with bandages and shit. And we went to bed. She fell asleep quite quickly but I stayed up to text LB. He was very jealous that there was someone other than him in my bed, to say the least.

So this sounds all fine and dandy does it not? Indeed it does. LB is into me - at the very least in the physically way if not the 'ooh, do I like like her?' way. 

And then Friday happened. Oh yes, Friday happened.

So what do you think of LB? Think he's my Prince Charming? (6'7", just sayin')

Aaaaand We're Back To Normal

Panic over because, after that last post (which, in my defence, was written at about 3am), Mama's back.

I am Mama. I don't know why that's not become a thing yet. It should be a thing. But no one seems to go for it.

God, holidays are so boring.

The fact that TGI is in Edinburgh all holibobs is made even more annoying by the fact that I have to read Lady Chatterley's Lover for English - which is quite amusing as I get scandalised looks from the elderly when I whip it out in a cafe.

And also the fact that the Chinese lesbians upstairs are honestly having sex about 8 times a day. Not even kidding.

I actually drunk called TGI the other day. My gorgeous German friend and I were having a Skype drinking session and I finished the tequila and the champagne and was moving onto taking shots of some chocolatey business when Skype died. So of course I had to do something else with my drunkenness.

TGI was actually walking back from the pub when I called him. I don't think he was too impressed. Mainly because I was ragepants at him for breaking one of my glasses when he was here last. And I was reminding him he had to buy me a new one. Scintillating stuff, I know.

I really wish I had some cool stories from when I'm drunk. I mean, some aren't too bad like when I walked to the beach in my pyjamas at 6am or when I gave a homeless man all my change and made him pinky promise me that he wouldn't spend it on drugs. It was about £3. But I don't know, maybe you can get drugs for under a fiver these days? If he did, I'll be rage at him. You don't break pinky promises.

Nah I want to do something awesome so people will be like: 'Oh yeah, Nancy? The girl that [insert something badass in here]. She's so fucking cool.'

Instead, one of the guys I met during Fresher's knows me as The Girl Who Forgets.

I guess that's something.

Cocked That One Up

So, here we are again. Posting about cocks at nine o'clock in the morning. I just hope you all had the tequila shots from yesterday's post and are now, like me, way too hungover to even care if we're talking about dicks or chickens.

To clarify: it's dicks. Sorry.

Now if I was really clever and interweb savvy, I'd whack a picture of a chicken in here. But I'm afraid I'm not and you'll just have to wait for future posts to introduce the magical technology that is images. Does that count as foreshadowing? I think that's just me being overly hopeful. Anyway, I thought I was being highly amusing with the title of this post so you can all just shut the fuck up and leave me alone. Tequila hangovers are the worst.

Yeah, you all thought I was kidding about the tequila yesterday. Spoiler alert! I wasn't. Ugh.

So. Cocks.

As I was saying before, this is all I will miss if it turns out I have been unceremoniously dumped from a fuck buddy relationship. God, I can't even deal with that at 9am. I'll have to think of another name for 'fuck buddy'. Suggestions?

I mean, it's all fair and square (I will be delicate here) being without a man as you can quite easily sort yourself out. See. Delicate.

...

Yes I mean a vibrator. Damn, I need to change the times that I post these.

But it's just not the same. My vibrator does not have a 6'4 rugby player attached to it. Although I must admit, it's infinitely more stylish. And this is the thing. It is not 'un-feminist' to want to be with a man. Just as it is not 'un-feminist' to be with another girl. Or both a man and a woman. Or a table. Whatever your preference, wanting to bang that table (there's a wood pun in there somewhere) is not 'un-feminist'.

This post took an unexpected turn. But let's just roll with it. Because that's what we do.

So is my dilemma really a dilemma? Will I be in a bit of a pickle if I have been ditched for a 5'2 blonde cheerleader? Of course not. Because I can either: sit in my room with a book and a cup of tea, wearing my glasses and giving zero fucks (literally). Or I can whack on a dress and go out with my girlfriends, wear my contacts and possibly give more than zero fucks. Depending on my mood.

No, I don't know where this post went. We can deal with it though. I'm hungover.