Sunday, May 30, 2010
I noticed your tweet "Girl farts make me cringe. They're usually silent but deadly..." and I would like to take a pause from my busy and important life (hungover, in pyjamas) to try and help you understand the dilemma of girl farts.
Girl farting is often times rather traumatic. We have been trained from a young age to keep the volume at a minimal level. We are not supposed to fart. And if we do, it is expected that we emit puffs of Chanel No. 5 perfume that swirl and circulate through the air. I don't know about you, InfamousChris, but it is quite hard for my colon to recreate the odor of an infamous perfume, and sometimes my Chanel No.5 emissions are not quite as heavenly as I might wish them to be.
Picture this: InfamousChris. You are on a running machine, in a public gym. You need to fart. But you can't. It just isn't possible because you are sandwiched between two very good looking men who are running at equally impressive speeds. You urge your gas to crawl back into your stomach and perhaps wait for a better time to exit your body. But gas is often a tricky and disobedient bastard. It won't listen to you. It's leaving your body and it doesn't care about the consequences.
It slips out of your body, it is careful not to make a sound. But when it leaves, it emits a nuclear explosion of foul smelling particles. Everyone starts to sniff. Their faces become contorted. Even the sweaty woman on the spin bike on the other side of the gym has a look of disgust sweeping across her face. Everyone starts looking around for culprits. The smell lingers. You have only two options:
A) Pretend you have no sense of smell and continue reading last month's horoscopes in US Weekly
B) Mimic the faces of disgust surrounding you and pretend to look for imaginary guilty smelly fart person.
You must continue to do this until the odor has passed. This process can sometimes take up to 5 minutes. You have absolutely no chance of flirtation with either man on next door running machine. They know it's you, and they are disgusted. They will probably talk about it in the locker room when they shower.
So, InfamousChris. I hope that I have enlightened you on the many traumas that are faced by women in today's society. Sure, you might cringe. But every time you do, please look at the girl farter with compassion. It is only through acceptance that we will be able to lay the foundations of a more unified global community.
Ambassador of Girl Farters Anonymous
Posted by f.p at 11:19 AM
Friday, May 28, 2010
Our society is faced with many problems (recent BP oil spill, the war in Iraq, and Heidi Montag to name a few) but perhaps one which invades my trusted news sources (US Weekly, People, Grazia, Heat) the most is the morbid inevitability of AGEING. Floppy boobs, jiggly necks, sloppy cuslopuses, no fun.
However, after going to Sex and the City 2 last night, amid the entire population of Colorado housewives, I realized that ageing might not be too bad after all, and that despite all the propaganda and sag, there is one golden victory in the world of ageing: LESS CRINGE.
Why? Well for a start, most women over 50 just could not give a flying fudgesicle. They probably have a husband and kids, and have realized that after years of being stuck with Fatty McSourpuss and his shrieking banshee children, that cringe is the least of their worries. As a result, they have found that they can often egregiously cross cringe boundaries otherwise closed off to the rest of us. In fact, they are often admired for crossing this boundary and it makes them look fun, hip, and zany.
Things that Women Over 50 Can Do That I Can't:
1. Go to the Cinema in Pyjamas (specifically a robe and slippers)
Over 50's Housewives = Girl's Night Out!! Woo!! Look at those cougars go!
Me = What the fuck are you doing? It's 9.45pm - did you seriously just wake up? Sort your life out. You will never get a job.
2. Bring Bottles of Wine into the Cinema
Over 50's Housewives = Look at those wild little party animals go! Hope their husbands keep those little minxes on a tight leash. Wink, wink.
Me = You are a pathetic alcoholic. Get your life sorted out. You will never get a job. Even Lindsay Lohan wouldn't do that. Get out of my cinema and do not come back.
3. Sing Along to the Movie's Soundtrack While in the Cinema
Over 50's Housewives = Wow, she's still got it! She's so young at heart!
Me = Shut up. You are hurting my boyfriend's eardrums. You should be embarrassed that you know every word to Chakah Khan's "I'm Every Woman".
4. Sing "All My Single Ladies" Pantless at a Gay Wedding
Liza Minelli = Cheered, Adored, Applauded
Me = Mocked, Abhorred, Lauded. Probably blacklisted from all gay weddings and doomed to receive "are you wearing pants this time?" text messages every time I leave my house for a year.
.........Maybe ageing isn't so bad. I look forward to skipping into my 50's drunk, pantless, and singing.
Posted by f.p at 5:56 AM
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I thought it was pretty bad when I pocket dial randoms while driving and singing Spice Girls numbers, but being taped while acting like a Royal (couldn't resist) douchebag is probably a little bit worse. Fergie Ferg!! How could you be so brainless? Info 4 dosh meetings are only conducted in Klingon or Pig Latin in the basement of Dumbledore's potion lab. Schoolboy error, Duchess!!
First of all. If you are in any way related to the FPR (football, politics, royalty) of England, you are fair game to be set up in extremely awkward situations that are filmed, distributed, and endlessly replayed on the BBC for weeks until Cheryl Cole gets a new hairdo, or Victoria Beckham smiles.
Just look at Sven Goran Eriksson. Svenny! Treasure of all the land! Publicly shamed! Who would have thought that such a mild-mannered sex god would be assaulted by shameless faux-sheikhs???
So Fergz, really, the fact that you have not been caught off-guard doing something embarassing (whiskey-fuelled flirtations with Prince Harry? Table Dancing at Ascot with Liz? Peeing in Albert's closet and blaming it on the dog?) is extremely surprising and you should have been counting your days of dignity as numbered.
Although I do not have direct access to Fergz phone, I should imagine that her BBM correspondence with Queen Liz after the news broke looked exactly like this:
Fergalicious - Yo Liz, dont wanna wake u but there's a bit of a sitch. Do U remember big fab party I went to last week? Well, Willz gave me far 2 many G 'N T's and got bit bladdered. Thought I woz in with this man so took him into priv. room. The Bend N Snap routine wozn't working so I offered him royal info 4 dosh.
QueenLiz4Life - Bollocks. Told u 2 stick 2 bacardi breezers. You r a shit drunk.
If I were Fergz right now, this is what I would do:
1) Ask PA to offer crap apology to press
2) Hide in bed, eat ice cream.
3) Say to myself 'at least I'm not lindsay lohan'
4) Grab a toothpick and try to dig tunnels connecting my house to Harrods.
5) Live in Food Hall until the World Cup starts.
Here is the Video: Please note Red Wine next to Duchess Fergz (essential to all cringe-related incidences)
Posted by f.p at 11:53 AM
Monday, May 24, 2010
Who, pray tell, is the knob-end who invented waving? I get that it has some practical purposes (children lost at disney world trying to attract frantic parents attention, dramatic goodbyes at airports when your loved one is slowly walking away, emotional departures when your kid is going to college for the first time and waves goodbye from an overstuffed Subaru)
BUT as far as I'm concerned, since I don't have children and am emotionally stunted, waving is just another social convention created for cringe. Since waving is generally a two-person game, there are therefore two main ways in which this seemingly harmless activity can make even the most saintly maiden blush:
1. The Over Enthusiastic Wave That Was Not Intended For You......
But you wave back anyway.
This is the wave you get when you are at lunch, or perhaps at a crowded venue, and you see someone way off yonder, approaching aggressively. You vaguely know this person, and they are on the cusp of people you can be arsed to say hi to/ people you avoid by quickly averting your glance to your phone. You're debating if you should say hi (if you have already seen them) or you are simply sipping your espresso and minding your own business, when said vaguely recognizable person (friend of a friend? person met while drunk on Saturday? person met while drunk on Sunday?) starts waving like an excitable buffoon. They are SO excited to see you.
Now you have noticed them, the countdown has begun. You are probably feeling a little bit smug and superior because you must have had such a big impact on this person that they clearly have such a burning desire to make contact with you again. Perhaps they have been waiting all week to bump into you, and they are just GUSHING with a week's worth of excitement at the mere PROSPECT of being near your divine, witty, intelligent, unparalleled charisma . Normally, you may have simply ignored the person, but that just seems too cruel. They are still waving with the same vigour. You really cannot ignore it anymore. Obviously, because you are so chic and controlled, you opt not to go for the same wind screen wiper hand motion that Batty Hand Waver McGee has gone for, so instead you opt for a more restrained, yet respectably enthusiastic hand wave.
The other person does not seem to notice at first, so you continue. Maybe your hand motions get a little bit more aggressive and insistent. When said batty hand-waver finally does notice, it is only to give you a look of bafflement followed by a brief look of recognition followed by a sidewards comment to their friend.
No, asshole, they were not waving at you. They were waving at their spouse/best friend/relative/bffffff sitting behind you. You are none of these. Obviously that wave was not intended for you. Get back to your salad and stop bloody waving. Fool.
2. The 'I'm Pretty Sure That's Them, And They'll Get Pissy If I Don't Wave' Wave
But no, it's not them.
It isn't your mother (since when has your mother been 73 and worn fanny packs?). It isn't your best friend (pretty sure she doesn't have acne or a nosehead). It isn't your sister ( she lives 5000 miles away, is only 12, and definitely should not be in New York at a nightclub at 2am).
But for a split second you are sure that it is your relative/friend/boyfriend/family friend and you know that absence of a wave would induce some kind of mildly narky comment via text/facebook chat/ your mother, so you decide to go for some form of hand movement to signal your awareness of their presence, and perhaps also indicate your elation of having so serendipitously bumped into them.
They turn around. Of course it's not them. You were a complete twat for thinking it was them in the first place. Time to start a) pretending you're waving at the person behind them, and continue the waving shenanigan b) stretching c) pretending you're trying to get cell phone service d) drop your hand immediately to your side and saunter off into the shadows.
I propose that, in order to avoid these awkward scenarios, we all adopt the Barack Obama point-and-smile with the John Travolta disco strut. Everyone gets love. Win-win situation.
Posted by f.p at 5:59 AM
Friday, May 21, 2010
I am a strong believer in the idea that everything put on this large mass of compost we call Earth, does indeed have a purpose. Tonsils for example, I think are quite clearly God's way of telling us that we have been working far too hard and deserve to spend a week in bed with a tub of ice cream. Michael Jackson's family, as well, whilst seemingly useless, are a reminder to us all that no matter how totally insane Aunt Maggy may act after a bottle of sherry, she is in no way in the same stratosphere of crazy as the lunatic Jacko clan.
In this train of thought, I recently realized an astonishing thing. By this logic which I have so masterfully been harbouring for years, it must surely also be that Lindsay Lohan has some kind of purpose. But what on earth could that be? It might seem tough at first folks, but I think it is quite evident: Lindsay is the indicator of rock-bottom cringe. It doesn't matter whether you just woke up next to a stranger, just inadvertantly flashed the world as you changed with you curtains open, or just pocket dialled your crush while gushing about them. You will never be as cringe as Lindsay Lohan. Ever.
Why? Because Lindsay's sort of cringe is a kind that is carefully harboured over years of public embarassment. Her cringe knows no limits. She is immune to cringe. She does not even acknowledge cringe. Cringe is as part of her being as the vodka that runs through her veins, the crabs that thrive in her crotch, and the dead animals that cling to her head. Whatever cringe incident you have just endured, Lindsay has probably done five times this week infront of a much larger audience in between outbursts of queefing and drunken recitals of Mean Girls quotations.
In case you needed a reminder, here is a collection of visuals to confirm my thoughts. There are definitely worst shots out there, but I'm sunbathing right now and am beginning to feel drunk after spending five minutes looking at Lindsay Lohan images on Google. Advice: If you want to get wankered for cheap, just create a slideshow of Lindsay images and play them on the TV whilst listening to "La Cucaracha". The room will start spinning in no time.
Posted by f.p at 10:02 AM
Monday, May 17, 2010
I challenge anyone within the 50 US states above the age of 20 to tell me in good faith with a christian twinkle in their eye that all proms, winter formals, and homecoming dances were not the most cringe events in their delicate teenage existences. Because they're wrong. Or lying. Or now work at JC Penney and start every sentence "hey girl hey"
Coming back to my mother's house, I was reminded of this fact in quite spectacular fashion when I opened up a lesser-used closet to find what can only be described as the most horrific beast of barbie-pink tulle loafed on the floor. For a second I wondered whether Elton John had stopped by and pooped in my closet, but after I worked through my repressed high school memories, I was disgraced to realize that the decaying flamingo explosion was actually my Junior Homecoming dress. Great, thanks for that one Betsey Johnson.
Recalling the horrific memories that I will probably need counseling for at some point, I realized that this sacrilegious mess of psychotic pink rage was by no means the worst part of these evil school-orchestrated 'dances', and in fact the whole evening was created at the sadistic humor of faculty members at the cost of their students dignity. From beginning to end, the whole night is like a continuous chain of cringe:
1. The Date
First of all, if you were awkward, slightly overweight, and rejected tweezers like I did, finding a date was by no means a small feat. It is so easy for parents to judge and giggle over their evening sherry when some acned fool drops by in a 1989 Ford wearing a tuxedo last worn by their father in 1977. Waiting awkwardly in the living room, making strange conversation with your mum as he tries to pretend that his glove compartment is not stocked full of condoms and that he made a bet that he would at least see your daughter's nipple by the end of the evening. Sorry mum, but that was the only one desperate enough to take me out, and the only one who had a car so I wouldn't have to drive myself (I had some dignity, you know).
2. The Dress
My mistake is upstairs in my closet, so if anyone wants to pop around and have a good laugh, the door's always open. If you need anything to fuel your campfire, I'm pretty sure it's as combustible as they get. Equally, if you are planning a terrorist attack, whilst it might be slightly more embarrassing to explain coming through security, I guarantee you it will be easier to get on the plane than a bomb and equally as effective due to the many layers of synthetic fabric of which it is comprised. You could also use it to smuggle Mexicans through the border since it flairs out about six feet. Someone. Please. Take. It.
3. Getting Ready
For guys, I'm guessing this involved jerking off to youporn in order to practice their skills and hone their technique for the evening. For girls, the whole process is comparable to preparing troops for a major assault on enemy combatants. The hair, the nails, the makeup. So much time is devoted for such little results. In fact, I'd argue that the whole process actually negates the whole 'beautifying' idea as one ends up with about five layers of foundation on one's face and about five cans of hairspray in one's hair which leaves one looking more like a drag queen than a prom queen and will actually melt on the dancefloor once one gets one's groove on and starts to sweat profusely. Some element of alcohol is also probably involved, although to go to one of those things again I'm pretty sure I'd get wankered beforehand so props to 16 year old me for at least having some sense of propriety.
4. The Dance
I don't even know where to begin with this one. Poor chaperones. If anyone should have sued me throughout my life, it is the chaperones of these dances for the mental damage my high school inflicted on them. Standing for three hours straight having to watch a throbbing embreyo of sex-deprived buffoons as they misguidedly revealed their mating calls must have been like whipping yourself continuously with barbed wire. Screw 'waterboarding', if the US had been more hardcore, they would have made the Guantanamo prisoners chaperone high school dances one after the other.
5. The After Party
Whilst I was not cool enough to attend after parties for all of the dances I so self-hatingly attended, the one for my Senior Prom involved beer in red cups and involved me suggesting that everyone walked around topless for the remainder of the evening. Which they did. There are pictures.
For the sake of all students out there, I suggest that we end this abhorrent practice and replace it with something far less cringe. Homecoming Karaoke anyone?
Posted by f.p at 9:13 AM
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Public bathrooms. One of life's little mysteries. Everyone skips in and out, footloose and fancy free. Everyone looks so normal and chipper, grooving through their day and briefly stopping to relieve their bladders in a communal stall before prancing back to their happy little lives.
Do not be fooled. If my library's bathrooms could talk, I'm pretty sure they'd reveal the ugly truth about these dirty non-flushing sharters.
Why, fellow toilet users, is it that almost 50% of most bathrooms contain unnessecary deposits of human origin which float creepily like a poisoned dead sea creature? Is it that 80% of all public toilets genuinely don't work and will clog at the mere sight of toilet paper? Or, more likely, is it that these evil little loo abusers, are simply indulging their wanton toilet behavior in a more low key environment.
What is scary is that, the chances are, one of us knows these bathroom bastards. We may even have shared LUNCH with them, discussed politics, or, god forbid, had DRINKS with them. They could be one of your friends, family members, or love interests. They mix amongst us, revelling in their dirty bathroom ways, laughing at us inside. 'It was ME' they all giggle viciously to themselves 'I am the reason you could not wee in stall #9 this morning'. As you still shove the memory of the strange cluster of unidentified objects lurking in the seven toilet stalls you attempted to use, they smurk cruelly at the toilets they have defaced.
I'm sure they each even have their own trademark. But, luckily for them, no-one would ever be so blatantly self-hating as to ever carry out a full investigation into these vandalizing non-flushers.
They relish in the thought that what would be considered cringe in private domains, becomes a more acceptable en masse assault as they namelessly slink from bathroom to bathroom rendering toilets the world over unusable.
Laugh on, toilet bastards. One day I have faith that a bathroom cleaner will out the lot of you. Your days are numbered.
Posted by f.p at 5:18 AM
Monday, May 10, 2010
If BlackBerry could ever be so kind as to devise an application prohibiting inappropriate drunk texting/emailing/facebooking, I do believe that my dignity would sky rocket. However, since I am inclined to assume that the elimination of alcohol-induced texting is not on their to-do list, I have compiled a list of people I should not text as an attempt at self-regulation (which I will definitely pay no notice to)
1. My Father
Being five hours ahead of me in London, it is understandable that he does not appreciate receiving messages on his morning commute randomly detailing my grandiose life plans, asking him precisely what room he plans to put his impending child ('you shouldn't take mine, it's on the top floor, that baby would just roll right down those stairs like a BOWLING BALL') or detailing the ins and outs of my day ('I helped my boss do some stuff and then I had a PANINI! How GREAT are PANINIS?!')
2. My Ex-Boyfriend
While I am inclined to be less controlled around the Useless Worm of Lies, and often find it amusing to wind him up at any and all points of the day, for Karma's sake it is probably best that I strive to avoid text messages designed solely to piss him off (inquiring into the health of his anorexic girlfriend, mocking his lack of employment or asking him to verify his increasingly dubious sexual orientation)
3. My Professors
It is not normal to ask unnecessary questions regarding the class curriculum after 1am. It will not help my grade.
4. My Boss
It is not kosher to preemptively assume that I will be too hungover to work the next day and imply the possibility of a bout of 12.30am food poisoning as to my reason for probably not being at work the next day. It does not aid my future employment prospects
5. Romantic Interests
Misspelt messages containing bold, aggressive, flirtatious material are not sexy.
.......so basically that just leaves my friends. who are probably at a nightclub behaving inappropriately or texting one of the above people.
My dignity is doomed.
Posted by f.p at 7:26 AM
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Falling in public is a tale of differing degrees, and no one fall can be described without first considering the many circumstances which can serve to either alleviate or aggravate the fall in question. With all this in mind, I would like to present to you: The Four Falls of Cringe.
1. Falls with Friends
By far the best of all falls. You have company and you're strolling - strutting, in fact, when all of a sudden some awkward pavement gap sends you flying. Your friends gasp, and immediately offer to help. You jump up, and you all laugh at the sheer hilarity of the fall. You recap the events loudly, and all passers-by are merely enamoured by the endearing show of comedy achieved by the group of carefree girls embracing their flaws and demonstrating their unity. It's fine, you can shrug it off, you are so bloody fantastic walking with your equally fantastic companions that if anything, the fall should in fact enhance your shagging powers. You fly high girlfriend, you are above the fall.
2. The 'I'm not drunk' Drunk Fall
So it's 2am. And yeah, you lost count of the number of alcoholic drinks consumed and aren't even considering the bottles of wine drunk with dinner (that happened yesterday - doesn't count). You feel great. You are reveling in new found confidence and are rapidly making new friends. You are a goddess. Sure, you have mispronounced a few words and merged a few sentences together. But really, who needs consonants?
To be quite honest, it's getting rather irritating that so many kill joys have felt the need to question your sobriety. Move on, kind sir, you tell them. You are indeed sober (enough) and they clearly have some puritanical complex you'd rather not involve yourself with. You are a flaneur, strolling easily through the party, loudly proclaiming the lack of alcohol you taste in your mixed drink. When, all of a sudden, tout a coup, some sneaky little object entangles itself with your Alexander Wang heel (spring 2010 - the amazing grey leather studded boots, natch)
Yard sale. Your shit is everywhere. You find yourself on the floor, straddling extremely pointy objects, with everyone around you staring. Conversation has stopped. The air is tense. Some random asshole pipes up "I think someone should take her home". Anger takes hold. With a dash of shame.
You slowly rise like a creature from the deep. Groping objects to aid you in your journey to the upright position. "I'm not drunk guys" you say casually, "it's these shoes look at them, they are just so intense" You die inside. You can't really look around for fear that any ex, potential fling, or frenemy may have just witnessed your dramatic fall from grace. Time to go. Don't even bother saying goodbye to anyone. They'll understand.
3. The Random Solo Street Fall
You are actually sober. Probably. You aren't wearing heels. It's not that late, or that early. You are walking from A to B. Maybe walking in time with your Ipod music. You aren't with anyone, you are dreaming of dinner, thinking about what that asshole Geneiveve said in class today (you are quite frankly appalled by her lack of social etiquette), musing on some recent cat videos you saw on youtube- life is good. You cross the street, the pedestrian light is red but whatever, that car should stop for you anyway- you're in the groove of your ipod stroll, when suddenly, you miscalculate the height of the curb and fall like a plank.
The pavement is hard. The fall was fucking painful. Your Ipod is still running. You are aware that several concerned people have gathered around you but you aren't responding because Arcade Fire is still loudly blaring in your eardrums.You quickly spring up. Smile vaguely at everyone around and march rapidly to whatever corner will hide you first. You die of shame. You can't laugh out loud. You'll just look crazy. Damage control is necessary. Walk on. Don't look around. Didn't happen. Don't stop walking until you get home and above all else, KEEP YOUR FEET PICKED UP WHEN YOU WALK AN DO NOT RE-OFFEND.
4. Models Falling on the Runway
These falls are just funny for everyone. Proof that karma exists, and even the skinny, stupid, and beautiful can be brought back down to earth and thwarted with a good helping of cringe.
Posted by f.p at 12:47 PM
It's finals week and admittedly, life is a little bit strained. Caffeine is pulsing through your veins, you may or may not have taken one adderall too many, and the blurry line between reality, sleep, and a fictional pixie world of hallucinations is becoming increasingly less easy to distinguish. Your eyes hurt from the glare of the computer screen you have been infront of for the past ten hours, and you aren't sure what time it is because you have been sitting in the sub-basement of the library for so long that you would survive any Bio or Nuclear weapons that have very possibly been wreaking havoc on New York City. I get this.
However, this does not negate the fact that it is absolutely hilarious when one final's victim walked full throttle into a glass wall in the library this week. On lookers stared in amazement as the girl walked forcefully into the glass wall, where she left an imprint of her forehead and nose. Frazzled, and violently shaken by the impact, the girl nervously glanced around to mentally gauge the spectrum of damage she may have just inflicted on her flailing ego.
By this point, many kind students had dutifully turned away. A sense of common hilarity was running high in the library commons, but as etiquette states, one must at least wait for the victim to exit via the space a good five feet to the right of her originally failed endeavour, before any kind of audible laugh may escape from the onlookers.
My roomate and I however, are not of the polite variety, and the scenario was just way too funny to formulate any kind of false composure. To make matters worse, we also rushed to the scene of the offense and remarked loudly in between outbursts of laughter "She wasn't even anywhere near the door" and "Look! Her nose print!"
The moral of this story is: tread carefully, and only walk through doors that have been clearly established as exit portals by people in front of you.
Posted by f.p at 8:29 AM
Saturday, May 8, 2010
So. You have a friend. He's male. And that's ok because contrary to When Harry Met Sally, in your world of profound maturity, it is possible for males and females to be friends.
Anyway, he's kind of short, and I think we can all see from the Nicole Kidman/Tom Cruise situation that that is just asking for disaster.
You know that he likes you, because you are fabulous, chic, and so fantastically witty most of the time. That and the fact that he's tried it on multiple times.
But no, you guys can be friends. It's ok that he's in love with you because, let's face it, most people are and the ones that aren't are gay. You keep this charade up for a while, months probably.
But then...one merlot too deep, probably in your robe and watching some remotely sentimental chick flick (probably with hugh grant in it), you realize. Like a lightning bolt or the announcement of a Louboutin sample sale, you are stopped in your tracks, paralyzed. You like him. I mean you wouldn't try and pull some Mrs Robinson seduction act on him, but you wouldn't entirely regret a drunk snog as long as he kept his hands in his pockets (you're a lady thank you very much)
But then. The question arises. You begin to fantasize/imagine/analyse the potential encounter that would lead to this drunkenly spontaneous yet entirely planned circumstance, and you imagine the build up (fine, bit blurry, maybe involving a tequila shot) and the kiss (probably pretty ok) but then WHAT exactly happens when he pulls his face away?
Will you be enamoured by his happy little features high fiving themselves for finally landing you, or will his face be puckered up like a chicken's arse, making you immediatley jealous of Harry Potter's invisibility cloak? Will that be the moment in which you have finally sealed your next husband, or will the tortured face of a sloppy drunk dribbling a saliva waterfall linger infront of your increasingly alarmed face for several seconds too many.
The cringe face. You can't help it, he probably can't either. Your stomach drops into your arsehole. Party over. Game Over. Done. Your coffin is sealed and noone can help you. You probably planned to drag said male friend into some quiet little spot where you can privately attempt your social experiement, and now your sense of adventure has hung itself by its own intestines. You are solo. Alone. Noone can help you now. The cringe face still lingers. Coaxing you like a haggered prostitute to return to its dirty, dark, and sin filled lair.
There is only one option, my romantically mislead friend. Only one option in a circumstance as dire and emotionally wounding as this. Save yourself. This is a 911 situation. No time to cushion the blow. This is fight vs. flight. Emotional etiquette is entirely out of the window. Don't bother with elaborate ploys, schemes or excuses. LEAVE. Mutter something not entirely coherent under your breathe (to the sound of "Im so sorry but mneh me mneh beh hu, you know? k bye!"
SAVE YOUR DIGNITY. CRINGE CONTROL.
Posted by f.p at 5:53 PM