“It sounds dramatic, but I honestly don’t know if I can stomach online dating anymore.”
BY GIRL MEETS GIRL
That’s it, I’m done. It’s over. Finito. So long, fair well, auf wiedersehen, adieu. I’m throwing in the towel, packing my bags and booking a one-way ticket to the single life. I’m shutting my legs and my heart, boarding them up and sticking on a closed for business sign. No doubt I’ll be a bloody Starbucks soon.
It sounds dramatic, but I honestly don’t know if I can stomach online dating anymore: the screaming lack of love and romance; the knockbacks that leave my confidence marbled with bruises, the way my hopes are up one minute, down the next, loop-de-looping all over the place like a swallow with a broken wing.
I’m not sure what will happen to Girl Meets Girl. Maybe I can repurpose it: Girl Meets Cat, anyone? Or Girl Meets Ferret? Girl Meets Subscription To All The Channels. Girl Meets Eating Cheese On Toast For Dinner For The Third Day In A Row. Girl Meets Vodka. Girl Meets Gin. Girl meets Wishkhy…Oi…Shurrup and gimme back my cumputar, you bashterds, ish my blog.
By far the worst thing about being single is the lonely wanks. I swear every time I wank a fairy dies. Tinkerbell is literally in a holding cell being waterboarded because of me. I’m sorry Tink. I’m sorry but I CAN’T STOP. The Lost Boys can clap all they want, but there’s nothing that spurs my vagina on like a round of applause.
To be honest, I don’t even enjoy them particularly. The whole process is so grimly efficient: pyjama bottoms down, vag out, bish bosh and within 7 minutes I’m back to House Of Cards. It’s the antithesis of what sex should be. There’s no fire, no titillation or anticipation – it’s just whack-a-mole with a clitoris.
People who are married or in long-term relationships often think that being single is exhilarating. They imagine silk knickers and night caps and round-the-clock orgasms, slinking out in the wee hours to totter home in a bandage dress. No one ever imagines a woman aggressively rubbing her muff for five minutes and then having a cry.
I can’t do the online thing anymore. I want to meet someone in real life. Respect them. Like them. Get to know them. Make friends with them. Fancy them. Fuck them and fall in love with them. I want to go back to the old school because this new stuff? It’s just not working for me. There have to be other ways to meet women. I live in London for God’s sake, the pool doesn’t get much bigger than this.
It’s time to log out, switch off and open my eyes to the wealth of possibilities that exist in the real world, whether that’s speed dating, friends of friends or meetups. I need to get my head out of the Cloud and back into reality. Apps are fine if you want some fun, but for a real chance at lasting love I need to weed out the time-wasters: the not-over-my-ex, the just-in-it-for-sex, the curious, the bored and the jaded.
Tomorrow, I’m going to formulate my plan of action. In the meantime, it’s 10.30pm: *sheds pyjama bottoms*.
Only reading DIVA online? You’re missing out. For more news, reviews and commentary, check out the latest issue. It’s pretty badass, if we do say so ourselves.