Girls are weird

A controversial title up there, methinks, but on this, the sexiest, lovely-dovey day of the year, I'm standing by it:

GIRLS. ARE. WEIRD.

And no, before you ask I don't mean in the fun-bags and front bottom departments. I mean in the mental sense - with mental being the operative word. I've taken some lashings in the romantic sense over the years, y'see, so before you offer up those Tesco value roses (12 for a fiver - nothing says "I love you" more than an afterthought you can slap on the Clubcard) and stump up for a starter AND desert in Pizza Hut, I thought I'd offer up just a few cautionary tales, gut-wrenchingly drawn from my own experiences.

Cautionary tale the first: The cabbage - vegetable of love

Teenage love is supposedly a wonderful thing, but with hindsight warning bells should've started ringing the moment she handed me the oversized Valentines Day card. Handmade cards and gifts are apparently a sign that someone's put a lot of thought and effort into it, but I generally think it just says your other half is a bit tight and couldn't be arsed to pop down to Clintons. On this occasion I had no reason to reconsider my point of view, because I could quite clearly see that the card I had just been given had been made using a Frosties box sloppily covered in paper; the front was dominated by a large hand-drawn picture of a cabbage, and inside was a poem, an excessive amount of 'X's (even for a teenage girl), and Tony the Tiger, peering out at me rather eerily through the semi-transparent paper covering the former cereal packet and promising that this Valentines Day would be "GRRRRREEEAT!" 

As if a handmade card that looked like it had been made by a retarded cereal serial killer not allowed access to sharp instruments wasn't bad enough, the poem within really should have been the tipping point that made me scream like Ned Flanders and run a mile: I don't remember the entire thing, but I do recall that one of the couplets rhymed the words 'emotional baggage' with 'cabbage.' Being polite, though, I'm pretty sure I smiled, offered her some of my roast chicken crisps at breaktime, and walked her halfway home at the end of the day.

As you might've guessed, this relationship didn't last too long; we split up about two months later, with her citing the fact that I was spending too much time revising for my A-Levels when I could be watching a new episode of Casualty on BBC1 with her, and that I'd spoken to another girl in my class who she didn't like terribly much. She subsequently accused me of having an affair, and refused to speak to me; despite the fact that she dumped me, she went on to make numerous crank phone calls to my home, and later had her subsequent boyfriend follow me down Feltham high street like a really bad, awfully chavvy private detective.

Epilogue: Many years later she got back in touch with me, apologised for being a mentalist immature, and asked if we could meet up again. I hesitantly said yes, made her drive, and subsequently got *very* drunk. Things nevertheless went marvelously though, and we begun hanging out again. Fast forward several months, however, and her nutter tendencies began to reassert themselves again, so I called it a day.

Epilogue the second: Several years later she got in touch again, apologised again, and we started hanging out again. Long story short, blah blah blah *NUTTER* yadda yadda yadda, au revoir. The last contact I had from her was when she asked to be my friend on Facebook. I politely, but firmly, clicked 'ignore.'

Cautionary tale the second: It's not you, it's me. No wait, it's definitely you.

Around the same time that the events of the first epilogue above were playing out, I was good mates with a woman who was a bit older than me; we're not talking Mrs Robinson older, more like 30-ish to my (at the time) early 20s. We were good mates, nothing more; I genuinely wasn't attracted to her in any way, mainly because she wasn't Seven of Nine, or anything approaching Seven of Nine. Even so, we'd occasionally meet up for a drink or to go catch a film, and happily discuss the shabby state of our respective love-lives.

One night, though, she got a bit tipsy, and as I dropped her home she rather coyly asked if I wanted to "pop-in" (both literally and figuratively, it turns out). After a few moments where I thought she was having me on, I very politely declined her gracious invitation, saying that I "didn't see her in that way," which I thought was both honest and polite, and certainly preferable to going "Ugh - are you having a laugh?" Unfortunately, she clearly thought that I just needed a little convincing, and we subsequently spent the next 40 minutes in my car outside her house, me refusing to turn the engine off (because I figured it might make her think I was giving in), and her refusing to get out; I seriously thought about seeing if I could fling her out of the car by doing a handbrake turn or something.

Eventually, though, she gave up/realised I wasn't budging and f**ked off got out, and I went home in a bit of a huff because I'd missed a repeat of Space: Above and Beyond on BBC2 (I really liked that show).

The story does not end there, though, because hell seriously does hath no fury like a woman scorned. Rather than let the matter rest, she chose to scuttle the good ship dignity and parade her embarrassment in front of all and sundry, including a very good friend of mine. And she'd even come up with a reason for me declining her gracious offer of some awkward nookie on a Saturday evening: yes, I was gay.

Of course!

The surprising fact that I was gay got back to me rather quickly, as I'm sure you can imagine, and no one was more surprised to discover that I was gay than me. 

Now, I'm normally a reasonably chilled out chap, but on this occasion I decided that I needed to have words. A few days later we met up to go to the gym. I was obviously a bit, well, pissed off with her at this point, and noticing this she asked me what was wrong. Figuring that I didn't want to have a major meltdown and make a scene in front of all the other gym-goers and the older ladies attending their aqua-aerobics class, I replied that I'd talk to her about it when we were leaving. She said OK, and went back to checking out tight-assed young men (whether they were for me or her I'm not quite sure).

Anyway, as we were leaving I decided to clear the air. A massive argument ensued in the car park because she didn't think she'd done anything wrong, then she started crying, and I, deciding that I'd had enough, got in my car and drove off. BAM! 

An hour later she called me up, and without actually seeing her I could tell she was still crying and something of a sniveling, snotty mess; I'm amazed she actually made it home without crashing. She apologised profusely, and while I do usually like to bear a grudge I accepted her apology because Space: Above and Beyond was on again and it was the only way I could think to get rid of her.

Cautionary tale the third: Bitch-slut

When it comes to looks I like to think I'm OK; I wouldn't say I'm spectacular (go on, argue with me), but I'm reasonably sure I fall into the category of passable. I totally think there's a woman out there who, when the chips are down, will definitely make do with me. That being the case, when a lady who I consider is 'out of my league' pays attention to me, I certainly perk up.

*Ahem*

A few years back, a lady who I considered to be out of my league paid attention to me, and I perked up. I thought she was funny, intelligent, a little bit kooky, and very attractive. Turns out, though, that she was a complete bitch. The story begins with her being nice to me, and eventually inviting me over to her place just before Christmas - as a mate, I thought, because she couldn't seriously like me, could she? Anyway, I turned up - late, I should say, because I got lost - but I figured the fact that I was bearing a bottle of champagne (a reasonably decent one at that) as a Christmas present kind of made up for it. And apparently it did because she was clearly happy to see me, and we seemed to have a good evening hanging out at her place putting the Christmas decorations up. Well, she did that - I just sat, watched, and offered the occasional insightful and witty comment about the state of her baubles.

Eventually I decide to push off, and she offers to walk me to my car, which I decide is awfully nice and very modern. Anyway, when we get to my car she goes all nervous, then blurts out that she really likes me and she's embarrassed and she hopes I feel the same way, which quite frankly was a stupid thing to say because there was a freakin' ticker-tape parade going on in my head with bounding kittens, singing unicorns, and a troupe of burlesque dancers doing full-on major jazz-hands. Thinking that she was one million percent totally awesome, and by this point evidently rather cold, I put my arms around her, and told her I completely felt the same way. Without being too gratuitous, we kissed in the street, and then I headed home, blissfully ignorant to the fact that it was quite possible I'd passed through every red light on the way.

When I got home I found she'd sent me a text essentially saying that she'd had a really great time and couldn't wait to see me again. I was on Christmas holiday at this point, and I replied that I'd also had a great time, and yes, I'd love to see her whenever she was free again. Unfortunately, whenever I texted her over the next couple of weeks to see if she wanted to meet up it turned out that she was really busy and … well, yeah. I later learnt from a friend of a friend that she accused me of being "clingy" and that I "kept texting her." I wouldn't quite say I "kept" texting her, because quite frankly I think I guessed what was happening after the first few rounds of excuses, but I kept a little glimmer of hope alive by checking in a couple more times. She had, after all, told me I was lovely.

OK, that does kind of make me sound like a crazy man, but I wasn't and here's why: turns out that she was pretty much like the deli counter at Morrisons (I refuse to use a more high-class supermarket for this analogy) where you just took a ticket and got in-line, whereas I was a bit more gentlemanly (high-five for taking the moral high-ground!) and unwittingly thwarted/bypassed her slutty advances.

Still, I was a little bit crushed because I thought she really liked me…

Epilogue: A few months after that fateful night I had the misfortune of unwittingly finding myself at the same party as Bitch-slut. Upon entering the party and spotting her, I decided that I'd just turn around and leave rather than cause both of us any embarrassment or trouble, but the birthday girl spotted me and made a big do about me arriving. Without actually saying anything to me, Bitch-slut pretended to be happy to see me for the sake of the birthday girl. The extent of our contact that night was, I think, one slightly awkward, very brief exchange that lasted all of about two seconds and pretty much consisted of "hey, how are you?" "hi, yeah good thanks."

I kind of regret that I didn't get the chance to take her to one side and just say that while I was a bit confused and upset by what she'd done and how she'd portrayed me to other people I knew, I was just going to put it behind me and move on, and I hoped she'd be happy. Figuring that she'd just cite any attempt to talk to her as being clingy or weird, though, I decided to let sleeping dogs lie.

Literally.

Cautionary tale the fourth: WTF?!

At its core, romance is an intricate game played between two people (or more if you're particularly kinky). On some occasions, though, I've find myself looking desperately for the instructions, or merely wanting to up-end the board and send all the pieces flying (a remnant, no doubt, of my childhood solution to many a frustrating game of Monopoly). Say, for instance, you met a girl who you thought was funny, intelligent, attractive, and with whom you shared similar interests. And what if said girl made it, if not blatantly obvious, than at least hinted at the fact that she might like you.

Oh, who am I kidding? She made it pretty blatant. 

So you do the whole 'getting to know you' thing where you text each other like teenagers, and you're thinking "oh, HELLO!" 

But then she stops. Not, takes a while to get back to you. Just stops. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. But then she starts again - hurrah! But then she stops again. But th- oh, you get the idea.

Well, that is when you take a deep breath, shake your head in utter confusion, write a vitriolic blog post, and resolve to spend Valentines night on your own watching the telly and eating copious amounts of junk food until it comes out of your ears and nose.

So yes, just for today, I'm calling you out, ladies. Christian Bale-stylee, you know you can be f**kin' weird sometimes, right?