I did have some great stories about two guys that have imprinted on me recently – their names are Hat Guy and Boxer. They’ve both been acting completely nuts, but something much more interesting has now happened, and so this blog post will be all about that.
The footballer who tactically liked two of my posts recently…
I thought they were ‘don’t forget about me’ likes. But this was not the case. They were, in fact: ‘Hey, I’m in the UK. Call me.’ likes.
Footballer has hopped on a plane from that weird country whose name I can’t pronounce, to visit the UK for a short but sweet time. It included also a short and sweet visit to LostItGirl Towers. Here’s how that worked out:
Three days after the likes I found myself sipping absinthe cocktails and discussing the footballer with my gbff. He insisted I should text him, which goes against all the rules I have in my life. But I had had enough absinthe not to dismiss the thought immediately.
Gbff: “Look LostItGirl, he’s put those likes out there for a reason, and it’s two in a row. Just text him and stop being so cold all the time.”
LIG: “No. It goes against all I preach. Men chase, women don’t.”
GBFF: “He has chased. He’s a footballer, two likes on Facebook is chasing to him. Stop not giving a fck, because they think you don’t and then they won’t chase you. You’re cock blocking yourself.”
LIG: “Chic. Anyway, I don’t give a fck. Well I mean I do, but I’ve turned into a bitch so fck him and fck everyone. Also, fck you.”
GBFF: “But he has the body of a god.”
*Hands me another cocktail
LIG: “Yes. He does.”
*Drinks the whole thing without questioning its ingredients
After a few more absinthe cocktails, the conversation changed slightly:
LIG: “Fck it. Ok I’ll text him.”
It was a conversation I had with myself. In my head.
I was doing well before that stage, but alcohol and a gay best friend make me do things I usually would not choose to do.
And so I texted him.
All credit to him he replied an hour later with his usual one-word boring answer. I replied again, fell asleep and woke up in the morning to see my message had been read and not responded do.
Fck you WhatsApp.
Fck you gbff.
Fck you footballer.
Fck you Facebook.
And fck you Shania Twain.
I sat up in bed in a rage and sent 14 abusive texts to my gbff for making me text him.
Then I got over it and decided to get up and crack on with my day. I did well not stressing any more about it. I just thought to myself: “Well he’s basically on the Moon, so why does he need to text me?”
I decided to have one of my therapist-advised nights in that evening. I was just looking at some of the recent clothes I’ve bought and stroking them and shit.
And then footballer texted. I think he was trying to make a joke, or flirt, I’m still unclear on that. But then he asked “Where are you?”
Before responding I enlisted my stalker friend to do some research and within five minutes she found that he was in the UK.
I replied with: “At home.”
Then he went quiet.
Not to be deterred, a few hours later I asked why he asked, and despite responding, at no point did he mention what I already knew – that he was in the same country as me.
The next few hours were boring, so I’ll just fast forward to him arriving at my front door, drunk and looking god-like. Except, sadly he was wearing a trilby.
I made him remove it and I burned it on the doorstep.
There can’t be any trilbys around me at any time. Maybe Britney can wear a trilby on stage. But that is all.
Footballers have no idea when it comes to style. They also have zero brains and zero bantz. But I have those in abundance so I think that’s why it works, plus he laughs at everything I say so it’s a real ego booster.
I offered him some red wine, which he immediately downed. It was a £37 glass of red and he downed as though it were a shot of tequila. I found this to be strange, but then I remembered that in addition to zero style, zero brains and zero bantz, they also have zero class, so then it seemed pretty normal to me actually.
He asked me how I was, which was also very weird. But he didn’t wait for a reply, instead he just began banging on about himself. Return to normal.
He drunkenly invited me out to the country in which he is now residing in. He didn’t mean it, but I’ve already bought four new bikinis and looked at flights.
I’m really looking forward to going to a country I couldn’t even point out on map, much less pronounce, to visit a footballer who doesn’t even like me.
He went on to tell tales about football stuff. He talked about how fckin amazing he is. He literally told me he’s treated like a superstar out there. If this was anyone else I would’ve throw up my green smoothie on him and shown him the door, but instead I just gazed at him and stopped myself from telling him I’d treat him like a superstar every day if he’d only fckin let me.
I told him the last time we hung out he had called me a pussy trap and I’d had to Google what it meant. He was like: “Who Googles that?” Well, me.
I told him I’d like him to know that I am not a pussy trap, because Google told me it meant a woman who makes herself pregnant to trap a man. He said that’s not how he meant it. I was like: “Good because if I was that I’d have like two children.”
This was hilarious because it insinuated that I’d only had sex twice. But by two I meant 14,265. He didn’t get the joke either way so it’s whatever. In fact, he agreed thinking I meant I’d have two kids since we’ve had sex twice. Bless him. God I love him.
He kept being boring so I demanded he took off all his clothes. He really does have the body of a mythological god.
I’d love to tell you it was hella special and all that shit, but it wasn’t. Four minutes in he fell asleep and started snoring, so I had to take a Valium and put in my ear plugs. Then he got up and fled around 5am and I’ve not heard from him since. Business as usual.
Right I’m off to book some flights. I’m just kidding (but not really)…