It's Too Late to Apologise and, For That, I Am Truly Sorry

Mr. A is not the first 'nice' guy I've dated. They have been few and far between, but I have chalked up at least, hmmm, three. 

This post is about one in particular, probably the first truly nice guy I dated, and the horrible way I ended it all (probably yet another karmic reason why my dating life is generally such a disaster).


I met The Nice Guy at a bar in Sydney. I was there for after work drinks on a Friday night. It was full of the yuppie set (wow, who would have thought that a blog in 2012 would bring back the term yuppie? Not me!) I saw a gorgeous man dancing very well on the floor, we started talking, he told me his name was Mink (not really, I just misheard him, but he seemed like the type of guy who could be called Mink, he was just THAT good looking). Mink wasn't The Nice Guy (although he was also incredibly nice). I found out really quickly that Mink was, tragically, married. This was a pretty devastating blow, I love a good looking man who can dance and who also seems kind of nice, a triple threat I like to call them. 


In swoops The Nice Guy. He was besties with Mink. And I guess that after watching my inevitable rejection, he decided that maybe he could be a suitable replacement for Mink. He was also quite nice looking (not in Mink's league, but pleasant), and he really should have been my type, he ticked all the boxes. He was tall, had messy black hair, big, nice eyes, and a very sweet smile. He was also really well dressed. He asked for my number, and I handed it over. I wasn't overly excited, but I wasn't going to say no to a box ticker (that sounds kind of dirty!).


The Nice Guy made all the right moves after this. He texted, he emailed throughout the day when we were both working, he was an absolute sweetheart. And, yet, the passion wasn't there. Maybe if I saw him again!


We went on a date, he travelled to near where I lived to go on this date. It was nice, we got along. He was polite, handsome, and well put-together. Also an excellent kisser! Perfect boyfriend material. But, still, not feeling it.


I kept giving him chances, because he seemed like the right thing to do at the time. We hung out a lot more, a couple of times at my house. We never went all the way (so high school), mainly because he was kind of nervous. He would shake a little bit whenever we kissed each other. If I'd wanted to take it further I definitely could have, but something was holding me back. A very tall, dark, and handsome something. But I'll get to that in a second. 


The doubts were there over minor things. Ah, the things you can be picky about when you're young (I talk like I'm forty. I'm not). He liked fantasy novels. I judged him for this. Deeply. I just really, really don't like fantasy novels, unless they're Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, or Game of Thrones. I am a book snob, there I've admitted it, it feels like such a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. His family were really into the theatre. Which is fine, but made me (quite wrongly) question his sexuality (he was neat, and liked the theatre, it was inevitable that I would come to the wrong conclusion). He had a car that I didn't like, this little sporty thing that reminded me of my mother. A guy's car should never remind you of your mother. It's just wrong. 


I was kind of mean to him which, in hindsight, was just the kind of person I was. I'm still a little bit like this, but I've managed to identify it as an issue and can usually control my meanness these days. I teased him about his taste in books, and his car. I teased him mercilessly about his car. I was AWFUL. I don't know why the guy kept going out with me, it must have been exhausting to be around me. 


The biggest problem though, when it comes down to it, was the six foot five hulk of a man that I was still crazily in love with. The King of Emotional Fuckwittery. He deserves a post of his own, probably more than one, so I won't go into it too much. Suffice to say, when I met The Nice Guy, The King and I were officially split up. Unofficially, we were still sleeping with each other. All the time. I was like an addict, couldn't stop going back for one more hit. I didn't think I still loved him, but I did. In a crazy, unhinged kind of way that frightens me a little now. 


The Nice Guy didn't really stand a chance. I didn't sleep with The King whilst I was dating The Nice Guy, just to be clear. Well, not consistently. We were barely talking for that month, mainly because I had decided that I 'needed to move on.' I had a belated housewarming party planned. The Nice Guy was invited along with one of his friends. I was happy enough for him to meet my friends, I knew they would love him, he was quite perfect. 


The night before my party, I got a phone call from The King. At midnight. He had locked himself out of his place. Could he come to mine? It was raining. I felt bad. I said yes. I was wearing my gigantic pyjamas, there was no way he would want to sleep with me. I had, obviously, conveniently forgotten the fact that we had dated for two years, and that he had seen me in my gigantic pyjamas on many, many occasions and still slept with me. The plan of no sleeping together didn't go well. And then, for some ridiculous reason, we decided the next day that it would be a really good idea to go to see the Sex in the City movie. That's right! A fucking date! With my ex. It was one of the most retarded situations I have ever been in.


I invited him to my party, because I felt obliged to. I knew he wouldn't come, but there was an off chance. I called The Nice Guy in a state of complete anxiety. He answered and I was on speaker phone in his tiny sports car, and his brother was sitting next to him. He asked me to say hello to his brother. I did so. Then I asked if he could call me back later when his brother wasn't there. When he did, all of the words gushed out of me like a really awful stream. I told him that my ex had turned up on my doorstep the night before, that I was so confused, and that I didn't think he should come to my party, and that maybe we just shouldn't see each other any more. He was, predictably, ridiculously lovely and supportive of this decision. He said all the right things. Because that was the type of guy he was, outstanding and sensitive in just about every way.


The party went ahead, sans any of the men in my life, and I decided that it was all over between me and The Nice Guy, and that The King was still, unfortunately, the one for me.


On Monday I got to work, and had a long email from The Nice Guy. He basically told me that he understood what I was going through, that he had tried to be friends with his ex, that it didn't work. He told me he wanted to still be friends and, hopefully, in the future, when I had sorted out my feelings, something more. I didn't respond. I made that decision, and there's a part of me that wishes I hadn't. 


Here's the thing, The Nice Guy would have been perfect if I had met him at the right time in my life. Like now, for example. If I had met The Nice Guy right now, I would have had no hesitation in dating him, possibly even settling down with him. Because he really was amazingly nice. But it took moving to another country, and meeting The Writer to show me the value of a genuinely good guy. And by that point, it was all a bit too late for me and The Nice Guy.


So, I would like to apologise, even though it is sorely late. I'm sorry to The Nice Guy, and to all the other nice guys out there who have met girls like me at times in their lives when they're really not ready for a nice guy. I know that one day you'll all meet lovely girls, and marry them, and have perfectly nice lives. I hope that The Nice Guy has met someone lovely, because he really does deserve it after dating the likes of me. 


Deeply apologetic,


B. J. Barnes
 

A Letter to Men That I Date (But Mostly to Mr. A. Ok, Just to Mr. A) P. S. This is One of Those Letters That People Never Send

Dear Mr. A, 

I know we're literally only just getting to know each other. But there are a few things about me that you should probably know, because I really don't want you to get the wrong impression. 

• I am probably not as 'cool' as some of your ex-girlfriends. I am actually a pretty big nerd;
• In a related point, I'm not very 'indie.' I do love a lot of indie music, but my personality is too all over the place to settle into the indie mould. You seem a little bit indie. I might be wrong about that, because you also seem a bit nerdy. I guess we'll just have to see;
• I don't like all the same television shows as you. You seem to like fantasy/sci-fi stuff that's written really well. I sometimes like stuff like this. But mostly I just like trashy stuff, like Gossip Girl, or How I Met Your Mother. This is something you will have to learn to live with if you decide to date me in any ongoing sort of way; 
• I sometimes like really terrible pop music. Really terrible. So terrible that you will judge me for it. But I'm probably not going to hide this obsession from you, like some dirty porn stash, because it's kind of exhausting to have to pretend to be only into cool, alternative, indie, rock music;
• I am really quite bookish. I read all the time. I try to read a lot of literature, but I sometimes slip and read stuff that's pretty badly written, because it's fun for a change;
• I guess that my love of books and music are really a reflection on the type of person I am. As a child I used books to escape from all the rubbish going on in my parents' lives, and as a teenager I used music. As an adult I use both to escape from the fact that my life hasn't really ended up where I thought it would, and to combat the unnerving anxiety that I sometimes feel. So, sometimes, I'll probably be obsessed with a new band, or a book that I just can't put down, and you'll just have to accept that this is who I am;
• I can be a bit flippant sometimes, and I think that that makes me come across as not as smart as I actually am. I am actually fairly intelligent, and know lots of different, random things. I'm just not an expert at any one thing, I'm more of an all-rounder. If I make an odd comment, chances are I'm not being all that serious, and haven't really thought it through. As I get older I get better at avoiding this, but I can't always control it;
• You are incredibly intelligent. Certainly the most intelligent man I have ever been on a date with. And it makes me a little uneasy, because I get intimidated when you talk about certain things that I really should know about but don't. I've taken to nodding and smiling when you say this stuff. I'll also admit to googling certain words or topics you've discussed afterwards in an effort to feel slightly less stupid next time I see you. The fact that you're smarter than I am, combined with my sometimes flippant behaviour, makes me nervous;
• I am a romantic. A hopeless one. I sometimes believe in fate, and silly concepts like 'The One.' I'm not saying that I think you're 'The One,' or that it was fate that we met. But I feel like everything will work out exactly the way it's meant to for everyone eventually. And I struggle to find a reason why I feel that way, because I've really seen no evidence of this being the case;
• In addition to being a romantic, I'm also an escapist. As I mentioned before, I use books and music to escape everything, all the time. I ran away to another country for a year just to escape the realities of day to day life. And it was the best thing I ever did. But this doesn't mean I'm flighty, it just means I'm open;
• Did I mention that I'm also a hardcore pragmatist/realist? Confused? Yeah. Me too. Because you really shouldn't be able to be a romantic escapist at the same time as being a pragmatic realist. But I am. And I hold onto romantic concepts even though I realise that there's no proof of them. I'm not religious, but love, I guess, is what I have faith in. But I doubt myself every other day because of my realist tendencies;
• If you can't quite put your finger on who I am, join the club. I change every other day. I have so many different interests, so many thoughts, and so many different opinions of myself, that I can totally understand why ex-boyfriends have described me as inscrutable. The King of Emotional Fuckwittery was my best friend for around three years, but he once told me he had no idea who I was, or what I was thinking. He could never read me. And I kind of liked it that way. I hold big parts of myself back, not necessarily intentionally. But I hope that you'll give me a chance to be who I am, even if that person is a bit all over the shop. And if you ever want to know what I'm thinking, just ask, I promise I'll try to explain it to you. 

I guess the overall point of this is to say, well, I like you. And I hope that you might like me too. And I hope that I'll have an opportunity to get to know you better, because you seem a little bit different too. I like that about you. 

B. J. Barnes

The 'Official' First Date

So, after Mr. A's uber romantic response to my (not so) bat-shit crazy text message, which basically said 'Yes, I also think we should hang out, how about later in the week?' I went into a tail spin. He also thinks that we should hang out together? This was not what I had prepared myself for.

I have a tendency to always imagine the worst case scenario. I reason that it makes it easier when rejection inevitably comes. It really doesn't, but at least I'm somewhat mentally prepared, even if that preparation leads to me feel like a crazy person for a brief period of time. 

So when the worst case scenario doesn't eventuate, I don't really know what to do with myself. I don't know how to respond, or how to behave. I get even more nervous, if that's possible. 

But, enough about me, let's get to the point, which is, of course, the most awkward 'date' ever. EVER. I have been on worse dates, but none with this level of nervousness, anxiety and awkwardness, and that was just him. 

He offered me two alternatives for 'hanging out.' We could either go on a comedic walking tour that his (kind of famous) uncle was doing on Sunday, or drinks one night through the week. I thought strategically, and reasoned that doing a walking tour with a family member and loads of of other strangers might not be the best first date. But I still wanted to go. So I suggested that I might be a little hungover on the Sunday, and that perhaps we should just do drinks and then see how I was feeling on Sunday morning. 

The drinks were after work, and I had made plans to grab a drink with Shaz before the date started, as we tend to finish a little earlier than Mr. A. The plan was in place, I was going to look gorgeous, and be funny and awesome. He would have no choice but to make out with me immediately. 

Then, things started going wrong, or at least not as planned. 

Firstly, I ran into him in the street whilst on my lunch break. I did not look particularly glamorous at this juncture. I was carrying bags full of food for an afternoon tea and looked hurried. We greeted each other awkwardly, and he started talking about how stressed he was at work, and how he was also really stressed because he has been watching Game of Thrones (that's right, he was really grasping at straws for any sort of conversation at this stage). Luckily I like Game of Thrones, so was able to make conversation about this. I ended it by saying 'Weeellllllll, I'm seeing you tonight, so..... yeah...' He told me he would finish work at 6 and that we would meet then. Seemed like a good deal. 

I finished work at about 5:30 and went to the pub with Shaz. 6:15 rolled around. No word from Mr. A. I decided not to panic. I sent a text asking him if we were meeting at work or at the bar. No response. I started to panic. 

Shaz had to leave me at about 6:40 to get home for a family dinner. I decided that the best course of action was to go to the best friend's, give Mr. A another twenty minutes, and then possibly cry a  little. I started walking, and was filled with rage. I called the best friend and asked if I could come over. She said yes, so I continued my angry march towards her place. 

At 6:45 I got a deeply apologetic text message from Mr. A, saying that he had only just got back to his desk, and that if I was still around he could meet me at the bar. I sucked up as much of my anger as I could and agreed to meet him. I got to the bar and HE. WASN'T. THERE. 

At this point, words cannot describe my ire. The King of Emotional Fuckwittery used to be constantly late, and it killed me, as I'm incredibly punctual. I sent another text to make sure he wasn't waiting for me inside. He wasn't. 

I saw him in the distance and had to make a physical and mental adjustment to greet him politely. I unfolded my tightly folded arms, and took off my bitch face (also known as 'duck face') as quickly as I could. I smiled and greeted him. I'm pretty sure he went in for a kiss on the cheek, but I'm not accustomed to this from him, so we awkwardly hugged instead. He explained why he was late, he had had to attend a training session, which he thought was going to end at 6:00. It didn't. And his phone was at his desk. And he was sitting next to his boss with no discernible point of escape. I decided that this was an acceptable excuse, especially because his words really conveyed the panic he had felt at being trapped there, and I didn't want to make it any worse by being a bitch.

We then had to walk up what seemed like fifty flights of stairs to get to the bar. By the time we reached the top of those stairs I looked even less glamorous than I had on the street that day, and I desperately needed a drink, which he rushed to get.

The conversation was not particularly bad, although a little heavy on sex (mainly because we talked about lots of different television programs we liked, and all of them seemed to have an element of soft core porn). We had a few awkward conversational moments, but I think that for the most part it was fine. He got dinner, which we shared (and by shared, I mean I picked at a few chips and took two bites of a burger. On a side note, every time I've seen him, I've been unable to eat anything, mainly because I've eaten a huge amount of food prior to seeing him, or am just too nervous to stomach anything. He probably thinks I'm one of those weird girls who won't eat in front of guys. I'm definitely not).

The awkwardness ramped up a notch when we changed locations. We went to a bar downstairs for another drink and sat at a table that happened to have small tablecloths all over it. Mr. A immediately started folding the table cloths. It was one of the most distracting things I have ever seen. But I tried not to focus on it, and instead focused on our conversation. Then something happened and I couldn't contain myself any more. He put his entire hand and half his arm under the tablecloths. I burst into laughter, and he immediately whipped his hand out from under the linen, with a hasty explanation of why he had decided it was a good idea. 

We left not long after that, and I asked him how late I could leave it to buy a ticket to the tour on Sunday. He told me he could get a ticket. But then said 'You're probably not going to come though, are you?' I said 'I probably will.' And he said that he didn't think I would. We hugged goodbye and I went home to experience very mixed feelings, and also to call my friends, whilst lying in a tight ball of frustration, to see what they thought. 

As I said before, I've had much worse dates. This one was just very anxious and awkward, which are two things that I am beginning to realise Mr. A epitomises. But I still enjoyed his company thoroughly, in spite of the awful start to the date, and my inability to keep myself together when it came to awkward table cloth antics. I think it's mostly because, well, I really like him. 

Hoping this isn't just another dating disaster story,

B. J. Barnes

What Happened Next

My last post regarding Mr. A left you in anticipation, waiting for a response from him after I asked if he wanted to have a drink after his show.

He did. 

So I went along to his show, and it was funny and insightful and he was just as adorkable as ever. We went out for drinks afterwards with his friends and mine, and had a nice time, chatting about all manner of things, as we are wont to do. The night ended up somewhat disappointingly, his gorgeous flatmate was there too and he wanted to go home, so it made sense that Mr. A shared a cab with him. I got a lift home with my friend, feeling very pouty and annoyed by the uncertainty of the whole situation. 

I couldn't sleep, so I lay in bed concocting the text message that would either snag his interest or prove to me that he just wasn't that into me. I got a total of four hours sleep, and dragged myself out of bed to sit in a ball of anxiety watching Bridget Jones's Diary and drinking caffeine. 

I mentally drafted and redrafted the text as the day dragged on. Then I decided I needed a second opinion. I called the best friend, and told her that I needed her to advise me if what I wanted to do could be perceived as bat-shit crazy. She was apprehensive. I gave her a rough idea of what my text message would say. She told me I should send it, possibly be more forthright. We discussed what a fine line there is between enthusiastic and crazy, and decided that my original plan was the best option. 

The message was sent. I immediately felt sick with nerves. The gist of it was- I like you, and would like to hang out with you more if you would be interested in that. If not, all good too. I know what you're thinking, you don't need to say it. Masterpiece. Never been prouder. 

I spent the rest of the day moving between panic and indifference. I tried to nap. I failed. I ended up in bed by 8pm, I was so exhausted.I turned my phone on silent, and promised myself that I wouldn't look at it again until the morning. 


I kept that promise, and was rewarded with a positive response. Not the most romantic response. But a positive one, in that he agreed that we should hang out more, and suggested later in the week. 


Then it all got going. And this is where I'll leave you, begging for more. Which you shall receive, all in good time. 


A bundle of nerves, 


B. J. Barnes

Why Does My Life Sometimes Resemble That of Bridget Jones? Seriously?

I was regaling my friends with some awkward autograph stories last night when I realised something. Sometimes, I channel Bridget Jones. Hard core. 

My first awkward autograph story arose because I went to a talk that Yann Martel (author of Life of Pi- read it. Now!) gave at the Dublin Writer's Festival. I love Yann Martel, Life of Pi really did change my life. So after the talk, which revolved around his then new novel, Beatrice & Virgil, I dutifully purchased my copy of the book like the little literary groupie I am and stood in line to get his signature. 

As previously discussed, I like to overthink things, and I had lots of time in this line to overthink just about everything. I composed my speech for when I got my two seconds with the author of one of my all time favourite novels. It involved gushing admiration for Life of Pi, and thanks for having written such amazing prose. When I got up to him though, I promptly froze, croaked out my name, watched as he signed my book, said thank you, and ran. Well played, well played. 

My more Bridget-worthy moment occurred at another book signing, of course. This was the fateful book signing that I attended with The Writer, where I met his lacklustre girlfriend. As a result of this incredibly awkward situation, my Irish bestie and I partook in far too much of the free wine. 

The author whose book was being 'launched' was Dermot Healy, and the book was Long Time, No See. I had heard of neither author, nor novel before the launch, but The Writer had invited me, and his Dublin time was running out, so I was keen to soak up as much time with him as possible. Mr. Healy did a reading from his book, and it contained some breathtakingly beautiful language. You know that somebody is an amazing author when they can write a paragraph about a rock that makes you want to cry a little bit (to be fair to me, the rock was a symbol for something else, and I was highly emotional at the time).

But my Bridget Jones moment really came into full swing when I got to Mr. Healy to have him sign my book. I was drunk, and therefore determined to say something meaningful and intelligent about his book. I asked him to address his message to my stepdad, it seemed like a nice thing to do. I then proceeded to tell him that I thought his writing was very beautiful indeed. He looked at me quizzically- 'Really?' 'Oh yes!' says drunken I, 'I particularly loved the paragraph regarding the rock.' I said more than this, I've forgotten details. Needless to say, I looked like a bit of a drunken git. The message he inscribed for my stepdad? 'Good luck!' I am presuming he thought that the man's name I had given him was actually my boyfriend or husband, and he felt compelled to wish him luck for the future with someone as bat shit crazy as me. 

Why Bridget Jones, you ask? Book launch, too much alcohol, awkward social interactions, and work colleagues. The jackpot of Bridget Jones-esque awkwardness really. 


 B. J. Barnes

Worst. Breakup. Ever

You know the feeling. Your thoughts constantly turn in that direction. You have little flashbacks to happier times. It hurts, but you can't help but turning your mind down memory lane. It creeps up on you at the most unexpected of times, and you can't stop. It's an addiction, and it's unshakeable. 

This is exactly how I feel when it comes to Dublin. It's been such a hard breakup. Especially seeing as it was noone's fault, it really was just a distance thing (and a visa thing). 

I think about Dublin. Every. Single. Day. I remember stupid things about it, like the way I used to walk to work every day. I remember beautiful things about it, like how I'd never seen a sky that looks quite like that in my entire life, and now that I have, how I'll never be able to forget it. I remember the rain that was really more of a mist, and how I loved walking around town in it, how it made the place feel even more magical. In short, I remember the poetry of the place.

I've never felt an affinity with a place in the way I do Dublin. I've written previously about how I ended up there on a completely unexpected family trip. I remember the creeping feeling that I somehow belonged there. I remember saying this out loud one day to my Irish stepdad, who laughed at my enthusiasm. I then said, 'no, I'm serious. I can see myself living here.' That was it really, I was a goner. I was head over heels in love with the place. 

And our time together was one of the most amazing years of my life. Not only because of the amazing, amazing friends that I made, or the amazing places and things that I saw, or the fact that I was finally in Europe, far, far away from all of the drama at home. It was amazing because I was in Dublin! I was living in the city that had irrevocably captured my heart in the space of three weeks.

Trinity College, the park in the middle of Merrion Square, the cobblestoned laneways, Grafton Street at Christmas time, the way the city looked covered in snow, and the Liffey, flowing right through the centre of it all. They are constantly on my mind. 

Dublin, this is my love letter to you. I've never been through a harder breakup. But I'm glad we're still friends. I promise I'll see you again soon. 

A little bit heartbroken, but able to bounce back,

B. J. Barnes

 

John Mayer is a Douche

But I still love him. I love him enough to forgive him for being a douche. I even almost love him enough to forgive him for dating Jessica Simpson (almost).


Ha! I totally got you thinking that this was going to be a rant about John Mayer, when it reality it's going to be about why I love him in spite of all his douchebaggery. Please keep reading though, because I'll still be critical, it's what I do best, after all.


I think that the reasons I love John Mayer can be listed as follows:

• He is an awesome guitarist. Seriously, the man can play! He is a great musician, and I admire that about him;
• He managed to trick a whole generation of women into believing that he was the type of man that you would love to take home to meet your mother (Your Body is a Wonderland. I rest my case). He then smashed this illusion forcefully and repeatedly by behaving like a complete douchebag at every opportunity. His indiscretions are almost too numerous to list. I admire his dedication to making himself out to be a 'nice' guy, and his equal dedication to taking this image, stamping on it, ripping it apart, and then setting it on fire;
• He writes some very pretty, but also some very fucked up song lyrics. He is literally a mass of contradictions. His lyrics appeal to me. I like listening to sad music sometimes. It makes me feel sad, which gives me an excuse to wallow and get all 'woe is me' on my self.

Back in the day I dated the Mayers of this world. I seemed to actively seek them out. They'd start out all boy next door, saying the sweetest (frankly, completely unrealistic) things imaginable, and then, once they had you, BAM! Douchebag central. Every time. And every time I would cry some, and then listen to John Mayer (Slow Dancing in a Burning Room is a hideous break up favourite). It was a vicious cycle.

I think that I've managed to break this cycle. I don't know when it happened, probably somewhere between being offered a laptop as a bribe for not revealing the sexual indiscretions of an incredibly nervous Irishman, and receiving a completely unsolicited sext (a hilarious story for another time). 

I think The Writer helped as well. I was forced to tell him about my Dell bribe story at lunchtime once because it had been discussed amongst my friends, and then he arrived and asked what we were talking about. The Writer's reaction really hit me. He didn't laugh like everyone else, or crack a joke, or suggest a way to further torture Dell guy. He just looked at me with his soulful blue eyes and said 'I'm so sorry to hear that. I can't believe that somebody would do that to you. You don't deserve that at all.' I know that after he said that, the others continued to talk, but between him and I, you could have heard a pin drop. It was the first time that a guy had ever told me that I was worth more than whatever the latest arsehole had put me through. And I felt ashamed. I felt ashamed that I had almost actively sought out the guys that would make me cry for days on end, it was as if I could feel the rot of their inner landscape and felt compelled to fix it. I felt ashamed that I had not given nice guys a chance (I have a particularly poignant story about this very issue, and I'll tell it at a later point). 

Getting back to the point, I think one of the main reasons I love John Mayer is because I can see some of him in my former self. Because, as much as I like to bitch and criticise all of my awful ex-boyfriends or random hook ups, I was just as much of an arsehole as any of them, at the end of the day. I've said some truly horrible things to men in the past. I treated the King of Emotional Fuckwittery like a plaything, batted him about for my own amusement, discarded him, and then wondered why on earth he behaved like such a douche when we went out a second time around. I am capable of coming across all sweet and righteous and wonderful, and then changing my mind for no apparent reason, or talking down to men as if they're lesser beings than I. And that makes me just as much of a douche as John Mayer, because back then I couldn't sit still, I didn't know what I wanted, and I took this out on the men around me. 

But I'm getting better. I think I know what it is that I want now. And it's not necessarily The Writer. I don't really want the drama that would go along with the two of us, the constant fighting, the craziness, the great BIG scary love. I want a great love, but I think I want it to be about more than just discord and intellectual stimulation. I want a cute, smart, funny boyfriend who makes me smile more than he makes me cry, I want a really great friend as well, and I don't want to fuck it up so much that I lose him. And I think that this is the first time I've actually realised this.

So, this post went from being a bit of cute fluff to being weirdly, uncomfortably deep. Kind of like a John Mayer song I guess.

Likely to change my mind tomorrow, 

B. J. Barnes

P. S. I'm SO sorry about this post. It is a random, self-serving piece of tripe. I'm at least happy that I was able to wrap it all nicely with my little 'this is kind of like a John Mayer song' comment. But it's still pretty goddamn awful, and for that I apologise. 

Soooooo......... What Happens Now?

Almost two weeks have passed since the cute lunch. They've been a pretty uneventful two weeks insofar as Mr. A is concerned, I'm going to be honest. 

After I wrote my last post, literally that evening, he started chatting with me on the social network. He initiated it, in spite of the fact that I had seen him online earlier that day and felt compelled to start a witty banter. I resisted all of my keeno instincts and was rewarded with contact. The conversation we had was cute, snappy, and relevant to things we had previously discussed. It doesn't bear much more explanation. 


I emailed him the next day at work (bad me, using work resources for my own personal ends), attaching an article about something we had discussed at lunch. He is not usually one to respond to work emails that are non-work related, so I wasn't really expecting anything. But he surprised me, and within the hour he had written a short response. We exchanged a few more emails regarding the topic at hand, and he sent me a link to a related video that he thought I might enjoy. Success!


The rest of the four day week passed with no contact. As I mentioned in my last post, the crazy had mostly passed, so I wasn't overly concerned. Then Good Friday rolled around. It was a 'good' Friday. I took advantage of the spectacular weather, and the best friend, another mate, and their fiance and husband, respectively, went to the park for a picnic. A boozey picnic. A very, very boozey picnic. By day's end us girls had shared four bottles of sparkling. Needless to say, I was trashed. And even walking home (unexpectedly) did little to sober me up. 


I arrived home at around 6pm, and was incapable of doing much other than sitting on my couch watching tv and aimlessly staring at the internet. And that's how it began. I was having simultaneous chats on the social network with two of my lovely friends. I had thus far resisted the urge to 'drunk dial' or 'drunk text' Mr. A. I was pretty proud of my restraint, and was discussing said restraint with my friends when who should pop up online, but Mr. A. 


I debated the appropriateness of 'drunk chatting,' for about five seconds. Then I plunged in headfirst. Let me just give you a snapshot of the brilliance that came from the tips of my fingers during this half hour long conversation:

• I advised him immediately that I was drunk (I felt full disclosure was the best way to go in this scenario. Plus, he had probably already seen my drunken status update in which I had declared to the social network community that I was, in fact, drunkedy drunk); 
• I told him that I had to make my bed up, as sober me had decided to wash the sheets earlier in the morning. He made a joke about how he had drunkenly done this once and ended up sleeping on a sheetless part of his bed wrapped in a pillowcase. It was very funny. Even more so because I was wasted. I then said that I was very tempted to screw the bed making and build a pillow/blanket fort in my loungeroom and camp there for the night;
• This prompted him to lament the fact that he did not live alone. He then told me he was alone that evening, except for his dog;
• DOG!!!!!!!!! He lives with a DOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE DOGS!!!!!! This was the level of excitement that I displayed regarding his live in dog. Actually, it was that level of excitement times ten. The dog belongs to his flatmate. His flatmate is gorgeous, but unfortunately gay (unfortunate for me, not for all of the very lucky men who swing that way. I want to set him up with my brother, but that's probably not going to happen). In defence of my excitement, Mr. A did little to temper it. He sent me pictures of the dog (an adorable little white, fluffy thing) wearing outfits! OUTFITS!!! A DOG in OUTFITS!!! Really, it's like handing a junkie a kilo of their drug of choice and saying, go crazy! Or leaving a massive cake in a room with an unsupervised child (I totally just thought of the Hyperbole and a Half post about cake. If you haven't read it, do yourself a favour, it is absolutely brilliant- http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com.au/2010/10/god-of-cake.html). In short, my excitement and overall thankfulness were unavoidable after receiving pictures. I feel like he knew that this state of hyperexcitement would be the result of his actions, and found it kind of amusing. I probably give him some great material; and
• He made the comment that he supposed I really, really liked dogs, and wondered if they were up there with Ireland and sparkling wine. This prompted me to list some of my favourite things, That's right, I drunkenly made a list of my favourite things for a guy that I have a massive crush on, and super high hopes for. Well done me, crazy, as always.

The conversation continued for a little bit longer, but I managed to avoid any further dog/favourite things-related humiliation. To sum up, it wasn't the greatest conversation the world has ever known, but it was a far cry better than what it could potentially have been, given the amount of alcohol I had consumed. 

It is now Monday, and I just sent him a message to let him know I'll be attending his show next weekend with some friends and asking if he'd be interested in a drink afterwards (me? a groupie? Never! Truly though, I'd like him even if he wasn't a comedian. He is just so goddamn cute and smart. He does it for me, it must be a chemical thing). I'm awaiting a response. 


I'm kind of in this 'whatever will be, will be' frame of mind at the moment. It's not a bad place to be if I were to be honest. I have been single for a while now so whilst I am quite invested in trying to get this off the ground, I'm also used to being alone. It doesn't freak me out quite so much anymore (even if I do sometimes have Bridget Jones moments, convincing myself that I'll be alone forever and consuming my body weight in chocolate and alcohol. Good times). 


The answer to the question in this post's title is still I'm really just not sure. I feel like I've been playing most of my cards right (in spite of minor hiccups like being a keeno, snorting, and drunk chatting), and I'm just waiting around to see what happens. I'll be sure to keep you posted (did you like what I did there? Posted? Hahahahaha. I'm so hilarious. Maybe I should be a comedian.... Hmmmm, something to think about). 


Still ridiculously overexcited about dogs generally,


B. J. Barnes


P. S. Happy belated Easter!  On a related note, I have eaten so many mini easter eggs this weekend that I feel like my body must be at least 50% chocolate right now. God I love mini easter eggs.

Dissect. Then Doubt, Doubt, Doubt

I am analytical by nature, in case you couldn't already tell. As such, I have the terrible tendency to dissect every little thing after any encounter with a man I am crushing on, and that can sometimes send me into a spiral of doubt.

My last post outlined the lovely lunch I had with the lovely Mr. Adorkable. The elation from this encounter lasted for a total of two days. And what elation it was, I was smiling so much my face started hurting a little bit.

Then the doubt began to creep in. I started thinking about everything that I had said that could be taken badly. I didn't hear from him. This compounded my doubt. 

One of my work girls had been on leave for the week in which the drinks and lunch occurred and arrived back the day after lunch. She knows Mr. A and wanted a full rundown of, well, everything. We agreed that lunch the next day was a must. 

I divulged everything that had happened, we squealed and giggled like the fifteen year old girls we are inside. But then we started looking at the aspects that could be perceived badly. My friend, lets call her Shaz (mainly because she hates it, haha), is of a very similar disposition to me. One of our shared faults (or advantages, depending upon how you look at it) is a tendency to be negative. By the end of the lunch, I had convinced myself that Mr. A didn't like me at all, that I would probably never hear from him again, and that I had made a fuss over absolutely nothing. 

To make matters worse, Shaz asked about The Writer, and we had a brief conversation about him, and the whole glorious mess. I've decided that talking about The Writer to anyone other than my Irish friends who actually know him, and even then in the dullest of terms (ie. 'how is he doing? How's London treating him? Say hi to him from me), is something that I should simply not do. 

The rest of that day was bad. Being in my head is so hard sometimes. I overthink everything and, effectively, think myself into a deep, black hole that seems impossible to climb out of. I arrived home from work and within ten minutes found myself laying flat on my lounge with my fly undone (I was about to get changed out of my work clothes, and things suddenly felt all too much for me. Laying flat on the lounge seemed like the best course of action). This really was me at my melodramatic best. It was a sight to see. 

I received a social media message on my phone from a friend, Pix, and as she is going through something similar (ie. not getting called by a man that she is interested in), I decided that I would call her and complain. Pix was (shockingly) sensible about the whole thing, very pragmatic indeed. It was not what I was expecting. It made me feel slightly better. I spoke to my best friend, who had received a litany of online chat freak outs that day, later that evening, and she was very supportive of my wallowing.

Fast forward to the weekend now. I gave myself until Sunday to get all of the crazy out of my system. Luckily it was mainly gone by Friday night, after some drinks with the best friend and Shaz. I said everything I had been thinking out loud, we laughed a lot, and made some jokes at Mr. A's expense (which wasn't very nice, but it was all in good fun, and I still maintain that he is one of the loveliest men I've met in quite a long time). 

I've decided that I've simply been single too long, and my tendency to over-analyse things, and also to want to know exactly what is going to happen (did I mention that I'm also a control freak. Gosh, any man unfortunate enough to be reading this right now would be thinking I was quite the catch!) means that I am quite frankly not equipped to deal with the early stages of a relationship/friendship with a man/whatever the hell this is. 

I just really want to know where this could be going. An indication either way about the way he feels would be great right about now. I just want him to say 'I like you,' or 'you're a cool, if slightly odd, chick and I'd like to be mates.' I would probably be fine either way, a little disappointed if the latter occurred, but able to accept it and move on to the many other men here in Melbourne. I just need to know! But I have accepted that I might not find this out anytime soon, he's very busy with comedian stuff at the moment (festival time), and I'm sure I'm nowhere near the top of his list of concerns right now. So I just have to suck it up, really, and carry on the way I was before, single, and relatively content. 

In short I really just need to adhere to this sentiment:

It's never been more pertinent, really. 

Thinking soothing thoughts, 

B. J. Barnes