Fully aware that I am about to launch into ‘why GOTN is wildly irritating’ territory, I ask the third guy in the space of a week: “You say you like me but… what exactly is it that you like?” It’s not that I want him to kiss my arse, I genuinely need to know the answer. Without a real answer to that question, I don’t think I can meet him. Dating during Covid has helped me realise that what I’m after in a date has been refined – or just better defined – since the last time I was single.

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“I still read the blog sometimes,” my ex told me, then added in a quieter voice “you’ve been so kind.” I’m taken aback. I can’t quite work out what to say except ‘of course’, and then ‘you should probably stop reading soon.’ In that moment I think the greatest kindness I can do is warn him not to read tomorrow. I have no idea if this is appropriate, and later I’ll wonder if that was actually the worst thing I could do – like telling someone not to open a box, torturing their curiosity and making it inevitable that they’ll crack and look inside. This stuff is hard after a break-up. I have no idea what’s right. I have no idea what to say or where my words are or why my mouth is glue and sawdust. I still love him.

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Men: they’re fucking everywhere, aren’t they? God, I had almost forgotten they existed. I used to walk down streets past men every day and barely give them a second glance, but suddenly now I am starting to notice them. Men. Everywhere. This is a post written loosely off the back of a pep talk I gave to a friend, in which I urged her: shoot your shot. (hat tip to @Oloni for introducing me to that excellent phrase)

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Remember those urban legends about parents who’d find cigarettes in their teenagers’ bedrooms and force them to smoke an entire packet to put themselves off forever? That’s how I feel about dick pics. I’ve seen so many of them that even the most beautiful dick, framed and shot by the world’s greatest photographer, does little for me now unless it’s attached to someone I already have a raging crush on. But recently someone sent me a different type of picture, far better than a dick pic. So hot that opening the file felt like a punch in the cunt.

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When I was growing up, there was always one dude in the group who would be known as The Stoner. Didn’t matter which group: there was always one guy who had this role. He would bring weed to parties and impress everyone by rolling neat spliffs that were perfectly packed. A skill born of plenty of practice, and many many many nights spent high.

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