Last night, I made a decision not to sit and fester in my room. Which essentially would involve sleeping again, which is my preferred method of dealing with my depression. No, Maisie, I thought, put on your red lipstick and short black dress. You are going out. Yes, I made an executive decision to go out drinking alone, my mission: to find the man of my dreams. Courtney applauded me on the way out, and gave me one of his pep-talks. If you recall from earlier posts, he is rather good at "the game". I am a poor student, but have still learned much. "Remember, they will be afraid to talk to you," he said, "You are tall, look intimidating, and clearly know 'stuff'." He told me to perform a quick room-scan upon arrival. Pick out the ones looking at me, select my prey, and pounce.
Off I went, to a well known rock bar in the centre of town. I got off the train, and realised that I had not eaten all day. I promptly tried to maintain the glamour whilst shovelling Burger King fries down my neck on a street corner. And then off I went. Off to the venue of men with long hair. It was almost empty. Tuesday night. Nuts. Nevertheless, I scanned. In the group of smokers outside, there was one very pretty boy. The only one for me in the whole bar, it transpired. But, oh wait, hold your fire, he was with a girl. It's ok, Maisie, I thought. She may be a friend, a sister. They kissed. Bollocks.
I went inside and tried to look hot as I sipped a G&T. I am not sure who I was aiming my pitch at, since there was practically no one to see it. And then a solitary, rather sorry looking goth walked in, he had the look of someone who couldn't remember his last shag. Something inside me said that eventually he would make a beeline for me, and treat me to some soul-destroying conversation. Oh god. I moved outside and tried to look busy with my phone. He came outside and planted himself down on the bench next to me. "Hello," he said, "Were you at (whoever's) funeral?" Great, I thought. We have only just started speaking, and we are already talking about funerals. He then moved onto what "gothic" establishments I frequent, and then poured scorn on the modern architecture being built around us, because her preferred the "older, more gothic sort." I smiled through gritted teeth, but even I have to admit that part of me was laughing. We're in typical Maisie country, I thought.
But wait, hark, what is that? Praise be, it was my friend (who we shall call Artemis) phoning me. I am saved, I thought. And indeed I was, for a time. but alas, the conversation turned to sex and fetish. The time came for me to end the call. I placed the phone back in my bag, and gothic man looked at me. He smiled his gothic smile, and he said "Do you want to go home and do fetish with me?" I am afraid my usual diplomacy escaped me at this point.
"No!" I said, rather too loudly and forcefully.
He didn't look surprised, and really, he had probably heard it a million times before. I made my excuses, visited the loo, and left. I went back to the station, walked through the tunnels, came to the platform, settled myself down onto a seat, looked up. Imagine my surprise, because there he was. I know not how, nor why... actually, I know why. But really, how was it possible?
Thank god he got off at Waterloo.