More often than not, I’m in a bit of a shit mood. It’s nothing personal, I just don’t really like, well, anything, really. I save my smiles for old people, or dogs, for flashbacks about wild nights or crazy moments, or for when I walk about town thinking about art and boys. A guy once told me I’ve got a laugh like an angel, but a smile like the devil – I can imagine that being true, but I sincerely hope it’s the one I give hot boys, not the elderly. Anyway, my last weeks in Sydney I didn’t have that much to smile about. My darling Glebe family left for Europe, the weather was shit, and I had to deal with a bad bout of tonsillitis which made smiling physically impossible – unless you count drooling on yourself as some form of happy facial expression. The days were flying by – especially if you have to spend about six of them crying in bed – and my departure for home was imminent. The pressure of making my last days count was so paralysing, all I really did was train, go for lunch with friends, and take lots of naps. Miraculously, however, in between being sick and just being boring, I managed to leave the house for three dates, a very drunk night out, and one very surprising sleepover; who doesn’t love a good plot twist, amirite?
In my last post, I mentioned Ivy Guy, who seemed nice enough. I quite enjoyed talking to him, but I was pretty sure we were as compatible as a fish and a pair of Louboutins. We went out for a drink at a very cool bar, and conversation was flowing – but awkwardly, like how air flows but keeps blowing your hair into your mouth, so instead of looking like a model, you look like an idiot. I was in a weird mood – go figure – and I couldn’t even muster up the energy to pretend I was more interesting than I actually am. It’s quite ironic, given the fact that I’d only agreed to go on this date because I told myself I could pretend to be anything I could possibly imagine. Maybe I was a 23-year-old divorcee who got married to the lead singer of the band she was a groupie for when she was 19? Maybe I was engaged to a British duke, but did I rebel against my future of royal obligations by dating random men? Maybe I was a recovering addict struggling to be an actress? Turns out I’d already told him about my job when we met, so the only thing I could make up was my name – that, and I didn’t mention I hadn’t worked at the agency for a few months now, and that I was just an unemployed bum. It’s not half as exciting as being an ex-groupie, though.
He was kind, and quite funny, and seemed genuinely interested in me; great, he was probably a sociopath. We spent a few hours together at the bar, and, not going to lie, my favourite part of the evening was probably seeing one of my ex-colleagues. Getting to know new people, it’s just so exhausting. It wasn’t his fault, it was all me, though – I’m just saying that to be polite, of course it wasn’t me. We had a weird vibe, and I just knew it wasn’t going anywhere; literally nowhere, not even my or his house for the night. I left him to go party with my Rugby Lads who had just arrived in Sydney. A few days later he texted me to go out with him again. A second date?! I told you, to-tal sociopath.
Then again, this is still a story about my life, and it’s not like I generally have so much going on boy-wise, so yeah, you guessed right, I actually agreed to go on a second date with this guy. I didn’t really want to give him the idea I was interested, but he invited me to the opening of a new clothes store, and well, WWCD (What Would Carrie Do)? I dressed down for the occasion – because of the apparent lack of Jimmy Choo in my closet – and met him at the shop. It was a very average store, and another very average date. I hope he finds a new girl next time he goes to Ivy, preferably one that wants to tell him her real name and would enjoy making dumplings with him for parties. Some of us just ain’t about that life, you know – of course I mean dating, not dumplings. I love dumplings.
I spent most my nights that week partying with the English boys – except for that one night I couldn’t bear to go out again and made them come over for dinner and chill; I so cannot keep up with the Brits. Our very last night out was supposed to be a massive one, but we kinda maybe sorta wrecked that by downing bottles of wine and bags of goon in the hostel, leaving us blind drunk, way too late, and therefore in an impossible state to get into any club in the city. We decided hanging around in the tv room was the next best thing. Rose Tattoo had vanished by then, and as the second one fell asleep there and then on the couch, it was just me and the last man standing. I won’t tell you exactly what happened, but something about mates, sharing is caring, and I’m a 10 and I need a lot of attention. Take away from this information what you want.
When all this partying and sad-dating was over, I was stuck in bed for about six days. Maybe it was bad karma for kissing one too many lads, maybe I just got unlucky. Probably both. On the seventh day, I was able to eat some solid food, and by the tenth, I went on my last date in Sydney. God – and literally anyone who had talked to me in those last weeks – knows I wished my last date could have been Hot Welshman, but my bad karma, as well geographical issues, prevented that from happening. My very last date in Sydney was with my beautiful trainer – who had asked me out about five times since I’d started training at the gym. I’d always said no because I full well knew we could never actually date for real real, and I didn’t want to make things awkward between us, but because I was leaving soon, because he asked so nicely, and because waiting eight months for a girl to go out with you is a very long time, I finally agreed.
I had a great evening, and when it comes to ranking all my dates in Sydney, he would be the most solid #2 – no one could ever beat Hot Welshman. He was kind, he was sweet, ànd he kept feeding me, because he thought I needed to regain my strength after the tonsillitis, and because he would never ever dream of even thinking I was getting a bit too fat. You could read this and say “damn, Laurien, you stupid ass bitch, why you let that man go?!” – and trust me, at times I ask myself the same fucking thing – but we were just too different. Apart from Muay Thai, we had absolutely nothing in common. He was proper Thai, and his English wasn’t that great, so lots of the jokes I made were a bit lost on him – which, in retrospect, probably only worked to my advantage, and may have been the reason he liked me that much in the first place. He didn’t know much about Western books, films, or music, and I, on the other hand, didn’t know shit about the Eastern things he was talking about. It was a comfortable silence, but a silence nonetheless.
However, to this day though, I still think about Trainer a lot. I love the way he ordered in Thai at his favourite restaurant, and I love how he tried to teach me the correct things to say. I love how he once switched with one of the trainers so he could hold pads for me. I love how he still sends me messages saying he misses me, and how he has no idea what I’m talking about when I say my life is boring and uneventful right now, and how he thinks the best response to all my words is a laughing crying or smirking smiley face. I love how he is such an amazing person, and I hope another sarcastic blonde (who happens to speak Thai) comes along to sweep him off his feet – it’s a bad boxing joke, sorry.
After all that loving, however – it’s a terrible thing to admit – on my way to that last date, I couldn’t help but relive my best date in the city. I knew I was going out with a guy who was dying to take me to dinner, but walking along George Street, all I could think of was all the stupid ways Hot Welshman had already insulted me while I was walking towards him on that very same street. I thought about how we hooked up and he afterwards explained the part of the movie we’d missed. I remembered how he picked Liar, Liar when he came over all tired after his big weekend away, and I remembered how I thought he was an adoringly massive idiot for picking that movie. I laughed out loud thinking of how he thought big tits was a sweet thing to call me after three dates. I love how he called me a twat, and I said he was a dickhead. I love how he made me listen to The Smiths and I love how I now hate every Smiths song because it reminds me of him, as if that music didn’t already make me want to jump out of a window to start with. Maybe there ìs a light that never goes out, but given that we’re about 17000K apart by now, I’m going to go ahead and say it’s probably not ours. Farewell, you hot piece of man candy.
So, there you have it, the last of my overall 50-50 excuse for a love life abroad. There is no more catching flights on a whim because I want to go see a concert in another city, and there’s probably no more catching feelings because I’m still a massive twat and Belgian boys don’t seem to have mastered the art of Dealing With Twats. (Funny thing just came to mind: maybe I’m great with Brits becaùse they drink a lot – that would probably explain that, you know.) I’ll keep you updated on Life With Belgians, but don’t expect too much. I’m a bitch, and guys are trash, but at least I’m back with my friends and family. That, and you know, cheap alcohol.