Having recently moved to a new city and meeting a whole new group of fabby girls on my course, I have found myself repetitively telling the story of how Lance won and then broke my heart. Where I thought I was completely over him, I now find myself thinking about him non-stop. And of course, my memories are not realistic. As with most break ups, the memories of arguments, tensions and shitty times fade away, but the memories of the amazing sex, the cute intricacies and in-jokes, the surprise trip to New York, all come flooding back and replay in your mind like the menu page of a DVD which you’re too hungover to get up and turn off.
The last time a real life boyfriend broke my heart I was 15. I thought he was the coolest person on earth, my best friend and I used to follow him around town, having a go on his BMX and taking an occasional toke of weed. I was gutted for a week, until GCSE stress took over.
So generally my posts can be of quite a man-hating disposition, and my male friends were starting to fret. The truth of the matter is: Prince Charming does exist, and you’ve probably met him 100 times already. Not all boys are fuckboys, but when you friend-zone all of your lovely mates, and only meet potential lovers in clubs and bars or worse, on tinder, you start to paint every boy with the same brush, because as far as you’re concerned, you’ve had the exact same experience with every boy you’ve crushed on this year. I’m SO guilty of this.
the holy fail 