Dateing Ghosts

I’ve never had a proper boyfriend.  I’ve been on plenty of dates with great guys but never reached the stage of introducing them to other people, never joint skyping mum to introduce ‘Hans, my ballet dancing male lover’.  Things have never lasted long enough to warrant that.

There have been guys I’ve though could become that, guys you go on quite a few dates with, a month maybe more worth of dinners and drinks and making out.  But then they end.

The thing about all of those ‘could be something there’ dates is that none of them have ended with arguments, or farewells or anything like that.  Instead they just stop, one day your messaging and organising meet ups then they just end.  They become ghosts.

Ghosting happens to me all the time.  I don’t know if this is the same for everyone, or if I’m just exceptionally ghostable.  It’s probably just that no one likes to do the dumping, it’s so much easier to just never reply and hope they get the hint.  I’ve done it, I’ve had it done to me, sometimes i think we are both ghosting each other at the same time

But I’m going to try to stop ghosting people, i need to man up and just break their hearts.  This is because my most recent ghost kinda hurt.

In my first blog post I wrote:

“I’m currently trading messages with a guy that involve me buying Wales and setting up a dictatorship with a sheep based defense force.  Obviously.  I find it highly entertaining, he is much slower at responding and I’m pretty sure will ghost me soon.”

I met him twice, had a great time, he was funny and cute in a normal person way.  We talked and talked about complete an utter nonsense and kissed a little at the end of each date.

Then he went away for a month.

I decided to wait it out, he’s on holiday, he’s not going to be messaging everyday, that’s fine, I think he is worth waiting for.  We were even messaging a bit, he somehow lost a tooth, a showed him my amazing paperclip.  Then he never replied.

The message he never replied to wasn’t a question or anything, just a continuation of the banter we were trading.  The last thing he said was:

“It’s beautiful…you  you went to the serpentine gallery without me?!?”

He was talking about the paper clip obviously.  I responded, he never did.  Maybe I had broken his serpentine gallery loving heart by going, but it’s not as if we had made a plan to go together, i don’t even remember what we said about it.  And he was away for a month.

A week went by and I messaged again, just to make sure

“Holler.  What part of the great sojourn from London are we currently on? I feel it’s Barcelona.  the c is pronounced th FYI.”

No response.  For a while I really, really wanted to message once more, maybe he never got the message, maybe he didn’t press send properly, or maybe i could at least find out why.  But as I keep seeing on people’s Grindr profiles. “no reply is a reply”.  if he was interested he would have messaged, he would be checking to see if i had replied.  He obviously wasn’t.  He was also definitely back in london as my stalking of his Instagram could attest.

I was a little heart-broken, i actually really like him and I’m still not quite sure what went wrong.  But that is online dating, you move on, update your picture and try to find the next one.

So swell and nifty Grindr guy, who wasn’t even from Grindr, but a completely different dating site farewell.  May you rest in peace and find future happiness in the world of dating.  You have gifted me with the lesson of why I shouldn’t ghost, lets see if i have the balls to live by it.  I probably don’t.

BTW your shoes were ugly.

Bewildered Observer



I have become dumber since I moved to London.

I came to this conclusion upon realising via Grindr I didn’t know the difference between your and you’re.

It is not possible that I graduated high school and university without using the word you’re, but it feels like a word I’ve never written before a guy I was chatting to corrected me.

Several times.

So many times it made me slightly paranoid.  This guy’s lasting impact on my life is to make me double check a message for correct use of you’re before sending.  Or to follow up with a simple *you’re when I fail.

The feeling of dumbness isn’t just from going my whole life without mastering the word you’re but also just the general feeling of not understanding the cultural history of my new home.

Moving to London was the best decision I have ever made, it gave me a new burst of life, it was exhilarating and terrifying in all of the right ways.  But I have struggled with adapting to the British news narrative.  It has been a bit like starting to read a novel 70% of the way in and then trying to have a conversation about it with someone who has read the whole thing ten times over.

In New Zealand I had grown up with the story, I knew who the players were, who’s important, who’s insane, and who’s just waiting to make a move and take power. I knew that you should pay attention when ever Winston appeared cause shits gonna get entertaining.

Here I knew no one beyond the big brand name characters, the Camerons, Millibands, Johnsons and Farages of the world.  Beyond them it’s a murky mess of not knowing who I’m supposed to dislike and who’s the underdog I’m wanting to go all the way.  Whether I’m supposed to be a Guardian or a Daily Mail reader.

Even worse is my understanding of the pop culture characters.  I have had conversations with many a local about British bands that made it to New Zealand normally as a result of them collapsing in shock at me not knowing who E17 or Take That beyond Robbie Williams were.  Amazing bands like Steps and S Club 7 and 5ive made it my way, but those other two who are massive cultural moments here, not so much.  I never know who the people are on Pointless Celebrities.

Having this gap in knowledge is challenging in conversation, you don’t get the jokes or know how your supposed to react.  Your quotes of “always blow on the pie” or “it’s on the floor” don’t get the reaction they truly deserve.

I’m working on it though.  During the general election last year I had big conversations with dates about how the political system works here.  Learning what’s up with the House of Lords and bits and pieces of the history.  But the political climate at the moment is my big golden opportunity to jump on in head first.  We have a new Prime Minister and a new cabinet on their way so I can attempt to take it all in as the old characters reconfigure to continue the story.  Plus, the whole series of events of it all is simply just so dam fascinating and dramatic you can’t help but be drawn in and my policy researching flatmate is keeping me all up to date on the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

But this doesn’t mean I’ll be giving up on my true news passion, New Zealand news stories.  I’ll take as many tales of rampaging seals, avocado thefts and dildos to the face as they can provide.


Bewildered Observer

This is not a mid-life crisis

This is not a midlife crisis.  It’s just that I’m doubting my whole career and what I’m doing with my life.  The fact that I turned 30 a few weeks ago is just coincidence, a big massive coincidence.

Not even I believe that, it’s a midlife crisis but shhhhhhh don’t tell anyone because expressing my feelings is not my thing.

I missed writing, I have no need to write in my day to day life and I miss it.  In university, as stupid as it sounds I did love the whole process of crafting an essay.  The thinking about what you were going to say, the first massive write and the constant reading and rewriting and cutting and adding and repeating the process until you were happy or it was time to hand it in.  Now the most writing I do is a ‘love note’ to my colleagues to hand the kitchen over on my days off or conversations with guys on Grindr.  Guys on Grindr are not great conversationalist, they aren’t very quirky or interesting in how they write.  They speak in short sentences like “hi”, “looking for?”, or “sex?”.  Or they just go with the whole a picture says a thousand words route of romance.  On that rare occasion that you do chat to someone who is willing to get weird and trade massive essays on completely random thoughts, I always get too carried away and scare them off.  This is because I miss writing and take any chance to do so.  I’m currently trading messages with a guy that involve me buying Wales and setting up a dictatorship with a sheep based defense force.  Obviously.  I find it highly entertaining, he is much slower at responding and I’m pretty sure will ghost me soon.

So now I am writing, purely because I want to find a way to write.  Well not purely for that reason, as part of my midlife crisis I feel the need to get out of the kitchen and into a job that has slightly more normal working hours.  Because I’ve never worked in anything apart from a kitchen I have no clue what that job is.  I don’t know how to do office work and I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t doing something where I created something my soul would be crushed and die swiftly.  And not even a dramatic end of season cliff-hanger death, more like a nobody noticed its dead until the neighbor wondered why there were so many flies kind of death.  See I get weird when I write, this is not what Grindr guys find attractive.

I like the idea of writing for a living, crafting thoughts into something people want to read but I don’t have any work to provide a basis to do that for a living, so I’m starting.  Basically like everyone having a midlife crisis I’ve decided to write, having never done it before, as though it’s simple and I was born to do it, making every writer who has studied and slaved away for years as angry as I feel when a housewife decides she would like to work in a kitchen.  She can’t do that and I can’t write, but ehhhhh I need to do something so for this week this is it, it won’t last long because I’ll get tired or distracted and I have limited life experience on which to write anything about.

And so ends the first act of my midlife crisis, this stream of conscious writing exercise that nobody will ever read.  It was soothing and relaxing in a way that playing the opening bars to Outcasts ‘Roses’ repeatedly on the piano was.  I feel good, so that’s something at least as I return to my life that is definitely not, but clearly is, in crisis.

Bewildered Observer