A story about me and David Sedaris:

Years ago I went to see Davis Sedaris read his essays live (he was obviously amazing). At the time, I was about to embark on my own essay reading show. I waited in line for hours to get my copy of his book signed.

My manager, who was there too, repeatedly asked if I was going to tell him I was a comedian.


He asked if I would tell him about my show. I said I would rather die in a slow, painful, glue-related death. No one wants to be that guy. “You know I do a bit of writing myself-”
*shoots self in the eyeball*

As the time passed my manager became more and more persistent and ran to a local Internet cafe to print up my essays to bring back to me.

My time with Mr Sedaris finally came. I was nervous. I was sweating; on my lip and behind my knees. He was everything you’d want him to be; polite and charming and warm and genial. He signed my book and complimented me on my knitting needle broach. I felt like the swooning daughter of Virginian property owner, fanning myself at his words, “Oh Mr Seadaris…”

Burnt up by a sense of loyalty as I walked away from his desk I turned back and said, “I’m so sorry to do this but I’m about to do my own essay reading show and my manager is with me and he went to print these off at an Internet cafe so I think I have to give them to you. You don’t have to read them. You can put them in your hotel bin when you get back.” He gave me a look I couldn’t read like I’d tried to teach a cockatoo a new word. He then asked if I could put my address on the top. I told him my email address was already there. He corrected me, “No, your home address.” I didn’t understand at the time, but you just do what David Sedaris asks you.

I walked away feeling elated. But not quite as elated as when I got home two or three months later, having forgotten about that interaction, and had a hand written post card from him waiting for me in the mail.

It’s one of my most prized possessions.


PS I will post those essays here over the coming weeks.

T: @felicityward

F: Felicity Ward

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THE A-TEAM – Standard Issue Magazine

Here is a little article I wrote about friendship in your 30s. It’s appearing this week in Standard Issue magazine:

I have a mate I call my “grown up” friend. She owns a Dustbuster, buys travel insurance before holidays and goes to the dentist when she needs to, sometimes even just for a check-up. Recently I was talking to her about a close friend who appears to have disappeared off the face of the planet. When we’re together, this disappeared friend and me, it’s amazing. It’s like we were separated at birth. But when she goes back to the country she lives in, pooooof! I wondered if I’d done something wrong.

Rather than ask about the situation, Grown Up Friend asked me if this woman was in my “A-Team”.

I paused. “She ‘pities the fool’, if that’s what you’re asking?”

It was not what she was asking. She wanted to know what kind of friends I was surrounding myself with. It was a good question. I’m 34. Shouldn’t I be more concerned about who’s in my inner circle?

In your twenties, most platonic behaviour is acceptable. We all had those fabulous friends who’d cancel 14 minutes before you were supposed to meet up, and would only text the next day to tell you she’d met some Dutch yoga instructor at a pedestrian crossing and they’d ended up at an all-night chakra party. You had friends who always forgot the guacamole for the party, when all they had to do was remember to bring the guacamole for the party. You were even going to pay for the guacamole! Then they’d drink all the booze for the party instead. But you got along so well and life wouldn’t be the same without them. Hell, who else would turn up to your fancy dress do and rap all the lyrics to the Beastie Boys’ Shake Your Rump while dressed as a steak? Exactly. For most of your twenties, that stuff is adorable and only slightly irritating and definitely worth the trade-off.

In my experience, however, the charm wears off in your thirties.

I have friends who are brilliant, addictive, smart, spontaneous and informed. Can-can friends. They are hilarious and empathetic. They are generous and goofy. When you’re with them they make you feel like the double rainbow you are. Then, like a science-defying magician, they vanish. All traces erased. You go into small-scale cardiac arrest. You’re a child lost in a shopping centre. But rather than accept the truth, you make excuses for them.

They’ve probably got a lot going on right now.
I must have got the dates mixed up.
Their phone’s run out of battery. Or they’ve lost their phone! And their email address! And the internet!

You find yourself in a cycle of disappointment. It happens infrequently enough for you to forgive them, but often enough for you to wonder, “What’s wrong with me?”

Instead of giving me advice or criticising my friend for her absence, Grown Up Friend outlined her own A-Team. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it didn’t include the friends covered in glitter.

Instead, she explained, it’s that group of people who love you and show you they love you through their actions. It’s those friends who give you space when you need it and have the balls to tell you when they need the same. They don’t give you the sad fade out, like an unfinished song: drifting into the distance before you notice they’re out of reach. They’re the consistent friend. The kind friend. The person who turns up when they say they will.
Sometimes they’re not the most exciting friends. Sometimes they’re not the friends you’re platonically in love with. Sometimes they are just…available. Reliable. They’re the people who have your back, no matter what.

Now go and get a pen and paper. We’re going to make a list of your current friends. Ask yourself the big questions. At this stage of life, we need to know who’s on the inside circle of awesome and start investing our time and gratitude accordingly. Use the following as a base, then add your own. Be brutal in your answers. Pretend you’re throwing out your ex’s clothes.

• Does this person call me as much as I call them?
• Will this person help me make healthy choices?
• Will this person tell me to have a shower so they can take me somewhere I can eat miso soup because I’ve been wallowing in self-pity for three days and everyone has a limit?
• Does this person go to the dentist more than me?

Done it? You’ve got yourself an A-Team. Welcome to your sensible years. Prepare to be less disappointed.



If you are allergic please refrain from reading this. If sarcasm makes direct contact with your eyes please see a doctor or terrorist as soon as possible.

Australia your news last week was haaaard reading. Every time I thought I’d surely read the most awful thing I could, something of a more horrific nature popped up in my feed. I had to watch Lea Salonga (the original voice of Jasmine from Aladdin) sing “A Whole New World” to break up the tone of the afternoon. There was also an animated picture of Jasmine next to her, so at least I saw one positive portrayal of someone of Middle Eastern appearance.

Because according to our government, and some very unbiased media outlets, most Muslims are not to be trusted. If they’re not all out there beheading someone, those pesky Muslim women are making our Prime Minister feel uncomfortable by not showing their faces. He finds Burqas “confronting.” HE’S MINISTER FOR WOMEN! HE SHOULD BE ABLE TO SEE AS MANY WOMEN’S FACES AS HE LIKES, WHENEVER HE LIKES!

This is the Prime Minister who said:

“What the housewives of Australia need to understand-
(Housewives of Australia is not a TV show by the way)

“-as they do the ironing-“
(Oh hey 1952, I didn’t see you come in. Take a seat. I’ll just get my wife to iron you a cup of tea)

“-is that if they get it done commercially, it’s going to go up in price.”

He also said:

“While I think men and women are equal-“
(Whoah! From the makers of “I’m not racist but…”)

“-they’re also different. I don’t think it’s a bad thing that we have, say, an enormous number of women simply doing housework.”

Of course he finds the Burqa confronting. I mean, how are they going to find the iron wearing one of those things? And when they do, how are they going to be able to iron with all that excess material getting in the way of the ironing? Man, I’m surprised women have time to be an Islam with all that ironing to attend to.

You know what I find confronting? Crushed velvet. Capes. Goatees. Especially goatees. I don’t like Goatees. I don’t like what they represent (Heavy Metal) and I don’t like how they look (like a predatory 90s afterschool music teacher) The Goatee has spawned other more damaging facial hairstyles such as the “tickler” and the charmingly named “flavour saver.” Excuse me, I just have to dry wretch into an open lagoon.

So I’m sorry if you wear a goatee; I’m not into it. BUT! I have to deal with looking at a goatee because it’s not my business to tell other people what to wear. At the most I should have a conversation with goatee bearers about how they feel about wearing them. What it means to them. How can I be more tolerant of their choices, and if it’s any of my goddamned business asking in the first place.

Am I trying to draw comparison between a religious garment and a fashion statement, you ask? I don’t know if you’ve ever spoken to someone who listens to metal music, but it is definitely a religion. You’re always a metalhead, whether practicing or not.

This is dog whistle politics to silently condone a slide into outright national bigotry/racism. It’s amazing that Tone has been able to hide so much hatred under one little comment. He’s made his own Liberal Burqa, except he’s actually concealing something that is a matter of national safety. I’m sure that would make him proud and nauseated at the same time.

Somehow we have gone to war in Iraq, swept privacy laws away, raided innocent people’s houses and heard allegations of sexual abuse of asylum seekers in detention IN THE SPACE OF A WEEK and yet there is a national discussion about where Burqa wearers should sit in parliament house. The Coalition Government are turning into Today Tonight (Australian tabloid current affairs program). Every time they’d like you to ignore something quite important they run the “HOW SUPERMARKETS ARE RIPPING YOU OFF” story, but in the guise of “HEY REMEMBER TO BE SCARED OF MUSLIMS, ‘KAY?”

And let’s be real about two things:

  • There hasn’t been a recorded entry of someone wearing a burqa into the Australian parliament house yet.
  • They’re probably talking about a niqab.

When questioned about his decision to move the very dangerous women to behind a glass shield (where the visiting children are kept) Prime Minister Abbott then to had the gall to say “It’s hardly the most important issue facing our country right now.” Yes, Mr Prime Minister. It is hardly the most important thing so why make it a conversation in the first place? What you are doing is called Gaslighting. My sister used to do it. She’d get into an argument with me about something and then when I’d prove her wrong she’d say, “See, I told you. That’s what I was saying all along.” It would drive me insane. But I forgive her. You know why? Because she was six.

Where is our anger, Australia? Not outrage, but bloody anger! The only thing that gives me a skerrick of hope is how the NRL crowd reacted to a certain someone’s name being announced at the Grand Final (Youtube it – worth it).

Because while I sit here writing about Aladdin and Today Tonight, we are being stripped: Of rights and information and the ability to see each other as fellow human beings, rather than “others” who need to be policed by white people in the community. Maybe if we stand up and refuse to be stripped, they’ll put us behind a glass shield. And if that glass shield doesn’t provide protection, at least we will know what it feels like to be silenced together.

w – www.felicityward.com
t – @felicityward
fb – Felicity Ward


The Upshot of Being Ugly


I was so confused by women when I was a teenager. I was confused by the girls with their short skirts, and their hair twirling, and the giggling at boys.

They wore Impulse perfume and Australis lipstick and read Dolly magazine. At the time I would have told you they were idiots. That they were bimbos. Not being a bimbo was very important to me as an adolescent. The truth is, I was jealous. I had no idea how they were doing what they were doing, and I was even more baffled that it worked.

Because the thing I did have in common with a lot of these heterosexual lady-nagers (lady teenagers? Worth a shot), is that I was boy crazy. I was mental. I was borderline obsessed, and if anyone, other than my best friend, had read my diary, I would have been committed. One hundred years ago they would have given me that hysteria doctor vibrator treatment.

But it was like being a boy-crazy tree. Every dude saw me as a tree. Solid. Perennial. Funny. Tree. No one saw me as a prospective pash. There are myriad of reasons for this.

I was not a “natural beauty” per se. Ahem. I was…gawky. I had pointy teeth at the front. I was whooping cough skinny. I had a big nose for my age. It’s a shame it doesn’t work for noses the same way it works for IQs.

My daughter has such a big IQ for her age.
Well my daughter has an enormous nose!”
*awkward slow nodding.*

Don’t worry, I don’t have low self-esteem now, and this is not an attempt for me to try and connect with you over our current body image issues. I’m cool. But this was the truth.


I had no sexual connection to my body. I desperately wanted to have a boyfriend but the idea of having sex or even getting fingered, as was the fashion of the time, terrified me.

I didn’t get my period until I was 15 and I was so A-cupped that I told my BFF I was born with a concave chest. She believed me until the summer of ’97 when I won the boob lotto, then she was devastated and betrayed. Getting boobs at age 17 was as likely as Steven Bradbury winning at the Winter Olympics.

Also, I didn’t know what boys were attracted to. My grand plan was that I would befriend the boys. Be one of them. Get real close. Act all manly. Be super competitive. Make them laugh til we got in trouble. Never let them win at anything. Never humour them. Outwit. Outsmart. Outplay. Survivor style. I thought this was a water-tight plan. I was convinced that this would coax them over to the Wardy side. I was like the “cool Mum” trying to tell you that the Friday night church group band was “groovy” because the bass player wore a bandanna. (Co-incidentally for 2 years I also attended Friday night church group called Squids. And that bass player is now my uncle.)

You know in Monsters Inc. (Spoiler Alert) where they find out that children’s laughter is 10 times more powerful than their screams? That’s what I thought would happen by me acting like a dude; that by behaving in the exact opposite way to “the girls” I would attract them in a way THAT HAD NEVER BEEN SEEN BEFOOOOORE!

I should also point out, I liked being this way. I loved having heaps of male friends. Shout out to Ben Darling and Ben Hodges who I laughed with nearly every day for four years.

Lastly, I asked boys out. All the time. Repeatedly. The same boys. Who had said no. Repeatedly. They felt bad for me. I was hoping to catch a little sum-sum on the sympathy rebound, but no dice.

So where did this leave me? Virgining out, that’s where. Fortunately I did not learn any lessons in the language of flirt until I was 17 or 18, right at boob o’clock. And I genuinely didn’t know how to be sexually comfortable or use it to my advantage without feeling like I’d just snuck into the VIP section of a club I wasn’t invited to, until well into my late 20s. I pretended that I did. But I really didn’t.


So in the years leading up to the mammopolypse, I did well at school. Learnt guitar. Wrote a lot of bad poetry and bad song lyrics. Sung and played bad guitar in a grunge band. Studied Japanese at school. Tried to get political. Didn’t. Just had a lot of attitude against “the man” until I was about to get in trouble, then I’d do anything they said. I was Vice-Captain. I took up photography. I fell in love with drama. I saw more bands than I had money. Basically, I got interesting. And then when I was 19, I started travelling.

Now if I was pretty or sexually inclined, or had any clue how to get a boy to like me, I don’t know if I would have been or done any of those aforementioned things. I don’t. I don’t trust teenage me. And this is no disrespect to any of the gals that could.

As I said: I envy you.

And I’m also sure that the pretty teenagers are interesting and cool women now, too. But what all those years of desperate clambering to be noticed did, was make me very noticeable as an adult.

Personality is a great currency. Sexuality is too. They’re great bedfellows, no pun intended. But I’m glad I really had to work on my character exchange rate, rather than my eyelash batting.

High School is the worst. Even if it’s the best, it’s the worst, and I would never want to go back to the daily grind of paranoia in the harsh daylight of 1200 other insecure lemmings.

But I would love to sneak back and leave notes in the lockers of every young girl. Go ahead, figure out how to be hot. That’s awesome. But go and get sweet hobbies. Learn to ride a motorcycle. Get someone to show you sign language. Volunteer at a shelter. Do a knife throwing course (I’m sure they exist). Get heaps good at Judo. Learn to sculpt.

Because you will never regret being interesting. You may regret trying to pretend that you’re not.

(If you want to see me Kansas City, Los Angeles, Sydney, Perth, Brisbane, Melbourne, or South Africa you can go to my website www.felicityward.com and I have all the dates listed there. Or I’m on Facedick or Instadouche or Twatter . Hopefully I’ll write more regularly than I have been)

The Seven Stages of Preconceiving

Although I have only been whoring my wares, rotisserie WAG on Brownlow Medal turnstile style for a month now (if you’re from the UK, look up our football awards ceremony called the Brownlows where the girlfriends of the players stood on a rotating podium to be judged- classy), I’ve really had my ups and down. I’ve had lots of feelings, you guyz!! Online Mating websites are like having a real relationship with heaps of people, simultaneously but without any of the benefits. So, like being in a long distance relationship then. One polyamorous, sexually unsatifying long-distance relationship. I think in my most honest moments I’d assumed it would go something like this:

  1. Put up profile photo
  2. Whilst filling in profile page details, my inbox would be inundated with offers of marriage and consensual on the car boot sex.
  3. I’d shake my head with demure humility, and continue to fill out this application form of love; all the delicate nuances that makes me me. *spews into someone else’s handbag*
  4. 17 days later, when I’d sifted through the final quill written love letter (an hilarious fireman with a penchant for the Pixies and boardgames, I recall) I’d make my decision as to whom I’d write back to.
  5. After all of them immediately reply, I’d go on a series of amazing dates of all shapes and sizes (Flashmobbing in Trafalgar Square, to a quiet night on a boat restaurant in Embankment…of which I’d inevitably have to get off as I spend the night trying to not bring up my slowly undulating meal…he totally understands though. What a(n imaginary) gentleman!
  6. I’d have some casual flings with some, and then a month or two later, realise that the guy I’d been friends with and super attracted to felt the same way, and we hire a Goodies type tandem bike, ride into the sunset and make jokes about how we’ll have to find one of our single friends to come with us next time. *clinks glasses of apple cider, high fives, and makes out*

That’s what I really thought it would be like. It’s not. It’s more like a funeral, or rather the seven stages of grieving in reverse. So I’ve made my own list:

1. Excitement – this is by far the best part of the online mating process. This is the stage filled with hope and possibility; filled with meticulous word choice, so you sound buoyant but “chilled.” Like you might use the phrase “YOLO” in real life, but somehow coming out of your mouth it sounds inspiring. You wonder who will be interested in you and how they feel about a girl with IBS (that’s second date talk, though.)

2. Obsession – this is the part where you try not to act like a stalker. Except you are. All the time. That’s what this is designed for. To trawl the pages of endless strangers’ profiles. Telling your friends that you’re being really open minded about the process, but in reality judging everyone on there like you’re a pageant Mum from Toddlers and Tiaras. (See my first blog entry).  You can see who has visited your page, they can see when you have visited theirs, which makes it all the more painful when your messages have been opened but not replied to. Cue: Bridesmaids on DVD and a 3 Meat & Rice Curry Combo…in bed. The most humiliating part of course is the Rogan Josh stains on the pillow the next morning.

3. Confusion – this is the part where you slowly figure out the reality of what you’ve signed up for. Oh cool! The same old shit! Except it’s costs money! Yayser! That sounds like a sweeeeeet deal. Next month I’ve decided to get creative and instead of investing in a dating website I’m just going to start making accessories out of my cash. A broach made out of soldered £1 coins. A shawl weaved out of £20 notes and rejection. It’s the rejection that makes them stick good.

4. Depression – this is part where you invent time travel and revisit your piece of shit teenage self. It’s like an episode of “This is Your Life!” I walk in and see all my old friends:

“Oh my god! Anxiety? Sexual insecurity? Is that you? Wow, you haven’t changed a bit. And don’t tell me…is that? Yup, it’s the Importance of looking like others fairy, even though I’ve got a nose like a Commedia Dellarte mask (quote from an ex-boyfriend). You guys! I didn’t even know you were still around. Let’s have a reunion. I just wish my old friend alcoholism could be here as well.”

5. Anger – This is where you listen to a LOT of Destiny’s Child. You start swearing at your laptop screen and giving it a bit of “I don’t need you anyway.” Like you’ve been cheated on. By a photo. On a computer.

I’d look at profiles I’d *liked* and they hadn’t *liked* back. Or worse– I’d *liked*, they’d *liked* back, I’d sent a message, they never messaged back. OR WORSE mid conversation (like 4-17 messages back and forth) and then they stop. Inexplicably. Out of the blue. You scour your messages in case you’d written the words “fundamentalist doucher” or “massive Nickleback fan.” Or the absolute worst; the guys that are interested in you. Because they’re usually the ones who say the weirdest shit. I don’t know if it’s just me, but it seems that 98% of the dudes actually interested in me write things that makes me wonder if they have a child lock on their keyboard, whether they’re allowed to have furniture with sharp edges, or if they have ever worn an adult nappy just because “it seems logical.”

6. Stoical Perseverance – this is the part where you stop acting like you’re on Maury Povich and realise that there are no short answers. That the right person will come along, when they’re meant to, if they’re meant to at all. And then you have an Oprah moment, and you pretend you’re talking to Gayle. That you are an awesome person, with a reasonable body; you’re lots of fun, and just as stupid. And realistically, that you’re quite happy being single. So you just keep plodding on on the ole’ website and if something happens cool. If not…

7. Start a blog.





Same Chick, Different DaY

On the homepage, of the particular online dating website I’m putting my rapidly declining Australian dollars into, is a small gallery of faces. Faces, like me, who are desperate to prove that they are the best. Faces that say “hey guys, I’m easy going and funny and just happened to have been snapped at my most beautiful, most relaxed moment – HOLLA!” It’s like a ‘best of’ for loneliness. I don’t know how you get on the homepage gallery, but then again I don’t know how to get the “Official” blue tick on twitter or how to part my hair properly. (I haven’t included that in my profile – am I actively lying?) But there is one lady who has figured it out. And I see her every time I log on.

She’s been there for two weeks. Every day I go to the website (don’t judge me! Writing can be boring), centre-stage is the same thousand mile stare looking back at me suggesting I’ve done something wrong with my face, by the fact that I am not on there.

Now I’m sure the word ‘jealousy’ is popping into people’s minds. Sure: she’s 24 and hasn’t had the onslaught of disappointment and intermittent insomnia that will eventually befall her with time. Actually, she looks like one of those people that says, “I don’t really get hangovers.” She has an avalanche of hair and she is bubbly. That’s how I would describe her picture: down-to-earth and bubbly. But it’s not her age or beauty that bothers me. It’s rules, goddammit!

There has to be some kind of system! Some kind of rotation!

Something I have included on my profile is that I’m more competitive than I’d like to admit. A simple example of this is that I had an ex-boyfriend one day spontaneously take me to a golf range. I was so excited. What a great idea! I used to hit golf balls with Dad as a kid in the park, so this would be a lovely stroll down memory lane. Well I took 3 swings down memory lane and realised I was actually on struggle street. Then I was the Mayor of This is Bullshit town. Then I quit politics all together and sat in the car. Granted, that was a long time ago, but I think the sentiment of that sporting tantrum still lingers within. So when I see ALL the faces on this wall change every couple of days, except for Pantene Penny I lose my cool, triple bogey style.

Side note: WHO NEEDS TO DO ONLINE DATING AT AGE 24? You’re still in your “I can drink my standards away” phase. I have no such luxury. When I leave a bar I am as sober as I was when I went in. There’s no “maybe I can see past the double dragon shirt. There’s no “he’s probably sweaty because he’s been dancing…with his mates…mime bumming them…while he’s wearing a nurse’s dress.” And certainly no, “I’ll worry about the fact that he’s doing a public dick hamburger in the morning.” I have to deal with everything then and there, so online dating places are for people like me.

You become almost accustomed to the people you like the most not looking at your profile back. You become hardened to it. It’s actually really good practice for walking the streets of London. You smile. They stare through you. Life imitating…life. But when someone gets a hold of a virtual step-ladder and they’re not letting the grogans have a borrow? Well that I just cannot abide. I don’t care how many chestnut farms it looks like your family owns.

So I want one of two things to change:

a)    that Martha Stewart goes back to her own page and bakes some humble pie there
b)   she reads this blog and helps a sister out.

Stand by for results.






There’s been a lot uneventful experiences in my world of online dating: a “like” here, a “like” and no “like” back there (this one is very popular at the moment). But there was one incident worth writing about. I call him Cray Cray. I’m not sure if that’s his birth name, but for purposes of anonymity and the fact that I don’t know what his real name is, he, from here on end, will be Cray Cray. So let me set the scene –

It’s midnight. I’m lying on the couch and full from some very average pasta I’ve cooked. I think I got a bit experimental with supermarket anchovies and some left over herbs. Penne al Hardtoswallow. I spilt most of it down the front of my shirt anyway. My gross motor skills must play some serious part in how skinny I am. I just can’t get the damn food to my mouth! But I digress.

I’m in front of the tv watching something very intellectual like Teen Mom., and before you get all pernickety at the spelling of “Mom” that’s how it’s written – it’s an American show. So my phone does that weird, alien “whaow” as I receive an email. I’m in another time zone so I assume it’s an Aussie email. It’s not. It’s from the online dating site that has stolen a month’s worth of British Sterling from me.

I open it. And it’s a message. Not just a “like”, a message. Well, I must be *pretty* impressive to skip the first step. The first line is short. Casual. Relaxed. I’m looking at it on my phone and I’m groggy because it’s late and something to do with carbs.

So I click on the link and open his profile. I can’t really make out his picture because of the size of the screen. Because I’m lying on my back, I drop the phone into my eyesocket. I swear at the phone, as if it’s done it on purpose then look at this guy’s picture again, only this time squinting, and holding it at a distance, like a pissed person trying to drive home. This happens approximately every 3-4 hours of my life, but most often when I wake up. I should rename it: iSocket.

I reckon I’ll worry about the response in the morning. I don’t want to start something sexy, and anyway, I’ve got a black eye to nurse.

Cut to: half an hour later. There’s another “whaow.” It’s him. Again. Uh-oh.

At this point it’s probably important to tell you that on this website you can see if someone has opened a message you’ve sent, when they were last online and if you look close enough, whether they’re a double fan of lobster. By which I mean, Cray Cray. I clearly didn’t have my Lobster goggles on so I overlooked the fact that this guy was about to get Greek tragedy on me.

I could only read the opening line within the context of the email, which read:

wow so you find me not good looking enough to respond.

As if I’m going to leave that hanging. I opened the message and it continued:

Didnt think youd be like that but i guess i was wrong

Whoah. Whoah. Whoah. Everyone calm the fuck down!

Now I have preserved that to read exactly as it did on the page and you will know what blew me away the most about those two lines. You guessed it– NO GODDAMNED PUNCTUATION OR ENOUGH CAPITALS! Come on, guys. Basics. Don’t get me started on the structure of that first sentence. It’s like a half inverted double negative. In diving terms that’s a 6.3 degree of difficulty, resulting in a bellyflop.

A very close friend gave me some excellent advice – never have an argument after midnight; it can always wait until the morning. In fairness, this was very one sided, like I’d just walked into a crying family’s house and they all turned to me and yelled, “How could you?” after just having taken the bins out. So I thought, “Don’t get into this now.”

In the morning, I gave the courtesy of reply –

Hello. You sent your message after midnight. I was going to sleep and I didn’t think it appropriate to start a conversation then. Now I don’t think we should continue one.

No hard feelings, but please don’t contact me again.

Thank you.

Clear. To the point. I thought he may have woken up under shame blanket, so I didn’t go to town. Let’s get on with our day- BUT WAIT! 5 minutes later, yup, “Whoaw.” Email. It’s Bette Middler’s character from Beaches Cray Cray Bloom.

yeah right. you are a rude shallow person. you managed to read my message and look at my pics at such a late hour.

Hiow rude to judge only on looks and then be rude and lie about it

I think you missed out a line mate: “You always do this!” *Runs into the bathroom and slams the door*

I mean, I genuinely don’t know how this got to fever-bitch so quickly. Moreso, how did he get an ‘i’ into the word ‘how’? That takes innovation. I suppose when you’re rage typing, just hate-fucking that keyboard with your tips, it’s hard to stay focused on one vowel at a time.

So as you can imagine, I blocked him. I don’t know if he can ‘see’ that on my profile, or hiow that eventuates. (Easy when you try!)

I should add here, this will not be a common thing- writing about specific interactions that I have with people, that is. I felt compelled to write about this particular guy because it seemed so extreme and completely out of line. I do respect the privacy of 99.99999% of the people I interact with. Hopefully this is such an isolated occurrence that the next update will be the “Man, dating is boring and arduous and I’m considering a Nunnery.”

Until next time gumboots, Ward Out.