...is hardly the easiest thing in the world.
I’m really not the sort of person who exudes essence of ‘21-year-old-virgin’. If you met me that’s probably one of the last things that would burst into your mind. And honestly I’m just not cut out for it. I’m far too English to actually talk about my frustrations with a real human being. So now I have a blog. I’ve dated plenty of guys; one might even say an above average number for my age, although maybe that’s just what I like to tell myself. I go out and I drink, and dance, all that palaver…sometimes I even enjoy it. I have plenty of friends. I’m not extroverted, but I’m certainly not shy (although there was an awkward teenage phase that I’d prefer not to dwell on). Yet lo and behold, regardless of all that, here I am. I suppose that the bright side is that after another nineteen years like this they might want to make a movie of my life. Joyful thought, that.
So. Here is…living alone for the first time in my life. No parents. In a new country, with new friends, none of whom no me well enough to judge, or even to care really. And yet I haven’t kissed anyone in almost a year. I may have forgotten how. I haven’t fooled around with anyone for…well that has been longer than a year. I’m honestly not sure when anything exciting last happened to me. And the worst part of all of it is that I know it must be my fault. Because I am, if I’m honest, a total loser. I’d rather be in bed listening to Taylor Swift than risk being out after 4 AM, because that kind of partying just makes a girl tired.
I come up with elaborate plans to make my life more exciting, but as I should probably have learnt from the hundreds of poignant quotes on the subject, something like that can’t be learnt. Nonetheless, I’m sticking with my mission. As of yet, I’m not quite sure what mission it is. It might be a mission to be a bit more reckless, it might be to fall in love, or at least get a bloody boyfriend. It might be to have sex, to become the little hussy that I always secretly wanted to be. Or it might just be to get a life.
Step one in my elaborate plan is to convince a rather pretty foreign boy that I’m worth taking out for a drink sometime. Of course, the difficulty lies in the existence of this stubborn little thing that controls my life to the extent that I perhaps ought to get a restraining order, or at least start referring to it as ‘mother’- my stupid pride. I will not let him figure out just how pathetic I am. I know what you're thinking: easier said than done, right?
