Sometimes I think if there were credit ratings for hearts then mine would be junk status: BAD INVESTMENT, the signs would say, PURCHASE NOT ADVISED. All the sensible consumers would keep a wide berth, tutting: “Don’t touch that sweetie,” a mother would say, “it’s rotten.” Eventually of course some loveable, gullible fool would find me and dump me in their basket with the tuna. Later, when they unwrapped me, they’d find the cuts and bruises purpling my heart like a banana. Shit they’d think, tossing me in the trash. Should have read the signs.
Maybe I’m naïve, but I assumed most people had the same values as me: don’t steal or lie, don’t cheat on your exams or taxes or people, be kind to others, help if you can, work hard, protect your family, protect our world. Actually, I’ve been surprised at how often our values aren’t in synch: how many people are disingenuous or dishonest; how many are cruel or lazy or neglectful; how many can’t see how their actions make our world and hearts a bleaker place.
Where do you stand on honesty? Are you an everything-plus-the-kitchen-sink kind of person? Or do you take a more…curated approach to candour, drip drip dripping the truths as occasion demands?
How do you feel about your body? Everything dandy? Tickety boo? Do you wake up in the morning, run to the mirror and think phwoar, that is one hot piece of ass? No? Thought not. We as a society have a serious problem: we are obsessed with telling people what beautiful looks like. In the renaissance days it used to be women with fuller figures, then we hit the Marilyn era and sizes started to plummet. Now it’s all thigh gaps and clavicles and walking around swaddled in guilt staring longingly at doughnuts. Bigger is better in so many other aspects of life: bouquets, puddings, diamonds, houses, profit margins: I WANT THE BIGGEST YACHT the rich man roared, whilst his deathly thin wife counted peas onto a plate. But when it comes to weight; starving, poking, prodding, hating, judging and crying quietly in front of mirrors is de rigeur. I have no time for it. None. In fact, I think we could all do with some time back from the purveyors of this filth. Did …
It’s my fourth date with Blue Eyes and I’m heading to hers on a Friday night, overnight bag tucked smugly under my arm. She opens the door and she’s so bloody beautiful it takes all my willpower not to ravish her in the communal hallway.
What’s your type? People always ask me that and my response is always the same: I like femme girls. She can be tall, short or middle of the road; blond, brunette, red-head or blue-head; fair, tanned, dark or Boots’ finest; she can be a skinny little slip of a thing or a happy tumble of curves. But (insert grunt here) I like a woman to be a woman *swings club over shoulder and heads into cave*.
I’m filling my mate in on my disastrous date with the Irish: “Why are so many people so terrible at making conversation?” she laughs “it’s like it’s a dying art form. I mean, it’s not that hard to ask a few questions!” “I know! I blame the internet.”