I wish I was married.
I wish I was married because then I would be with someone for life (hopefully), settled down and not having to remain on this fucked-up, soul-destroying dating game trying to find the shittiest and best thing in the world—love.
We are born on a constant quest to find “the one” because truthfully no one actually wants to be single. It is not in human nature to want to be single and alone.
If you’re like me, you spend your time waking up in houses which definitely aren’t yours, gathering your clothes off the floor and making a swift exit out the front door, barefoot and desperately searching for a street name or door number so you can call a taxi and pretend last night never happened.
Even me, Queen Single, who has never brought a boy to a family gathering or been on a summer holiday with my boyfriend or even ventured over the English Channel with a man…who has never spent Christmas in a happy relationship or come home on Valentine’s Day to a dozen roses and a hotel booked for the night…even me, whose life revolves around going out and getting plastered six nights a week and getting taken on spectacularly shitty dates with spectacularly shitty men…even I do not want to be single.
So like every female in this goddamn world I have made so many fatal mistakes while looking for love. Everything you shouldn’t do I have done and I hold my hands up and admit it, because if I am a psycho when I’m single then I am an absolute raving mentalist when I’m in love.
And for some odd reason, I seem to attract every man in this world who is going to shit on me one way or another.
Ever since I had my first boyfriend at age 13—who ruined my little teenage life and made me sit in my room with my back against the radiator, playing the Spice Girls’ “2 become 1” and crying silent tears and ripping a photo in half of me and him at the park we had taken on a disposable camera—I have set a pattern to go for men who will break my heart and leave me wondering what the fuck I did wrong this time. Should I not have worn red lipstick? Were the Ann Summers crotchless knickers too much? Should I not have spoken about my mentally ill aunt so much? What all went so wrong and left it cascading down into a big massive shit heap of heartbreak and lost love?
Many spend their lives devoted to finding the cure for illnesses and world famine—I, however, have been desperately searching for the cure for heartbreak since that 13-year-old wanker ripped my heart into shreds and left me for the auburn-haired tart in our math class.
I have tried every possible solution to overcome the great pain and emotion you feel when you get dumped: getting wasted, crying myself to sleep to Adele and Dido, eating a whole 12-box of Krispy Kremes to myself while watching Love Actually and drowning in my own tears when the little boy chases after Joanna at the airport—and he’s, what, 10?! A TEN-YEAR-OLD has more romantic tricks up his sleeve than ANY MAN has ever had for me. HE HAS JUST HIT DOUBLE FIGURES. He hasn’t hit puberty and he is more creative and romantic than you cunts in your late 20s. P I S S T A K E.
I’ve even taken off on holiday to try and recover from my heart being ripped out and used to play a five-a-side game of football and then shoved back into my chest – and I’ve probably got through at least 870 liters of vodka.
However, the conclusion I came to—in all of the tears, in all of the waking up passed out on my kitchen floor, in all of the money wasted frivolously on post-breakup nights out and overpriced dresses and shoes I bought to try and fell the void some useless wanker had left in me—was that the only person who can help me move on was in fact me.
The art of moving on isn’t in how many boys you kiss to try and forget or how much you drink or cry or scream or get mad or hate the world.
The art of moving on is in realizing your own worth and value. The fact that one person no longer wants you determines absolutely nothing. There are over seven billion people in this world, and ONE of those people doesn’t want you any longer (or in my case, about 43 different exes).
If one person didn’t like your new dress but fifteen other people did, you would still wear that dress.
Because one cunt of a man with a very below-average-sized penis, below-average income, and very above-average ego has decided that he has used your vagina too many times and now wants to spread his gene pool elsewhere does not mean that your life is over and that no other man is going to ever want to breed with you and create lots of wonderful babies. You are a goddess, and you deserve to be taken to Browns for cocktails and the Coal Shed for steak and to be bought new lipstick every day in MAC.
No man is worth your time anyway, certainly not one who isn’t making you feel like Kanye makes Kim feel every day.
And that is the art of moving the fuck on…even though no one wants to be single, least of all me.