I’m not a psycho

Ok, well I am… But I’m not as bad as was first assumed.

You may remember my recent Xanax night out when I met that footballer guy and he gave me his number which I then proceeded to psychotically call seven times in a row at 4am for reasons we will literally never quite understand.

Well as luck would have it, I bumped in to him again. But this time he was with some mutual friends. We were talking and never at any point was it mentioned that we had met two weeks previously.

I was surely not going to bring it up and he clearly just didn’t remember. I mean he is a footballer after all, so it’s a miracle he remembers how to do up his shoes, but also it’s unlikely he remembers one girl to the next.

We talked for a while, and it had taken me a while to work out it was him. Then when he said his name to me I almost shouted his last name at him as the realisation hit me. He confirmed his last name and I just laughed to myself and decided to keep a dignified silence about our meeting a few weeks back.

Then I disappeared into the crowds never to be seen again…

Chic.

More chic

Then just to be even more chic I disappeared from the club altogether and went to another one to see Tyga standing in a DJ booth, without Kylie though. We all know the only reason anyone books Tyga is in the hope Kylie goes too. She did not. So we went back to the other club, complete with footballer.

I didn’t really want to see him because I was still coming to terms with the seven call night, so I did try hard to avoid him, but he zoned in on me. He dragged me away to sit somewhere quiet and buy me drinks. We spoke about stuff, mostly about mutual friends but it’s kind of hard to have a conversation in public with a footballer since “lads” are always coming up and saying football words and doing selfies.

Our friends all found us in our quiet spot and we decided to go on to a party.

Outside, the fresh air hit me and mixed up real good with the tequila, vodka and champagne. And so I went ahead and fell over. I lay flat on the pavement for a time.

Now, falling over in public is something I very rarely do. In fact, it’s my number one faux pas on a night out. But my BMI is fcked up at the moment and I just think my skinny ankles couldn’t hold me up in my Vivienne Westwood over knee boots.

It was terribly embarrassing. Actually, it is now, but at the time I didn’t give a fck. I’d barely noticed it had happened. The graze on my knee which means I can’t now show my legs for another three weeks is really the only evidence that it happened.

Then we were in a car. Was it a good one? Who knows. I just remember all his friends and a car. And then a short journey to a hotel that has been converted in to a club, another one of those kind of private 3am venues where you need a password to get in.

I know we made out in here. He’s really tall, it was super hot.

Then I decided to leave around 6am. He didn’t want me to, but luckily LostItGirl had had her fun and my sensible head was back on. It was 6am and there was no way I was waking up in some bachelor pad with him and all his football mates surrounded by empty bottles and regret.

I said I was going, but he wanted my number? SHIT. I had spent the evening avoiding the fact we had met a few weeks ago, I’d swerved that. All my hard work would be undone because he would now know that I was the psycho girl who had rang him seven times high on Xanax.

I couldn’t accept this, and so I grabbed my gay bffs phone, which luckily has a picture of myself and him as the screen saver, and I was like: “Yeah what’s your number? I’ll call you.”

So then we left and I slept for a few hours before waking up feeling like hell and thinking wtf just happened?

Much later that day but probably still drunk my gay bff sent me the footballer’s number.

As luck would have it

As luck would have it. Guess what?

It was a different number. It wasn’t totally different though, it was the same, except for one digit.

So it turns out he has absolutely no idea that I rang him seven fckin times within 10 minutes while high on Xanax at a sex party.

Yes, I was a psycho. But I’ve gotten away with it. Yasss!

I do kind of remember now why I rang so many times. I think like Siri or some shit head like that was trying to tell me down the phone that the number was not recognised, and I couldn’t really hear this so then I tried again. And again. And again. And again… Oh whatever you get the picture.

Xanax means you give very little fcks about anything Siri says. So that explains my lunatic behaviour.

But the good thing is, I managed to hide the crazy somehow.

We exchanged a few texts that day because we were obviously still hungover/drunk, but it’s now four days later and it’s all been quiet. I will remain quiet too, because as we say here at LostItGirl, men chase, women don’t.

But I’m starting to think that little bastard Siri might have told on me… Time will tell.

XO

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