Are We Nearly There Yet
Page 8
Also, the food is really nice.
Wishing you all love,
Alice x
#HurtFeelings #FirstDate #Kindness #Bumble #MillennialProblems #TravelBlogger #Wanderer #GoneAWOL #AliceEdwardsBlog #Blessed #Brave #DreamChaser
5 Comments · 6 AWOLs · 12 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Isabelle Moore
| Oh Al! You need to find a good man like @EthanWinkleman
Ethan Winkleman
Replying to Isabelle Moore
| Aww babe! You are so cute. You’re going to get so much good man later on tonight . . .
Danny Boy UrMum
| B GR8FUL ANY1 WANTS TO FUCK U FAT BITCH
AWOL MODERATOR
Replying to Danny Boy UrMum
| Hey Danny pal! We know you’re just trying to have some lolz in life, but please be respectful to our users :) I’m here for some chilled out bantz if you fancy. Luke
Danny Boy UrMum
Replying to AWOL MODERATOR
| luke u r an absolute mug
I am feeling like some kind of superhero for still being here. I think Robert the dirtbag might be the worst person to ever exist. He’s just so awful. Like, the worst. But that’s under-selling it. I’m pretty sure he is what would result if someone got Hitler and Donald Trump to have a baby together – but he has worse hair than both.
He’s gone to the bathroom and I am contemplating making a run for it. But I don’t think I have time. He wees weirdly fast, and he’s definitely not washing his hands in there.
It’s been two hours of tedious hell so far. I arrived five minutes early to the date and he was already there, a large whiskey in his hand, taking up an entire booth with his ego. It looked like some kind of chauvinism tableaux – like Leonardo da Vinci had painted The Last Supper but there was no room for disciples because Jesus was manspreading in every direction.
When he spotted me, he – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – clicked his fingers in the air to get my attention. As every decent, non-Hitler-Trump offspring knows, there is no situation where it’s acceptable to click your fingers at another human being. That is, unless you are literally demonstrating the rudest way to get another person’s attention. I slowly made my way over to him, stopping short of the booth to work out how exactly to slide in with his stupid giant legs in the way. He openly looked me up and down.
‘You’re fatter than you look in your photos,’ he said in this ugly, slow drawl.
I stared at him for five full seconds. ‘Are you serious, man?’ I said, ready to walk straight out again.
He nodded, before continuing, ‘But it’s fine, because you’re also hotter than you looked, so it’s cool.’
He actually negged me before I’d even had a drink. Unbelievable.
‘Sit down,’ he waved his whiskey at me. ‘I’ve ordered you a pink cocktail.’
‘A pink cocktail? Any particular reason you thought that was what I’d want?’ I said, eyebrows raised.
He shrugs. ‘That’s all you chicks ever drink, isn’t it?’
I took a deep breath, just as the waiter arrived, carefully placing the drink down on the table in front of me.
I stood there for another few seconds, breathing hard at the outrageously sexist and offensive generalisation. Never mind casually ordering for me without asking what I’d want, it’s SO offensive to assume all women want some pretty, pink sparkly thing, just because we have more oestrogen.
I was absolutely livid.
And the fact that I do actually drink a lot of pink cocktails is very much beside the point.
‘Sit,’ he barked again, and for some inexplicable reason, I did. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just a trained monkey. Maybe I was too embarrassed to go back home to Patrick so soon. Maybe I didn’t want to waste the six hours of make-up and hair prep. But whatever my warped reasoning for staying, I was immediately trapped, and the conversation has been much of the same ever since.
Robert insisted we order food, demanding off-menu steak-type items from the waiter because clearly a vegetable would threaten his masculinity. And all without once making eye contact with the poor beleaguered waiter, who definitely went away to spit in our food. Robert then spent the starter reciting entire scenes from The Godfather.
I’ve never seen it, and I can tell you with some sincerity I definitely never will now.
Then, when the main course came, he started screaming that his meat was too well done, and they needed to give him the animal ‘still squealing in agony’. And then he smirked at me as if that was sexy. The chat since has mostly revolved around his work (his boss is a moron), his car (it is fast) and his gun (it is a gun). But I’ve only been listening just enough to know when to nod in the right places. Otherwise, I’ve been getting through this evening by playing episodes of Rick and Morty in my head. And believe me, no one is getting squanched tonight.
Oh God, he’s coming back from the loo. He’s walking slowly, looking around the room, like he’s waiting for everyone to recognise him. He sits down, barely glancing at me.
‘Look, it’s getting late . . .’ I begin. He holds up his hand shushing me with one finger on my lips. I fight the urge to bite it off – he might find that sexy.
‘Be upfront, girl,’ he says in a husky voice. ‘If you want to come back to mine, just say it, girl. I won’t judge you for giving it up on a first date, I think we should just give in to our animal urges.’
I almost puke in my mouth. ‘Um, no, that isn’t what I meant,’ I say slowly. ‘I mean, it’s late, so I should be getting home. I’m tired and . . .’
He snorts. ‘It’s not late, don’t bullshit me, girl. If you want to give up on this, then that’s on you, but don’t bullshit me.’
‘I’m not . . . it’s not . . . giving up on anything,’ I say, bewildered and trying not to openly snarl over ‘girl’. ‘I just think it’s time to call it a night. We’ve had dinner, it’s time to go.’
He shrugs, mutters ‘fine’ and clicks his fingers at the waiter, who is midway through taking an order from another couple.
‘Garçon,’ he shouts across the room, making the international prick mime for the bill. I catch the waiter rolling his eyes as he turns back to his customers.
‘We’ll just go fifty-fifty,’ he says and I nod, repressing a sigh. I’m fine with going halves, I would’ve insisted if he hadn’t suggested it. But I reserve the right to be resentful over the fifty-dollar steak and seven whiskeys he’s mainlined throughout the meal, while I nursed one pink cocktail I didn’t want, and an orange juice.
‘Although . . .’ he says, pausing as he pulls out his wallet. ‘You had that extra juice, didn’t you?’
You fucking wot?
‘Do you want me to just pay the whole thing?’ I say, the sarcasm dribbling from my mouth.
‘If you think that’s best,’ he says calmly, deliberately putting his wallet back in his pocket.
Oh my God, he is unbelievable. I feel the boiling rage fireworking in my belly, but I breathe deeply and swallow it. I suddenly really miss TD.
We leave together and I pull out my phone ready to order an urgent Uber. Please, please let there be one available within a minute.
That’s when he leans in to kiss me.
‘Woah!’ I say, pushing him away.
‘Come on, you know you want it,’ he says, smirking. Ugh, why did I think this was a good idea? Why did I want to meet up with a dirtbag? He is gross, and Jesus, his breath smells like he has eaten a burp.
‘I definitely do not want it, thank you,’ I say, firmly, frantically tapping my phone – why don’t I have a signal?
‘Don’t be so frigid, Alice girl. Let’s go back to mine, get high and I’ll give you a taste of my groin yoghurt. My groghurt.’
What?
Groin yoghurt? Groghurt? What i
n the name of all that is holy is groin . . . Oh God, I get it. I feel the sick burning in the back of my throat.
And get high? That is outrageous! It is disgraceful! Offering me drugs! On a date! How dare he!
I mean, obviously I want to do drugs on a date, but only with a guy I fancy. Duh.
‘Please go away, right now,’ I say firmly, and he shrugs – his signature gesture – but does leave. I watch him go and only finally breathe out when I’m sure he’s not coming back. Reassured, I turn back to my phone, which has found its network and I tap ‘request Uber’. It’s four minutes away and I quickly WhatsApp Eva, filling her in on my dreadful night.
Her reply is instant: ‘That sounds rubbish! Sorry Alice. But don’t worry. As they say, there are plenty more fish in the sea.’
I take a second to breathe.
I am annoyed. Really annoyed. It’s such an annoying reply. Such a dismissal of how shit tonight was. She thinks some clichéd platitude makes it all better? She has no idea how crappy the dating world is. She’s so smug over there in her lovely home, paid for by her parents, snuggled up on the sofa with her beloved Jeremy. The image fills me with jealous rage. It’s so easy for her. I didn’t even want anything from Robert tonight, just some fun and maybe a bit of casual sex. I didn’t need him to be The One, just not The Dick.
‘Eva, that’s bullshit,’ I fire back, tapping the screen with irritation. ‘Yeah, there might be plenty of fish in the sea, but believe me when I say, the dating-water is so contaminated and polluted, it’s not possible to actually swim in it. There are too many sewage works around, siphoning their green sludge off into the water, and making all the sexy single fish in the sea mutate into arseholes with three eyes and ex issues.’
I press send and she replies quickly, regretfully. ‘Sorry Alice, didn’t mean to piss you off :(. He really does sound like a total wanker, I hope you’re not upset? I hope it hasn’t spoiled your trip? Sorry. Xxxx’
A second later, she sends another message. ‘Really sorry. How is Project Fun going otherwise?’
I sigh, feeling a little guilty for taking my bad mood out on Eva.
‘Sorry for snapping, Eva, love you. And yes I’m fine,’ I text back. ‘I’m having a good time. It turns out my AirBnB host is totally brilliant. We got drunk last night on ‘frozé’ – or is it ‘frosé’? It’s frozen rosé and we had an argument about how it should be spelled.’
My car pulls up.
‘Car here, love you xx’, I type out quickly.
‘I’m glad he’s nice. When are you free to Skype?’ she replies, but I am gone.
9
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed
30 April – 10.15 p.m.
Good evening, dream chasers,
Just a quick philosophical message because I am feeling philosophical for no reason, to remind you all to follow your heart. For you know not what might happen tomorrow. What if you were to wake up dead in the morning? What would you say if you were dead? If you were a charred corpse right now, what would you do??? Think about that!!! Have you told everyone you love that you love them? We are all so #blessed to live this life, remind yourself of that EVERY DAY. Be kind to yourself and others. Enjoy every moment of your existence in the sun. Look up, look around, embrace life – and also please stop watching that YouTube video from the Teddy Awards. I mean FFS don’t you people have better things to do? There are 900 comments on it now and some of them are really mean.
#EmbraceLife #HugLovedOnes
2 Comments · 0 AWOLs · 1 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Hannah Edwards
| luv u 2 sis
Alice Edwards
Replying to Hannah Edwards
| Cheers for the support, Hannah.
Here is my last will and testament:
I bequeath everything I own to my brother, Mark, my sister, Hannah, and my best friend Eva. Because there is really no one else in my sad empty sad life. And actually, I don’t really have anything to bequeath so why am I doing this? I have no home, no savings, no valuable antiques. Even my iPhone is cracked to fuck and would cost more to fix than it would be worth.
So, actually, I’m not sure my loved ones will want the bother. Sure, Hannah and Eva can have my jewellery, but I doubt they’ll want that either, since it’s mostly from Accessorize and my favourite ring turns my finger green. The most expensive thing I own is a bag from River Island, but the lining is ripped. Oh well, tell Eva she can have that because Hannah won’t know the difference between that and the other Primark ones.
Tell TD I hope he is sad that I am dead, and I hope this teaches him to treat women better in future because my premature end is all his fault for being mean to me. And actually, also tell him not to date anyone else or I’ll haunt him.
This last will and testament feels like it got petty?
So, my Uber driver is trying to kill me. He’s driving with one hand and texting – while also singing along loudly to Lionel Richie. And everyone knows that’s not safe driving music because you’re singing too loudly to concentrate.
This is so unfair! I have so much to live for! I should never have left England! Everyone told me to download Lyft, they TOLD ME. But did I listen? Obviously I did not and now I’m in a death trap with a driver who has nearly crashed four times in the ten minutes since he picked me up. I am actually genuinely terrified. He is a lunatic, driving well over 100 mph and swerving in and out of other cars on the motorway. I’m clinging on to the door handle for – and I don’t say this lightly – dear life.
I am fully about to lose my shit with him.
But I must not.
My Uber rating is an already-dire 3.5 because of my inability to not be shitty with drivers. If it goes any lower, I’ll never get picked up. I need my rating to survive at least another few weeks while I’m here.
I must not say anything.
Even if it costs me my life.
Sigh. How come other British people are so much better with the stiff upper lip thing?
The mad driver suddenly veers across three whole lanes with one hand waving his phone, where his satnav is offering directions that he is ignoring.
I can resist the pull of my inherent shittiness no longer.
‘Can you slow the fuck down please?’ I say loudly, my English accent crisper with rage. He whips round and I fear for a second he will kill us both out of spite.
Instead he throws back his head and laughs maniacally.
The car slows – marginally – as he replies happily, ‘I can see why you’re a 3.5.’
I breathe out, relief filling me and my adrenaline slowing. But then I am outraged. What does he mean by calling me a 3.5? It is the Uber rating system that is the problem, not me.
And anyway his rating is no better. I yank out my phone, finally able to let go of the handle.
‘Hey! You’re a 3.5 too,’ I say a little too aggressively. He nods happily. ‘Sure I am, because I am a terrible driver. But that’s why I was the only one to pick you up. We are both trapped in the lower echelons of Uber, we are a uniquely shitty subsection, stuck with each other because no one else wants us. I’m doomed to collect shitty passengers; you are doomed to being driven around like this and risking death. We are stuck with each other.’
He grins at me in the mirror and I ponder this for a moment. Am I a shitty passenger? I thought the drivers liked feedback while they drove? If their car smells weird, surely they want to know about it, so they can get an air freshener? If they’re playing crappy music, wouldn’t they rather I shouted over it until they put Beyoncé on instead? And who doesn’t love Queen Bey? Sure, I talk a lot, but isn’t that the best thing about an Uber driver? It’s like free therapy. You can tell strangers things you can’t tell your friends. Especially when it’s 3 a.m. and I’m coming back from a night out whe
re there have been a lot of pink cocktails even though they are mildly sexist.
I sit back in my seat, feeling sulky.
‘Hey, don’t be blue,’ Uber Driver says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. ‘I don’t mind you being shitty. And I don’t mind that you’re going to give me a bad rating, I’m going to give you one, too. It’s freeing being down here in the mid-threes, trust me. I know what to expect, and so should you.’
‘But I don’t deserve to be in the threes,’ I say weakly, and he chuckles again. ‘You’re adorable,’ he tells me, and I can feel his speed is picking up again. We’re going to be back at mine in half the time it usually takes.
‘So, where are you going tonight, 3.5?’ he says, his voice teasing.
‘Home,’ I reply, shortly, hoping to convey my hostility towards the nickname I have somehow acquired.
‘What!’ he says, with mock horror. ‘But you look so great, you should be hitting up a club or something.’
‘Well thanks,’ I say softening ever so slightly. ‘But I’ve just been on the world’s worst date and I’m looking forward to eating chocolate and pasta in bed. In that order.’
He throws his head back again and laughs. He has such a huge laugh. All encompassing. A laugh that takes up his whole being, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat. It is a laugh that is hard not to join in with.
‘I see,’ he roars, because he apparently does everything loudly. ‘Well, bed-pasta does sound tempting, I will admit.’ We make eye contact in the mirror again, and I notice myself noticing how nice his face is. He has big, thick eyebrows, bushy and feral, like Sandy Cohen’s.
‘But,’ he continues, thoughtfully. ‘Have you had the chocolate over here? It’s garbage compared to your British chocolate.’
‘Oh damn, yes, I’ve heard that,’ I say, genuinely upset. I lean forward against my seatbelt. ‘But do you go to Whole Foods here?’