Listen up, my friend. Come closer. I have something very important to tell you. Your dick is fucking fantastic. Really, truly outstanding. Since the first time I grasped it through the fabric of your boxers I knew: this dick will work wonders. It’s a memorable cock. It literally sparks fucking joy. That same dick can also, I assure you, break hearts. So I’m gonna say something that I do not say to everyone: you’ve got an exceptional dick, please use it wisely.

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“There is absolutely no way he’ll text me back,” I tell my friends, the day after an extremely hot date. I can’t really explain why I’m so convinced of this, but I am. In fact, so certain am I that he’ll wake up tomorrow and realise he’s made a mistake that I ask him – while we’re on the date – if I can take a picture to show people how hot the man I shagged was. In case, you know, I never see him again. This is very impolite of me, but he’s game so we take pictures. When I show one of my friends a shot of him – kissing me on the cheek, while I grin inanely to camera – my mate laughs and tell me: “you look like you’ve won a contest.”

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Drinking water is pretty miraculous, isn’t it? It’s delicious and refreshing in the morning – a lovely little wake-up treat. It’s a calming joy before bedtime, hydrating and nourishing you without adding caffeine or sugar that might keep you awake for too long. A glass or bottle of water is a good thing to hold while you’re chatting – you can sip on it to punctuate a sentence or fill a silent gap. And best of all… it’s fucking GOOD FOR YOU! Not only are you allowed to have it whenever you want, but 100% of doctors agree that we need it in order to live.

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Despite the best efforts of cinema and TV to convince us human beings can be smooth in seduction, most of the time we’re as ham-fisted at that as we are at everything else. Flailing around and trying to act cool when really we’ve no idea what the actual fuck we’re doing. Which is why it’s lovely to encounter someone who manages to pull off a smooth transition: from hanging out to making out, with no pissing about in the middle.

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Back in August last year, I wrote a post called ‘love is an addiction’. In that blog, which I typed up as a distraction to help me hold off the urgent, all-encompassing desire to text my ex-boyfriend, I said this…

“It feels like trying to quit smoking – an exercise as vital as it is futile, at which I have failed every single time I’ve tried. But I still haven’t sent that text so now I wonder if the wasted, flabby muscle that might once have been my willpower is growing with each passing day. Perhaps every text I compose and do not send builds that muscle up – flexes it, makes it stronger. Maybe if I can make it through the next six months, I can make that muscle strong enough that it’ll haul me through to the end of my smoking addiction. Wouldn’t that be a thing?”

Well, here’s a thing: I quit smoking.

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