Bipolar Life and Facebook – PART ONE

It’s funny how life has been treating me recently. At around seven o’clock last night I was squeezed up in the corner of my room on my laptop in a fruitful attempt to surpass round 92 on Bloons Tower Defense on hard mode, and ten minutes later, by some miraculous sequence of events involving Facebook and an ex-stripper girl I’d befriended while working in the capital in the summer, I found myself galloping down the stairs in the hopes that my mum would gift me with five pounds so I could embark on another wild night out in the freezing cold of the city. I literally went from being deeply engrossed in a child’s strategy game in the corner of my room, to ostentatiously sipping away at an expensive cocktail while in the presence of a painfully attractive ex-stripper in a bar in Edinburgh in a matter of an hour – I love you, life, even if you are chronically bipolar.

For many, Facebook is a volatile invention that has merely served as a catalyst for fiery arguments, heated altercations and a place for low-esteemed teenagers to vent their petty issues and post limitless pictures of mirrors. But for me, it’s a life-changing innovation that continues to shape my life in surprising ways. Without the invention of Facebook, many of the most memorable in my life would not have occurred (as tragic as that may sound) and last night was no exception.

I received a message from the ex-stripper for no reason that I can think of except that she must have been achingly bored. Why else would anyone message me? I hadn’t spoken to her on this beacon of communication for months nor had I seen her since the summer, but sure enough, I found myself immersed in the conversation for at least ten minutes before she invited me out into the city for a drink. As much as it would have been a dream for me to have grabbed my designer Emporio Armani jacket, hop into my new Bugatti and blaze off towards the city to meet her, I shamefully had to inform her of the significant financial turbulence I was currently enduring and that it would be impossible for me to meet her that night. But to my surprise, she offered not only to pay for my train-fare on the way back from the city, but also for all of my drinks.

Free drinks and train fare courtesy of a sexy ex-stripper girl in the city – a dream!

I could hardly contemplate what had just happened – I had to concentrate my eyes on the screen for at least ten seconds while a hard object simultaneously grew large in my pants before realising the glory of the situation. I fearlessly accepted her invitation and within a matter of seconds the dream of overcoming round 92 on Bloons Tower Defense was quickly thrown to the back of my mind and I found myself cajoling my mum into giving me a fiver before dashing towards the train station at rapid speeds to catch the next train. Although I remained pessimistic about accomplishing anything other than a hug from the girl, the thought of bathroom blowjobs and riveting sex was certainly a prominent one throughout the entirety of the thirty minute train journey to the city. I had absolutely no idea what I was in for – there was no plan as to what bar we were going to drink alcohol in, what alcohol we were going to drink or for how long we were going to drink it for – but due to the fact that there was indefinitely going to be alcohol involved, and a very attractive woman, this didn’t bother me in the slightest.

The only thing we had actually planned was for her to meet at the train station upon my arrival. I stepped off the train in a notion of sheer confidence, knowing that if I portrayed myself as a man of pride and self-reliance, my chances of possibly achieving as little as a snog would naturally increase as she saw me step onto the concrete platform.

When meeting up with a girl, I’ve always found that the mood and mindset I’m in ten seconds before meeting her is usually the one that persists throughout – whether it be painful awkwardness or upbeat confidence, it sticks like napalm in a Vietnamese jungle. For this night, I was in luck and the fear that I’d say something stupid or racist was non-existent. I was an emblem of confidence, and nothing was going to change that. Well, except for when I realised I’d just left my ten packet of cigarettes on the train and fell into a state of minor depression for a few moments.

However, hastily sweeping that under my carpet of sanguine, she informed me that we were going to go to T.G.I Friday’s for a few drinks – the exact location where I had met her and worked in the summer. I had no problem with this, except that I’d sort of left the place on bad terms. Losing my head on the busiest night the restaraunt had ever seen, storming out of the kitchen and then breaking into a ferocious flood of tears on the stairs is more or less how it went; so to enter into the place definitely seemed ominious; but being me, I did so anyway, and quite shamelessly at that. Free alcohol seems to beat down anything.

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It’s a Wonderful Life

Life couldn’t be any more perfect right now and I’ve traveled such a long way since failing all of my exams at high school two years ago. Boasting a delightful job as chef at an Italian restaurant with imminent future promotional prospects, I’ve got oodles of money, an abundance of loyal friends and a life destitute of problems and worries. I just can’t get enough of this wonderful thing called life.

Taking a large step back into reality however, life couldn’t get any more tragic. I’ve quite exceptionally regressed since leaving high school, I’ve lost my most recent job, I currently have one friend who I’m fairly certain is a killer, and I’m haunted by the sad fact that my bank account holds minus fifty pounds. The phrase ‘rock bottom’ is often shallowly thrown around in modern times by the common Starbucks coffee drinker that couldn’t connect to Twitter for ten minutes, or by the mother who’s son’s hamster just passed away, but I for one, as an enemy of caffeine and an owner of a live hamster (with a pulse), believe that the rock has genuinely struck the bottom – even perhaps crumbling the foundations as it came flying down at thunderous speeds.

Today was a solemn day for me and the future that I was so perilously trying to pave into a path of success. This morning, I was let go from my chef position at the Italian restaurant I had been working at for two months, and for one harsh but simple reason, I just wasn’t good enough. After dragging myself out of bed at five o’clock this morning, I forced myself to walk five miles as a zombie in the bitter cold for the best part of two hours in order to make it into work for 6.30 AM in time for breakfast service. All of this painfully cold walking was due to the ridiculous ‘Sunday service’  bus policy that some rich successful man probably implemented in a villainous attempt to make my life harder by running less buses on a Sunday.

It was then, proceeding a surprisingly successful solo breakfast shift, that I was sacked by a waitress who had received orders from the manager to release me from my position as a chef at the restaurant. Apparently, my attitude to work wasn’t satisfactory and I just wasn’t grasping the technique that was required. Voraciously holding back my tears of anguish, I tried to make the conversation as short and painless as possible and soon left to catch the bus that incidentally, I missed. Midway through my harrowing walk of shame home, a frightening thought emerged from the saddened shadows of my mind, that my rock had just smashed against the foundations of my path to success.

I’ve hit rock bottom for a number of reasons. For one, I’ve got a laughable amount of money and a questionable number of friends. I left my previous job on a mere ten hours a week and became unemployed for a few weeks, tumbling into significant financial turbulence. I only received a crummy two weeks worth of pay from the company I’ve just been fired from, which almost lasted November, and I now possess only enough money for a small bag of Space Raiders from my local corner shop – which I’m considering doing now as a numb to the pain of the tragedy I’m currently living.

Scrolling down my Facebook feed is painful business for me. Watching the fly, popular university guys and girls that I used to know from school post countless pictures of driving test pass certificates and relationship status updates is a soul-destroying task as I sit unemployed in front of a 22-inch TV watching Mean Girls on Netflix. I literally only have one friend, that’s not counting halves. I find it tough to find friends courtesy of my unique personality and after shifting from high school to college to the working world in such a hasty transition has left any friends that I did miraculously manage to make, left behind doing other (likely more successful) things. I can only hope that when/if I find a new job, I can finally establish that group of friends that I’ve been aching to have for years now.

Perhaps a more minor problem to add to the avalanche of dilemmas I’m facing at the moment, is the fact that I literally don’t have a single girl in my life right now. I was taking great pleasure in texting a girl who I’d met on Tinder about a week ago, but unfortunately, that turned into a frantic disaster after she accused me of being a ‘chronic liar’ after I sent her a quote from a video I saw on YouTube. She claimed that I had not seen the video on YouTube and that I had definitely seen the video via a link that was posted on her Facebook page about a week ago, deeming me indefinitely as a ‘stalker’. Looking back, it was probably the most brainless argument I’d ever fought in my life. Needless to say, I think it’s safe to say that no female’s beds will be seeing any action from me in the near future.

Life can only get better, right? I’m 19-years-old and I feel as if I’m wasting these ‘golden years’. This is the final episode in the saga of my ‘free’ teenage years and the perfect time to take advantage of the liberties that come with being young – like partying, socialising, meeting girls and not lounging around the house with a teaspoon of Asda price Nutella hanging out of your mouth. I’m never going to look as magnificently beautiful as I do now given the fact that I smoke like a chimney and devour food like an overweight horse. These are the critical years of my life for shaping my own destiny and securing a decent future for myself, and as far as my teenage years have gone so far, I’m definitely zooming towards a life of selling magazines on the street and smoking second-hand cigarette butts.

I can say this though – life goes on, friends come and go, the perfect girl will arrive (hopefully) and no matter what, I’ll stay relentless in my pursuit of success. I’ll always look on the bright side of life…doo doo…doo doo doo doo.

How Not to Text a Girl (or anyone for that matter)

I’m the worst girl texter in the world. This is one of a series of negative revelations I’ve had over the last week, one of the others being that I can’t talk to girls in real life either. I had an undying hope that maybe talking to girls in real life just wasn’t my thing and that I compensated for it with my inconceivably amazing texting skills. But to my own dismay, I suck at both. Like seriously, I am genuinely in full belief that I am some form of anti-female that automatically sends anti-girl repellents with every text I send.

I’ve been using Tinder and I began my journey with an armoury of confidence and an ambition to elope with some of the hottest university girls in Scotland, and now I’m currently debating with myself whether or not I should open up my criteria to men as well as woman in order to increase my chances of getting matches. I guess you could say it’s not going too well. However, I have had a couple of small slices of success in that I’ve managed to obtain a few girls numbers. Granted, most of these prospects went south after a few days of trying to lure them out for a coffee.

So, the first significant chance I’ve had with actually meeting a girl from Tinder, was with this cute English girl from Devon that was studying at some posh university in Edinburgh. Her texting style was fashionably unique to me – dirty. That’s right, an incredibly good-looking girl from Devon was talking dirty to me and I had no idea how to deal with it. But, being the beacon of confidence that I was at the time (this was a few weeks ago), I knew I was wise enough handle it, and believe it or not, we eventually progressed on to exchange a few suggestive pictures. Admittedly, a small piece of me was a tad apprehensive about this but I’m sure it was just due to the fact that I’d never sent or received explicit images before. After a few days of the most seductive exhchange of pictures Facebook has ever seen, we planned a ‘meet & greet’ session at her house the following Friday.

This was a golden opportunity for me, and a rare one at that. I was ACTUALLY going to a girl’s flat and WAS going to have sexual intercourse with her. As much as I couldn’t believe that this was actually happening, I prepared for the singular event comprehensively, laying out the exact outfit I was going to model three days before the event. Thursday swung around like a sharp axe and I blew all of my money expecting to get paid the next day. Waking up on Friday morning poorer than a church mouse was definitely not a riveting start to my day and I ended up having to tell her that I had been kept on at work and couldn’t make it. She never spoke to me again.

The second girl I somehow managed to ruse into exchanging numbers with from Tinder, was this small under-age 17-year-old with a broad Scottish accent – I only know that because I plucked up the courage to actually call her on the phone one night. When I first started texting her, everything was perfect. I wasn’t portraying myself as desperate, and she had a promising personality. My fingers seamlessly flowed from flirtatious letter to letter as every text I sent was triumphantly crowned with an equally fantastic text back. However, last night everything seemed to cave in and I’m quite certain I’m not the one to blame for it. In a matter of days, we went from casually chatting about meeting up for a coffee, to arguing ferociously over a YouTube video that she claimed I saw on her Facebook page due to me being a relentless stalker.

I sent her a text message with a quote from one of PewDiePie’s videos (never again), in the hope that she had seen the video, laugh and then ask me to marry her in Hawaii or something, but, by sheer coincidence, the same video had been posted on her Facebook a few days before and she viciously accused me of stalking her page. Enraged and baffled that she had called me a liar, I told her not to talk to me again. She hasn’t spoken to me since.

These are two prime examples of why I’m definitely the worst person at texting girls on the planet. I must have texted over 100 girls in my time, and from that I’ve had a mere two relationships, one of which lasting for four meager days and the other for around two weeks. Most girls I’ve had the privilege of texting in the past either think I’m too weird, a creep or a strong combination of the two. I like to think that I’m neither of those things and that it’s just the girl I’m texting isn’t smart enough to understand my clever jokes and cunning wit, but this is probably just me being a pretentious moron. I’ve tried going for the monotonous “Hey, how’re you?” form of chat enterprised by the “cool, normal guys” but it’s a challenge for me to keep my explosive personality in its cocoon.

The thing that bothers me most about this affront to texting, is that I’ve never actually had the grandeur of being with a girl that I actually fancy. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been with girls that I like and that I find attractive – well, one girl out of the two I’ve been with, but when you take into consideration how many girls I’ve had heart pains over, I’ve not been successful with one. Not one. I think I’ll stick to my marijuana for now. Love is worth waiting for.