Truth is, no one’s ever wanted to hold my hand. When I was beautiful, maybe there were people, but there was never anyone for me. But you know what, honest truth: I’m still pretty; I actually am. No one gives a damn.
And you know what else: I’m a good person. I’m kind, and funny, and I’m so brave, and I’ve been stronger than anyone should have to be. I’m insightful, and witty, and I’m cleverer than most people I know (I’d be stupid if I didn’t know that). Yeah, I’m introverted and quiet and geeky, but I kind of like those things. I’m creative, and I write beautiful fiction, and I play guitar, and draw, and sing a mean Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina. And I just feel like no one sees any of that; or maybe they do see it, but they don’t care, like sure, I’m all these things, but I’m not remarkable, and maybe people don’t actually want some fierce, smart, geeky feminist type with serious self-loathing and body-image issues.
When I was seventeen I fell in love with a girl called Clare, one of my friends. She was the most beautiful thing; so clever, so sweet – she was exactly my height, little and slender – and she had these brown eyes and these dimples that killed me. And she was a fucking mathematical badass, and a little nerdy, and what I liked about her was that she understood silence, you could just be with her and she wouldn’t try to fill the space, you could both just be. She was like a little cat, and sometimes she’d fall asleep on the chairs in the common room with her head on my shoulder, all this soft golden-brown hair, and I’d just sit there, I swear, with little hearts bubbling out of my mouth like an anime character. At parties, when we got drunk, we’d snuggle together, our hands wound into each others’, and my heart would beat so fast I didn’t know if I was alive or dead. One time, we lay in the dark on a double bed, sharing a bottle of vodka and playing ‘Rockstar’ by Nickleback on repeat, and any time the song said the word ‘rockstar’ we’d sing ‘Voldemort’ (’cause we all just wanna be Voldemort…!’), and we thought this was the funniest thing in the whole world. On holiday, we kissed in a club, and I don’t know who started it – I honestly don’t – but we made out for like, an hour, and I never wanted to stop. That was my first kiss; she must have known that.
But she was straight, see. Or at least, she thought she was straight; or at least, she wanted to be straight, cause it’s so much more fucking complicated when you like girls, isn’t it. I’d have walked into oncoming traffic for her, I’d have come out on the fucking ten o’ clock news, I’d have been her girlfriend. I wanted to be her girlfriend. I’d never even thought about that before – I’d thought, yeah, I’m probably bi, but I’d never thought, She could be my girlfriend. We could do girlfriend things. We could have hot lesbian sex, you know? I didn’t even know how lesbians had sex.
But she was straight, or she thought she was, or she wanted to be. So I just got my heart broken. There’s not really been anyone since then.
It’s pretty depressing to be bisexual, and to have both genders to choose from, and still not be able to find anyone. I’ve never kissed a boy. I’m twenty years old and I’ve never kissed a goddamn boy (it’s fairly lucky Clare happened, or I’d never have kissed a girl either). The truth is, most people don’t even know I’m bi – my friends at uni don’t, in so many words – just because it’s always been such a moot issue: okay, so I’m not making out with girls, but I’m not making out with boys either. Is that a confidence thing? Is it an eating-disorder-side-effect? Or is it just me, who nobody wants?
So, this is totally irrelevant to the point of this blog. Enough story-dumping.