My Frankenstein

Some of the truly foolish things that I have done in the last couple of years have been documented in excruciating detail on these pages. People have been reading tales of my embarrassment across the world, having good cause to laugh at my idiocy and wonder why I'd open myself up to such ridicule. And the answer has been simple- I've not written about many things I have been genuinely ashamed of, and nobody else is being hurt by my own inane, self-centred ramblings.

However, there is one story that stands out. One story that was the zenith of my crusades in the name of stupidity. One that led some to express irritation at the inherent disrespect displayed to the other person involved by my ever having related the events. And so I never published anything more than subtle allusions to the night in question.

Fuck it.

Nobody comes out of this looking bad, except for me. And the other party goes nameless in any event. It's not about them. This is the one that ignited and overshadows all of my jester-like buffoonery. This made me.

If you don't know the story, you will. If you do know the story, only one word is necessary as an introduction.

Twirl.

A little bit of background to ease you in:

I'd just come off a bad break up. And I mean a really bad break up. The kind that drags on for months and fucks you up good and proper for a solid spell of time. The kind that turns you into a whining tart and generally just makes you into an idiot for an indefinite number of sand grains falling in the hour glass. I'd finally started to get my shit together and have a good time again, and was on the lookout for new horizons and a complete abandonment of personal responsibility.

Shazam! (What? It's the internationally recognised sound of a genie granting a wish. Don't give the screen that cock-eyed look.)

Short term, genuinely exciting job away from most people I knew. With girls. Pretty girls. Shit, that one is really pretty....

Classic Deebs manoeuvring meant that subtle hints on her part were missed. Blatant ones too. Hell, I managed to misinterpret outright statements of intent ("'Statements of intent'? Oh Deebs, with this language of romance, you are really spoiling us.") and still make no move.

She lived on my way home, which was a handy excuse to walk her to her door after work with frequency.

Standard example:
Outwardly: "Well, this is you, then." *hug* "Bye, platonic friend." *frantic waving*
Inwardly: "Well, I'm a fucking idiot." *cock-blocks self* "Fuck!" *desperately trying to keep extremities active, lest they start gripping my neck and constricting my airways*

One night involved a pub. In the course of this night, I was made aware that pubs involve alcohol. Alcohol involves allegedly reduced inhibitions. Alcohol still could not trick me into dancing in public. Alcohol still could not allow me to be less of a tit. And so it came time to walk home. With my flatmate in tow. Wouldn't it be hilarious if he or I had an injured foot and I could turn this into a pun about being "in toe"? No? Just me? Fine....

And so it came time to walk home. With my flatmate in tow, dutifully keeping a distance of ten feet at all times, so as to be the consummate wingman to aid consummation.

Apparent woman: "Well, this is you, then." *hug*....
Actual woman: "No, not this time." *kiss*

With flatmate having averted his eyes, and concentrated all of his focus on traffic, we broke off for the night. I whistled with powerful masculinity to catch his attention, whilst simultaneously flicking my grounded hat into my hands with a swift jab of my foot (too late for the "in toe" thing?). and spinning on my heels to turn in the direction of our abode. At this moment I knew that I would never again feel as cool as I had right then. In the time since, I have come to realise that I was probably right.

"D'ya wanna go on an actual date? With food and stuff."
"Yeah, alright. I know somewhere we can get a discount. Food AND wine."

Holy fuck! Not only had she said "yes", there was a bargain involved? If there was one more positive in this scenario, then I would be destined to fuck it up in spectacular fashion.

She was cute and cool.

That's two positives. I was doomed.

It all started so well. I was charming company (even more so than usual). The food was good. The wine was in glasses. No paper bag drinking for me....not this time! The conversation was equal parts fun and deep, and always easy. The moon, by the time we left the restaurant, was full. I hadn't fucked it up yet.

A couple more glasses of wine later, we decided to catch up with some workmates who were about town. More drinks were had. And so it came time to walk home. With my flatmate in tow, drunkenly drunking about the place like a slightly drunker version of the two relatively drunk people who were part of our drunken trio, among which I was probably the closest to sobriety.

Deebs: "Well, this is you, then." *kiss* *gesture at intoxicated flatmate* "I better go."
Not Deebs: "Do you want to come up?"
Deebs: *looks around at flatmate standing mere feet away....goes inside without saying a word*

Maybe it was the still full moon hanging in the night sky. Maybe it was the alcohol flowing through my veins. Maybe it was the guilty thrill of having abandoned my friend so heartlessly in the cold dark. More likely it was the way she looked deep into my eyes while seductively biting her lip, but something told me things were going pretty well. I still hadn't fucked it up yet.

Text message: "Are you going to come back down or should I just go on home without you?"

Lips were locked, fun times were had and hair was recklessly brushed over ears. Things were going far better than I could have hoped.

Text message: "I've accepted that you are probably dead. In the morning I'll search for the body and mourn appropriately, but for now I'm going home to sleep."

Deebs: *stifled yawn for effect* "Wow, it's 6am. I really should go home. Work in the morning...." *looks hopefully at girl*
Girl: (seductively) "You could stay. You should stay....the night."
Deebs: "Actually, I....er....I have a Twirl at home I really should attend to."

Ladies and gentlemen, please return your seats to the full, upright position.

This girl was beautiful, interesting and apparently liked me about as much as I liked her. She was asking me to spend the night. I was turning that down by telling her I had a chocolate bar at home that demanded my immediate attention. This is not fiction. This actually happened. This is something I did. I said this....and left. I became the nutter you hope to avoid running into on a still dark street as the first glimpses of light give thought to streaking the sky. I was babbling incoherently to myself as I shuffled down the street. I probably slapped myself once or twice- on the face of it, just to wake myself up a bit as I trudged, but hard enough to conceivably teach myself a lesson- and certainly looked like I was about to erupt in a cataclysmic ball of fury and tears at my own ridiculousness.

I didn't want the Twirl. I did have one back at the flat though, so you better believe I ate it out of principle. And, for reasons I'm still not entirely in full comprehension of to this day, I texted her as I was eating that Twirl. I texted and told her it was the most bitter tasting thing I had ever consumed. I doubt I slept. I doubt I dared close my eyes, lest I choke on my own self loathing at that point. But one thing I don't doubt is that, when I went into work that day, I brought a Twirl....and I gave it to her....the Twirl, I mean.

Now, I know that on that night and in that moment, I was probably a little scared. And I know that I thought I was doing the right, and gentlemanly thing by not rushing her into something she might regret. Moreover I know that we'd joked over dinner about me having somewhere better to be, somewhere involving a Twirl. And most importantly of all, I know that she later told me it was one of the most considerate things anyone had ever done for her. Yet none of that changes the fact that I turned down sex for a Twirl.

I had choc-blocked myself. I was The Reverse Milk Tray Man, breaking into girls' rooms on precarious cliff tops to steal their chocolate and leave.

The kicker was that I actually got a second date, promised to me on the condition that I would go a full day without eating chocolate.

Now, if, after reading that, you want to tell me I've been disrespectful, then so be it. I write about stupid things I do. I have complete respect for the people lost in the wake of my mistakes, because they're better than me.

They snack at appropriate moments.