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He’s recently had a sleeve tattoo done and it reminds me of a mug I saw on Etsy saying, ‘It doesn’t matter how much ink you get, you’ll always be a mainstream cunt.’
These ‘girls’ are educated, well-travelled women yet put them in spitting distance of anyone with a Y chromosome and a bit of chest hair and it’s like being on a hen party in Magaluf.
He referred to himself as an ‘entrepreneur’. Which everyone knows is shorthand for twat.
My feet hurt in my heels, and I wonder if they were designed by men specifically to make women easier to catch.
The crematorium is what you’d imagine. Bland brickwork, covered in flowers and crucifixes, trying to look like it’s something spiritual and not just a massive oven and chimney.
Because nothing attracts hideous fuckboys quite like a woman with low self-esteem.
Oh, to have the confidence of a very average white male.
I want to live in a world where I don’t have to keep my keys between my fingers in case I’m attacked walking home.
He puts the tray down on the table and holds out a hand and – as I move mine to shake it – he lifts it to his lips and kisses my fingers. My mind wanders to the hand sanitiser in my bag.
Even the thought of going on an actual real date from Tinder makes me want to hide in bed with a bottle of wine.
Now I’m closer I can see the lines around his eyes and mouth. Laughter lines, they’re called, aren’t they? Guess there’s a lot more to laugh about when you’re white and male.
You could have and be everything you want in the world and still be unhappy.’
