Hi everyone, I hope you’re all well.
Today, it is time for the much anticipated Tinder Diaries Part 7…if you’re new around here, then to summarise, earlier this year I joined Tinder, and started a blog series called The Tinder Diaries, where I blogged about my experiences of using the app…they were my most popular blog posts of all time, and the whereabouts of Part 7 is asked by about 50 people per day in my messages, so I knew it was time to get back on it, and give you all what you wanted. Just a little disclaimer; everything in these posts is sadly true (I wish it wasn’t), however names may have been changed to protect the guilty.
So here we go…without further ado; Tinder Diaries Part 7.
I started messaging Chris in January; we got along well, had good banter, and he asked me out. The first time we were meant to meet, I wasn’t well, and had to cancel. We rearranged a further 2 times, and like the dick I am, I cancelled again both times, because I was overcome with first date nerves beforehand, and just couldn’t mentally cope with the prospect of going on a date.
Chris, however, was not put off, and carried on messaging me. Finally, last weekend, he got in touch again asking when I would let him take me out, and I said that the following Friday I would finally grow a pair and meet him. Oh, how I wish I had cancelled for a 4th time.
I was extremely nervous beforehand, as I always am. Dates do some weird shit to me where I nearly vomit with nerves, have the severe shakes (that sounds like cold turkey symptoms, I promise you they’re not), and want to curl up into a ball and cry at the prospect of conversing with a male stranger and having to not pretend I’m not a complete and utter freak.
Chris was late, first off; he was extremely apologetic over message, but unfortunately Chris, your words don’t mean a thing, because it still allowed me to chug Pornstar Martinis whilst waiting for you like some kind of Cocktail Apocalypse was about to be upon us.
When Chris arrives, my nerves have completely disappeared; I’m about 3 cocktails and half a bottle of prosecco down, and I could happily back to back date until next Wednesday with the way my confidence is; I’m flying.
We get along well, as if we’ve known each other a lot longer than an hour and 45 minutes; I have a weird Date Glitch where whenever I go on a date I always tell them some bizarre (but true) story about myself that I shouldn’t. In Chris’s case, I launched into a dialogue about how I was given ketamine when I had my appendix out (by the surgeons, not by my parents or anything weird…”Here’s some flowers, fluffy socks and ketamine darling”). In Chris’s defense, if he is flummoxed and confused, he doesn’t show it.
Now, if we’d have left the date there, everything would’ve been fine and dandy. I would’ve woken up with nothing more then a slight flush of the cheeks when remembering a few tipsy conversation topics, but that’s it.
Oh no; of course I didn’t decide to leave the date there like a normal person with a brain or dignity.
I knew that my mum and auntie were out for dinner and drinks in Brighton; my phone had died, so I insisted on using Chris’s phone to call my mum (the only persons number I know off by heart), and ask where they were, and inform them I was going to meet them…with Chris in tow.
Let’s not forget that I’ve known Chris for a maximum of 3 hours by this point; let’s not forget me and Chris are on a FIRST DATE; let’s not forget that Chris, who I’ve known for 3 hours, and am on a first date with, is now being taken to meet half of my family.
We go to the bar my mum and auntie are in (I just did a full body shiver/convulse as I remember this…why…just why? Why am I allowed to do things? I shouldn’t be allowed to do things) and he turns on the charm offensive to be fair to him; I mean, the man deserves some kind of recognition or award. I can’t even emotionally deal with meeting the parents of boyfriends I’ve been with for months. Chris was neither my boyfriend, nor someone I’d been with for months, and was dealing with the situation pretty well.
By this point, I’ve left my mum, auntie and Chris sitting together and talking, and I’m at the bar, ordering rounds of drinks that no one has asked for, dancing (by myself), doing shots of GIN (by myself) and asking the barman if I’d be able to go behind the bar and do a quick cocktail making masterclass with him.
When I get back to the table (drinks no one asked for in tow), my mum and auntie politely make their excuses to leave, which I don’t care about because I’m too busy asking Chris if he’d like me to teach him how to dougie.
I then announce, in a turn of events, that I need food, and I need it now. I try to order the soup of the day and some chargrilled chicken skewers at the bar, but they inform me it’s 3am, and the kitchen closed 6 hours ago.
Not one to let this deter me, I drag (physically) Chris to a nearby fish and chip shop, where I order myself 3 battered sausages and a large chips, which I consume in 6 minutes.
I’ve got a second wind after my 4 course meal, and I don’t want to go home; of course, I invite myself back to Chris’s house. The journey there isn’t an easy one, with me throwing up out of the taxi window, and then getting out at the traffic lights and laying on the grass on Hove Lawns. Chris kneels beside me and asks if I’m okay, and I inform him that I’m stargazing and don’t want to be interrupted please.
I then realise that I’ve lost my phone; after what can only be described as an obscene amount of alcohol, I don’t really seem to care very much, and we continue with our journey back to Chris’s.
A bumpy taxi ride, along with the high percentage of ethanol and fried food in my stomach mixing around together proves to be too much to handle, and as soon as the front door is unlocked, I run for what looks like a downstairs loo, and projectile vomit…repeatedly. When I say repeatedly, I mean no less than 15 times; my vomit includes whole, unchewed chips, and a whole piece of passionfruit from one of my pornstar martinis earlier in the evening. Apparently I forget I have teeth when I’ve had a drink.
The majority of my time at Chris’s is spent vomiting up the remaining contents of my stomach, with a brief hour of shut eye at about 7am. The 60 minute power naps leaves me confused and disorientated when I wake up for a moment, before the evenings events hit me like a Sainsburys food delivery truck all at once, hand in hand with the mother of all hangovers.
Introducing him to my family. Losing my phone. Vomiting everywhere. Kissing him after I vomited. Laying in the grass. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I scrabble around for my shoes and jacket, and also my chicken fillets which are splayed across the floor.
Chris starts to stir and when he sees that I’m leaving sits up immediately and asks if I want to wait a few hours and then when he’s not over the limit anymore he can drive me home.
‘Errr, thank you, but I think it’s best I kind of leave, erm…now’ I fumble about stuffing my arms into my jacket, whilst my head feels like I did ten rounds with Rocky Baboa the night before and then got thrown face first off a cliff.
‘Okay, no worries I’ll call you one…did you maybe wanna go for dinner soon, and err, have a bit more of a civilised evening?’ he asks me.
It takes all my inner willpower to not shake him; WHY ON EARTH DO YOU WANT TO SEE ME AGAIN? I literally reached new heights of acting like a freak, I forcefully introduced you to my family, and was sick all over your bathroom floor. I currently look like I died 8 years ago and have been left to rot and been eaten by maggots, my breath stinks of a mix of vomit, regurgitated battered sausages and gin, and my hair is literally one big dreadlock stuck to the back of my head, bound together with grass from when I LAY ON HOVE LAWNS AT 4AM.
‘Erm, yeah, maybe, I’ll…text you. Well, I don’t have a phone, so I don’t know when I’ll text you, but I will’ I mutter, and grab my bag and do a 200 metre sprint that would rival my Year 9 Sports Day down his stairs to my waiting taxi outside.
That taxi journey home is one of the worst of my life; everytime the taxi passes a food establishment, which is very often, I gag, and everytime it passes a pub, which is even more often, it takes all the willpower in the world for me not to be sick into my own lap.
I get home and crawl into my bed, which is piled high with the remanents of getting ready for a date, and I don’t even move any of it. I sleep for hours on top of piles of makeup, fake tan, disgarded outfits, bras, and fuck knows what else. I don’t even care.
At about 3pm, I realise that I don’t have a phone, and everyone probably thinks I’m dead, so I log onto Facebook on my laptop, and fire off a message to my friends to inform them I’m alive, just without a phone currently.
I then receive a message from Chris on Facebook, asking how I am…does this man have no limits? If I’d been sick on him would that have been too far? I don’t understand.
We exchange a few back and forth messages, but I physically cannot bear to continue conversing. I apologise profusely for my behaviour and slam my laptop shut, shove makeup, clothes, underwear and my toothbrush into a bag and peg it over to my friends house to drown my sorrows in prosecco and discussions of why my life is such a mess.
Tinder Diaries is back with a bang it seems, and I genuinely wish that I could tell you that didn’t all happen, but sadly it did. Why is this my life?
I will be back soon with more enchanting and romantic tales of my Tinder escapades, but in the meantime…whatever you do, do not introduce your date you’re meeting for the first time that night to your family.
All my love BGP xx