Another dreadful year has passed. Hearts were broken, people died, the climate’s shit, the pay gap is still very real, and so are tiny sunglasses, which is obviously the worst thing on this list. I’ve lived, loved, laughed (just typing this makes me want to throw up) and I’ve lost. I probably spent the better half of this year crying – which is a hobby at least as valid as fishing, really –and spent the rest of my time traveling, eating cheap pasta, and fighting the patriarchy. Now that I’m back home, settled in once more, and Christmas has already passed, it seems like a great time to look back on the shitshow that was 2018. 

Now, first of all, don’t get me wrong, I have done incredible things in 2018. It was probably one of the best years of my life so far, but because I prefer lifeless pessimism over joyful optimism, I’m going to stick to nagging and being a sarcastic twat. Seeing the good in situations is for people called Betty or Eric who have cute little pillows with cute little sayings on it, and who love baking cute little cookies for their cute little hamsters because they’re so cute and little. When I grow up, I want to be Morticia Addams, not Betty, Head of the Playground Committee and Eric’s devoted wife. 

For the first five months, I actually did pretty good boy-wise (well, no, for me, I actually did fucking fantastic). I went on dates, I was asked out on second dates, I kissed hot guys, and I only farted once in the presence of said hot guys. It’s a miracle, really (the second dates as well as the farting). In the sixth month, I boarded my plane to Belgium, and have since then not even really been in the presence of hot guys. I did, however, try to be in their presence, and naturally, it was a huge disaster. My present to you this holiday season is the two very short tales of guys who electronically reappeared in my life after approximately 2-3 years, and how I absolutely fucked it up.

When I was 18 and started university, I met this wonderfully awkward guy. He was tall, had dark curly hair, and made such bad jokes that I was laughing all the time (I’m an easy crowd, though). I saw him two, maybe three times, and I’m pretty sure we would have kissed if we both hadn’t been so socially incompetent. A few months ago, when I came back, we started chatting again over something really stupid, and it resulted in us talking all the time. Loser that I am, I re-had a crush on him (which is to be avoided at all costs), and asked if we could go out someday. I literally told him about the crush-thing, and obviously, since my life is not a romantic comedy, he gently but firmly put me back in my place (the friendzone, that is). I should probably not be so direct, but I’m not good at subtle. I once read/heard somewhere that subtlety is for poets and plastic surgeons, and it must have had a great impact on me. On the other hand, I also keep thinking about Marge Simpson’s “passion is for teens and immigrants”, so maybe it’s time I stop living my life according to some quotes I heard in cartoons. Anyway, me and that guy are still friends, and because I only gave you the really short version of this story, it’s not really as embarrassing as it really was. Guess I didn’t deliver on that promise. Sorry, I guess, but Christmas presents always kind of suck anyway. 

Moving on then to the second story, which is actually bad. I once met a guy at a party that I immediately liked. I knew I had to keep my distance, and then obviously didn’t, because I’m an idiot. We kissed, and he asked me out, and then we never went out. He kept texting me at ungodly hours about stupid shit like the European Cup, and every conversation we had was difficult. He made me feel like I wasn’t smart enough for him, which then somehow made me want him more. I used to have this weird thing where I would have massive crushes on these wannabe-intellectuals that would raise their eyebrows at me and snootily say: “What do you mean, you’ve never read this obscure Chechnyan novel?” I’ve gotten over it now, but apparently, haven’t quite gotten over him. He messaged me a while back, instantly pissed me off, and then vaguely said we should hang out someday. I can’t do vague, I can’t do someday, and I have a ridiculous amount of free time on my hands, so I maybe messaged him at 2AM saying I’d love to go out for a drink with him. That would normally be alright, only I added “if only for the sake of being able to ask my therapist why I always ask out douchebags.” He left me on read, which is fair enough – although a bit rude to a girl who’s clearly got issues – but I don’t really care. When I tell this story to my cats later, they’ll all laugh and we’ll have a wonderful, not-at-all-weird imaginary evening. 

Needless to say, I will be kissing no one on New Year’s Eve, or probably in the New Year full stop. Maybe in 2019 I should stop being a Morticia, start being a Betty, get a hamster and bake it tiny cookies. Yeah, no, even just thinking about getting crochet pillows and matching picture frames makes me really uncomfortable. Also, Betties probably wear a lot of floral patterns, which isn’t really my thing. 

My beautiful darlings, I want to say here’s a word of the wise, but clearly, don’t take my advice, it’s rubbish. Just know this, if I managed to throw out my incredibly worn out but still favourite pair of Homer Simpson underpants, you can part with the people that just don’t treat you right. You deserve better, I promise. As for me, I’ll stop sober (god, that’s even worse) texting boys at 2AM and just try and get a good night’s sleep. 

That was so convincing, I almost believed it myself. Happy New Year!