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I was sitting next to my friend Annabell, sipping my vodka-something and giving her boyfriend advice as usual. We were surrounded by people I neither knew nor liked. The room was smokey and the crappy music way too loud. Enjoying myself looked different. Very different. Still we were stuck at this pre-drinks and couldn't really get off the hook but the alcohol definitly numbed the pain.
While we were sitting there, bobbing our heads akwardly and holding polite conversations now and then I didn't really think about any of the past, rather painfull events. Well, not really anyway. I didn't think about the boy I've had an affair (well, I suppose one could say that, though I'm not very fond of this word) with for the last, what ? seven months or so. I didn't think about how he was still not willing to get over his ex-girlfriend (or soon to be again for the millionst time girlfriend?). I didn't think about how or whether or not I felt about him. I didn't think about my friend who died in a car-crash two months ago or how I was diagnosed with a pre-stadium of cancer (which, thank gaawwd they could take out - so no worries here!) roughly about the same time as the accident happend. And I most certanly didn't think about how this boy more or less (I'm not quite sure about this, yet) broke my heart by not being there for me when I finally needed him.
It was only later that night, when I, well drunk, was sitting on the floor next to the stairs, when Annabell went, "Well, look who's here..." Eyeing me with a wistful look. The incarnation of Barbie's Ken (and I mean this in the hottest possible way) was coming up the stairs, super cocky, way too confident. He basically looks like one of those Gossip Girl kids. I knew that Annabell thought of him as a super hottie, which she exclaimed immediately after he greeted us with a kiss on each of our cheeks. As usual I shurgged it off but to be complete honest, as I watched him walk away I had to admit that he is pretty ripped and I would know, after having had sex with him. Twice. He was always wearing his weird bandana and overly fucked up jeans, which looked absolutly rediculouse but as he thought of himself as an uber styler... whatever.
After a while we got talking. He gave me this waaayy too familiar look and I got thinking, while still blabbering on about which club to go to afterwards and the lack of drinks in this place, whether or not it would be a good idea to go home with him. On the one hand I had done it already, so: no biggie; on the other hand I thought of him as a roaly idiot. Still, meaningless sex would make me forget about my possibly battered heart. Don't they always say "The best way of getting over someone, is getting under someone else." True that! Always worked for me. At least in the last couple of years. I ended one bad "relationship" (actually I'm streching the term relationship way too far by calling it so, I should rather say an involvement) just to jump into the next even more disfunctional one.
I suppose it was never imparticularly difficult for me to get a little attention of the boys, at least not of the ones that were troubled, weird, lame or simply bad for and to me. I'm not an uber romantic and I'm not whiney or fragile eather but some of the stuff guys pulled off, were rather harsh - to put it mildly. Especially the last one. So I was in dear need of some seriouse distraction and what could be better than sleeping with this fittie who, by the way defo fancied me a tiny bit and also would just be all wrong for me. I wouldn't have to think about the kind of heartbreaker for the next couple of days but about the idiocy of sleeping with an idiot. Great plan! Go for it! I did deserve the break!
Half way in my flirt-move (here I have to admit: I don't really flirt, I just go with whatever the guys are jabbering about and, what can I say: it works just fine!) I stopped, astonished about what I just had realized: I'm not that kind of girl... anymore.