Fairytale of 2017

You slide into the DM’s, you find common ground. A mutual dislike of someone, a mutual appreciation of some attractive celebrity. Staying up later than your roughly scheduled bed time. Drafting messages whilst struggling to keep one eye open. Laughing at indirect tweets relating to private jokes.

“My Twitter is fucked, what’s your number and I’ll text you”

You slide into their contact list under another alias. You’ll never actually be known as your Christian name in her phone. You send that risky text when you wake up asking for that drink, and then proceed to sweat for the next 7 hours until she actually bothers to send a reply confirming she’s game. You check your wardrobe, and come to the realisation that it’s full of shite and the odd out of date chequered shirt. You spend a day in Topman attempting to look reasonably in touch with fashion, and not some out of touch nonce, who does the typically male 12 month shop.

You go for a drink. You’re wearing a blazer. You’ve never worn a blazer in your fucking life. You awkwardly form the first couple of sentences, you scramble to find common ground. You hold the door open. You insist on paying. You ask questions when the embers of the previous topic of conversation flickers, before dying. You’re happy it starts to gently rain as you walk her to her taxi, and use your blazer as a makeshift umbrella, you knew you shouldn’t have bought it. You send a goodnight text letting her know you had a great time, she replies with a similar sentiment. You go to sleep with a smile.

You wake up. Should you text first?  Is it needy? The psychological warfare of the modern day dance, that is known as texting. She texts first, you’re relieved. You arrange a second date. You fucking hate the word date because it reminds you of those terrible American flicks that you 42% match on Netflix, that always seem to have Ryan Gosling in.

Cinema? Sure. What to see? No honestly it’s up to you. You sigh with veiled reluctance as you sit down to a Ryan Gosling chick flick*. Sweet or salted popcorn? No honestly you decide. You sigh with relief when she opts for a bag of Minstrels instead. A mix of sweet and salted for one it is. You shield her from the pic’n’mix as your online banking sends you a notification that your account is currently victim to extreme stress.

You laugh at Ryan Gosling. She gives you a smiley, weird look when you start absolutely pissing yourself at something she doesn’t find funny. You choke on a Minstrel. You awkwardly grab her hand as the scene where the guy declares the chick as his own soul mate, causes her to sob. As she weeps you risk a cheeky arm over the shoulder. You wipe your brow as she accepts this invitation. You pull her closer too you, and instantly regret this when some form of make up imprints itself on your new white Hollister polo.

You leave the cinema. You walk back to the train, you’re heart starts thumping as you grab her hand. Success.

“I’ll text you in the morning”

There’s that 5 seconds as you’re looking directly into her eyes. The longest 5 seconds since time began. The 5 second window of opportunity where you need to decide if you’re going to passionately neck her, or not. Fuck it. You go for it. Teeth collide as you’re playing a game of chess with tongues. Are we going in here, are we not. You stumble through it with a giggle.

Previous process repeated. There’s the 3rd date.

Then the 4th.

Shit, what is this now? You’ve made your way onto her Snapchat story. Is this for real now? People are asking questions.

“Mate, you and her!? Why didn’t you say?!”

Eh? How do you know?

“Her Instagram picture?”

Shit.

You scramble onto her Instagram and before your eyes, you see a picture of you both from the night before. Little Emoji of a monkey hiding his face, and a love heart. A fucking love heart.

Hang on a minute, you haven’t even said those words together yet. This has confirmed you’re now practically spending the rest of your life together.

The next time you see her, you realise you do love her. You tell her in bed as your watching another Ryan Gosling flick, that you love her. You then get down on one proverbial knee and ask the question that makes women worldwide break into spontaneous tears ..

“Shall we put it on Facebook?”

She accepts. Over 100+ likes. Posh and Becks eat your heart out.

There’s still been no “consummating” the relationship though, if you get my drift. She seems classy. She wants to wait. A weekend away, a gig. It’s on. You forget contraception. You have to hurriedly organise obtaining said contraception discreetly. It wasn’t very discreet. She sees it hanging out of your breast pocket as you’re arseholed, drunkenly making your way through “Come On Eileen” in some shit hole bar.

The next morning. The scene out of “500 Days Of Summer”, you’re dancing to work. Skipping. Cartoon birds sing to you, to the tune of James Brown “I Feel Good”. Your group chat clings onto your feet as they demand every detail.

You’re infatuated.

Months pass by. Your mam and dad love her. You hope her mam and dad like you.

Wait, why did she like that guys picture? Why is she tweeting him? Grow up lad.

Hang on, he’s knocking about a bit too much for your liking. He likes her profile picture, again. You inhale, and exhale. You act cool. You don’t want to scare her off.

You go out with the lads, you send an arsey text, you can’t remember. You have a scrap over a spilt Desperado, she doesn’t approve. You don’t talk for 24 hours. It’s strange. It’s not nice.

You apologise, make her laugh with daft voices, and bang Ryan Gosling on again. She’s out with the girls, few lads knocking about on Snapchat. You’re out with the lads, few girls knocking about on your Snapchat. You’re both jealous.

“Who the fuck is she?”

She’s just a mate. Who the fuck is he?

Just a mate.

You sarcastically point out that you were unaware that friends were now grabbing each others arses. You fight, it’s bad.

You’re on your first holiday. You return to heaven. Its 30 degrees. She looks absolutely stunning in a bikini. Beer is 2 euros a bottle. Life is good. You laugh, drink, and bathe. You’re away from the beast. You’re away from the town, the trials and tribulations. Away from the jealousy. You’re away from the prying eyes, the whispers, the goblins clambering for any form of gossip to feast upon. She’s the one.

Months later, it’s not the same. You miss the lads. You’re stuck in a quagmire. Should I stay or should I go. You seek counsel from your gut, it’s not good news.

You go. You’re in bed moping as you get your moneys worth of Netflix. You bin every Ryan Gosling film in sight. You see Snapchats, she’s out. You delete her off Snapchat as you can’t cope. She posts on Instagram, she looks great. That has to go surely as well. You’re isolated, you’ve had your right arm cut off. The lads do their best with news of new singles and shots of Sambuca to bring you back to life.

After a few therapy Nando’s sessions you decide to get back on your feet. You see her out, she looks incredible. You do a bottle of Jameson’s. You throw up a bottle of Jameson’s. You say enough is enough, as you enter your 23rd season on Football Manager. You get your haircut. You go back the gym. You swap the Cadbury’s Pots of Joy for chicken and iceburg lettuce.

You slip a post on Instagram. 50 likes? You take them. Back in the game.

You receieve a DM on Twitter …

 

 

 

 

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