I have come to the conclusion that I am the best at flirting. And by ‘best’, I do of course mean ‘the actual worst’.
Flirting tips from the Ninja Robot:
- Play werewolf with the person of your affections.
- Get dealt the cupid card.
- Make the lovers the said person and yourself.
Wallah! You have now (un)successfully flirted. Warning: This may or may not (but most likely may) be completely unbeknownst to the other.
When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend who was a Muslim. He liked getting free things, and part of that involved eating people’s lunch when they didn’t want it. He told me that he remembered all those nice providers of free lunch by what they had on their sandwiches. Some people would have chicken. Some people would have cheese. Others would have salad. And one girl would always have “the pink meat”. Yes, that’s right. My lovely Muslim boyfriend had unknowingly been scabbing ham sandwiches for all those years.
I’m so happy! Oli and I are officially dating now. I’ve been in that giggly happy mood for a while. It’s not something I would’ve picked (like imagined), to be honest. But it’s amazing. I really like him. It’s going great. I just really love being with him and stuff. Which is probably a bad thing at this point in time, since I have an essay due on Thursday that I haven’t started. On a topic I’ve been to one lecture on. For a subject I’ve been to about three lectures on in total, and haven’t done the readings for. But it’s so hard to teach myself about rationality and suicide and terrorism when I just keep getting distracted by Oli. Nyee. Sorry for the return of the lame mushy stuff, by the way! I’m so not a mushy person. I hate mush. But now I’m being a little mushy. Oh no. Also, I like being called Sweetie. And also, he has the most amazing bright blue eyes. And a really cute smile.
That is something I know. I have known it since before I can remember. At least since I was five. Usually it doesn’t bother me. But I know it’s weird. I’ve never told anyone. And it kills me in relationships. It’s not why I end them. That’s a different weirdness entirely. But it makes things different. I listen to other people talk all about their endeavors, and I wonder why they’re so normal. And I think about the amount of people I now know with such varying sexualities, and even genders, and I wonder why this thing, that seems tiny in comparison, is so hard for me to mention.
Whilst I write this, I am chatting to Oli. And since typing that last paragraph, I have told him. Everything. And he took it surprisingly well. He has not been scared off. I feel refreshed and happy. I look forward to Tuesday.
I am a strange person. A very strange person. I shan’t mention everything strange about me here. Not only would it take years to type, but it would also take years for you to read, and I don’t particularly want to break the internet, either. But one of the weird things about me is that I often think about how random things are weird. Sometimes I look at a pinky toe, and think, ‘wow, pinky toes are actually quite weird’, and start laughing. Sometimes I think of names of people I know, and think, ‘wow, I actually know someone called [name]’, and again, start laughing. Sometimes I say words over and over again, and then crack up laughing about how weird they sound. Sometimes I say two words – generally ‘moon, star’ – over and over again, until it sounds like I’m saying them in the opposite order than I started.
And sometimes, I look at a couple in a relationship. And I think of all the couples in the world. And then I think of the sheer number of available people surrounding those couples. And I wonder how it is that people end up together. There are so many people in this world, yet how is it that so many people happen to choose each other out of the bunch? Judging by numbers alone, the probability of a person fancying someone who fancies them is tiny! Which makes me wonder – perhaps there is something in our genes that makes people like each other. This might already be a thing. I haven’t looked this up at all, so I might look quite stupid if it turns out to be common knowledge that I’m right. But whatever. It is a curious thought.
So apparently I come across like an innocent woman-child. That kinda baffles me. Actually, it probably shouldn’t, since I say the stupidest things at times, and never understand any ‘adult’ or ‘dirty’ references. Until like fifteen minutes later. But whatever. Apparently it’s quite shocking that the majority of my year 11/12 years consisted of having a boyfriend. And that I have… shall we say, ‘eaten sandwiches’ before. Maybe I should work on toning down this innocent facade before I attempt to snare a certain second-floorer. Which brings me to my next topic – attraction.
My taste in men appears to have changed significantly between high school and university. Back then I was all about the younger men. Yes, I was a cradle robber. Well, only by like a year, but still. Younger men. But now… Everyone’s freakin’ older than me! Like, a 21-year-old at the beginning of the year. A possibly 28-year-old very attractive wizard-like creature. And now – a really cute, really nice (yay!) guy with an amazing voice and (omgwtf) facial hair! That’s quite unusual for me… Liking guys with facial hair, that is. Well, I suppose. The guys I like/date always seem to have a token ‘thing’. That is, a characteristic that I wouldn’t normally be attracted to. Like, first there was light hair (and second too), and then there was a short guy, and now one with facial hair. Odd.
And finally, (almost) completely unrelated, is my last topic, second floor. I must be an official second-floorer now. Carrying around my MTG cards everywhere, going drafting, playing board games, having exciting conversations about said things, getting excited about the number 42 tram stop… Yes, I am a second-floorer. Well, at least the guy I have my eye on is also a second-floorer. Makes for alright conversation starters.