Take a Ticket, Get in Line, Waste of Time

As mentioned in the Wasteman Wes blog, I know first-hand the torturous, monstrous, hellish ordeal that is unrequited love. Unrequited love is almost always an affliction of ‘the nice guys,’ (Kerry is exempt from this generalisation). It is for us poor, stupid idiots who are unfortunate enough to bestow our feelings of high regard upon someone who, being brutally honest, just doesn’t want us in return. Perhaps we have given them ‘the ick.’ Perhaps we’re just not their type. Perhaps they are feeling the same thing we feel for them but for someone else. For whatever reason, unrequited love is the most hideous suffering of being completely in love with someone who does not, and will not, love you back.
Such an affliction fell upon me once some years ago when I met the incredibly charismatic surgeon, Mr E-A. Robert and I were working when I first spotted him; Robert made an off-hand comment that he looked a little bit like Cesc Fabregas and, having worked with him before, felt he was one of the nicer doctors (these are few and far between as most people in the healthcare industry will confirm). From the moment I lay eyes upon him, I was totally hooked. If I was an emoji, I’d have been the heart-eyes and drool face combined. I did absolutely everything in my power to get Mr E-A to notice me. I got up half an hour earlier on the days he was in so I could make sure my hair and make-up were dazzling (I wasted a lot of good make up on that guy). I spent money I definitely could have used on more sensible things buying the tightest dresses imaginable and I started taking an active interest in his area of clinical expertise. Eventually my efforts paid off and he hired me to work for him part-time alongside my full-time job.
The things I loved most about Mr E-A were his hands. I’m not a weirdo with a hand fetish, I swear (although I will say there’s nothing wrong with a bit of attention on the toes in the bedroom). He just had these long, thin fingers and he pressed his fingertips together in the apex of a triangle when he was deep in thought; I felt this revealed a high intellect. In reality, he was actually very skinny and short with acne and a perpetually sweaty top lip but I didn’t care at the time because I felt he was the most delightful little man to have ever walked the earth.
At the start of our working relationship, Mr E-A bought me an iPad so I could support him better. He felt, as a young surgeon burgeoning into the medical field just a little green around the gills, it would make him look pioneering and modern to have a little floozy running around worshipping him and brandishing a hand held computer with which to run his practice. I asked Daniel to help me set up the iPad because I was probably doing something much more important like talking to my friends about what Mr E-A (AKA ‘McDreamy’) had said that day to make me think he was interested in crushing my gushing pussy or writing some new leaflet on the latest advancements in his field in a desperate attempt to make him fall in love with me through the power of my written word. Whatever the reason, Daniel sorted out the iPad and handed it back the night before work, ready to go.
That Saturday, in our first clinic-avec-tablet, Mr E-A asked to have a look at the shiny, new device so he could download some software to it. I willingly handed it over, eager to take credit for Daniel’s digital know-how. Apple was a relatively new brand in terms of popularity back then and I had only owned my personal iPhone a short period of time so I was a beginner when it came to navigating round the equipment. What you need to know at this point is that I had been texting Jenny just moments before I went into Mr E-A’s consulting room about what I was wearing and my latest plan to seduce McDreamy.
As his deep, delicious brown eyes roved, impressed, over the technology it made a bleeping noise. I thought absolutely nothing of this – the device was making all kinds of noises as it settled into its new life with a digital nincompoop such as myself and I ignored each and every one of them. Had I not ignored it, I’d have known that Daniel had synchronised the iPad to my personal phone, so every message I received scrolled down from the top of the iPad, emblazoned in BIG, BOLD LETTERS for the viewing pleasure of whomsoever was eyeballing the screen. To make things worse, Mr E-A was holding the thing landscape to make the preview message longer and larger.
Mr E-A’s eyes rolled from the iPad display to my own hazel peepers. ‘Something about a dream…?’ He questioned. It felt like my entire stomach had fallen out of my anal cavity. I knew instantaneously – instinctively – that Jenny had just text me back and the inappropriate message had flashed up on the screen. I dived for the tablet, clumsy in my haste and knocking his Mont Blanc fountain pen into his suited lap. Frantically my fingers clawed for the iPad – the damage had been done, of course, but I had to get it into my own hands before the follow up message I was certain would contain a penile quip came through. It would speak volumes about the sordid imaginings I had shared with my friends on what my sex life with Mr E-A would be in the minutest of detail.
He must have put two and two together, the penny clanging to a drop in his scholarly mind. He handed back the device with a fleeting ‘you can turn those notifications off, you know.’ I made up some falsification about not sleeping the night before which neither of us believed and I made my shameful, red-faced exit.
You may be cringing for me right now – believe me, that is the tip of the most gruesome iceberg of humiliation and embarrassment. But the worst, the absolute worst, is the Mrs Carter Tour fiasco of 2013:
Mr E-A had an Audi R8 which he revved up as he drove to and from work, synchronising the acceleration with the flutters in my vulva as he waved those long, lovely fingers at me. I often stood there, balancing precariously on 6 inch heels pondering how he didn’t know I was in love with him. It was so blatantly, preposterously obvious. But whatever the reason, from where I was standing, my existence in Mr E-A’s eyes seemed a fluid and irrelevant thing. And yet my world painfully revolved around him in his camel coat and his pinstriped suits and the waft of Oud that seemed to follow him always.
My flourishing love for Mr E-A was rising in correlation with the world domination of Beyoncé Knowles. She had just announced her ‘The Mrs Carter Tour’ and her UK dates included a stint at the O2 Arena. Tickets went on sale on Saturday morning and my friends tasked me with being the one to sit online and try my hardest to procure four. I had nothing better to do other than adore Mr E-A from afar while he reclined deeper into a late-running clinic so I accepted the challenge and prepared to take my place in the queue for tickets at 09:00. In passing, I mentioned to Mr E-A that I would be sitting in my consulting room, waiting for the tickets to become available online (shamelessly using the work equipment he had purchased for me as my accessing tool).
‘I’ll get you tickets. Don’t worry about waiting online or anything like that.’ Oh my god – did that mean he loved me? He was getting me tickets for a concert where tickets were as easy to acquire as rocking-horse shit. He was actually going out of his way to contact an acquaintance to get me four tickets…to stop me from having to wait online with the common people. He definitely loved me.
‘If you don’t mind, that would be great.’ I casually replied as I slinked out of the room.
Obviously, the ticket-promise occurred months before the concert date. Mr E-A assured me on a multitude of occasions that these tickets were ‘in the bag,’ and I’d get them closer to the time. I did not want to appear too keen or border on annoying so I didn’t chase them up as often as my distrustful friends would have liked – I felt certain this demi-God wouldn’t- couldn’t¬ – let me down. But as the April Bank Holiday weekend approached upon which the concert was scheduled, the tickets seemed as unlikely to come to fruition as Mr E-A was to confess his reciprocated undying love for me. One member of my concert party, Luke, could rival Romeo Montague with his flair for the melodramatics and he was all over me like a wet flannel to get his grubby mitts on those tickets. He forced my hand and I was persuaded to send a text message containing what can only be described as a closed question surrounding this damned concert.
‘When are you getting us the Beyoncé tickets?’ I cringed and simultaneously died as my thumb hit the send button. I was preparing to launch a tirade of abuse at Luke in my angst when an insanely fast reply landed in my inbox.
‘I’ve got your tickets. There was an issue where two are for the Friday night and two are for BH Sunday – I hope that’s not a problem.’ Problem? Oh Mr E-A, my sweetest love, how could there be a problem when you have come through on that promise made so many months ago? My friends, those Doubting Thomas’s, were surprisingly OK with being split into pairs; Luke and his cousin decided to take the Friday night tickets; I took the Sunday tickets for myself and our friend, Laura – it was all working out perfectly.
A follow up text then came through (I noted with glee that he had double-texted…he clearly wanted me – it must be thanks to the flash of suspenders I’d ‘accidentally’ revealed last time I saw him). ‘Can you ask Luke to come to Harley Street on Friday to collect his tickets from me? I’ll bring yours to clinic on Saturday.’ This sounded inconvenient for Luke but it made life easy for me – see, he was making my journey easier.
On Friday night, Luke sent me a message to tell me that the tickets were incredible. He was in a VIP booth to the side of the stage and he could practically see the stitching on Bey’s weave and smell the sweat on her top lip as he was so close to her. There were free drinks, food and service on tap. He was super impressed and also slightly in love with Mr E-A. The next day at work I dutifully thanked Mr E-A on Luke’s behalf, describing in detail how flabbergasted Luke had been by the VIP treatment Mr E-A had sorted out for us as a surprise. In my eagerness to thank (and seduce) him, it barely registered with me that he seemed ever-so-slightly startled by the splendour of the night Luke had enjoyed.
‘I’m really looking forward to tomorrow night now – we can’t wait for some VIP treatment!’ I closed on this, my passive-aggressive hint that he should put the golden tickets in my fake-tan encrusted palm.
‘Ah, yes…I actually didn’t bring your tickets with me today but Charlotte and I were deciding if we were going to go as well so I can meet you tomorrow in London with your tickets.’
OK, first of all – who the fuck is Charlotte!? This is the first I’ve heard of any significant other…and why are you taking her to see Beyoncé? I felt an oesophageal spasm coming on as my little heart of stone crumbled to powder. Secondly, where are my goddamn tickets? At this point, on reflection, I realised I’d rather have waited in the Ticketmaster queue like the normal paupers and lost out altogether than go through this stress and agony. I plastered equilibrium on my face and pretended that was absolutely not a problem, and I would see him – and my tickets – and Charlotte – tomorrow. I hope he didn’t think I was standing, rocking out to ‘End of Time’ with his girlfriend frolicking around me killing my vibe.
The sun rose on that fateful Bank Holiday Sunday like any other day. It was ambient, I’d planned my outfit (more for the benefit of Mr E-A than Bey) and I was going to be getting VIP tickets to the concert of the millennium in a few hours. Mr E-A had arranged to meet us at a Café near Fortnum and Mason. I knew he always ran late but I wanted to appear cool, indifferent and apathetic in my Sunday best so I made sure we got there ahead of time; the last thing I wanted was to be pink-cheeked and fuzzy haired, especially not if I was potentially going to be standing near this Charlotte-the-future-husband-stealer, whoever the hell she was.
The allotted meet-and-greet time glided by – no surprise that Mr E-A was a no-show. He text me to say he was on his way so we stayed put, my eyes glued to the road outside scanning like an expert marksman for an R8 skidding down the street. But an hour later, still no sign. Every now and again I’d get a ‘2 mins’ message but then nothing. If I’m honest, he was starting to really piss me off but I had to remind myself that he was bringing me free VIP tickets to Beyoncé and he was the man I fully intended to procreate with so I needed to swallow my boiling rage and chill the fuck out.
To cut what is already a very long story short, after hours of waiting around and being told to go to a smorgasbord of different destinations for ticket collection, Mr E-A finally text to say he wasn’t going to make it and we should just meet him at the O2. Near boiling point now, my anger was bubbling away, smoking toxic fumes to choke everyone around and threatening to erupt, scorching us all with the hellfire of my vicious sulk. The thing is, when I lose my temper, I can be very nasty; I try to manage my mood as best I can by plateauing consistently on kindness and happiness even in the face of adversity. But I grew up around my mother and so, when I eventually lose it, my words are hurtful, vicious and vile. I could feel Laura’s nerves filtering off her in waves – she was stuck between my imminent tantrum and this surgeon who was doing us a huge favour but making us jump through hoops of fire before he came up with the goods. She persuaded me to go to him, playing on my feelings for him and serenading me with ‘End of Time’ which she knew would get me in the heartstrings.
To give you some idea of timing, Laura and I drove from Fortnum and Mason to the O2 Arena. We parked; we queued outside TGI Friday; we went into TGI Friday and ordered cocktails while we waited for a table; we were served our cocktails and we were seated before that sexy, sweaty lipped little bastard flounced in. His dark, curly hair bounced in freshly washed zest and I noted with disgust he was wearing camel coloured chinos held up by a thin, patent black belt and brown shoes – not tan; BROWN. I couldn’t even look him in the eye, such was my fury. Still, I was wearing a tight bodysuit and high-waisted jeans that showed off my slim figure so I maximised the angles but I boiled under the surface with tumescent wrath. Who did he think he was, strutting in six hours late looking like an extra from The IT Crowd?
‘So I’ve got good news and bad news.’
That’s genuinely how he started the conversation. No ‘Hello!’ or ‘I’m sorry I’m late!’ or ‘Ladies, I’ve been a grotty little shit-bag making you drive here, there and everywhere for these tickets,’ but ‘there’s good news and bad news.’ What could possibly come next!? Well, readers, I’ll tell you what fucking next!
‘Good news, I’ve got your tickets,’ he looked optimistically between Laura and I, hoping for some encouragement. He was met with the iciest of resolve. ‘…The bad news is they’re not together. But I’ve heard it’s a great show so you’ll enjoy it!’ Laura burst into tears – then and there – she had finally succumbed to the emotional events of the day. I’m not as much of a pussy as her so I just stared him down in sheer repugnance. I couldn’t trust myself to say another word to him so I took the tickets from those long, luscious fingers and met his eye for the briefest of moments, turning each corner of my lips into the smallest of smiles. Any love I held in my heart perished like a ship in a storm on the high seas as he awkwardly turned to walk away, muttering, ‘Let me know you if get in OK?!’ His sensible shoes squelched along the rubber floor as he made his shameful exit and I realised they reminded me of the shoes people wear when they have one leg shorter than the other. I was too distracted by the monstrosities on his metatarsals to take heed of the ‘let me know if you get in OK,’ comment… Had I noted that, I would have had some sense of foreshadowing of the horror that was about to develop.
‘This can’t get any worse,’ Laura whispered as we stared down at the mismatched tickets. One was a paper print out, the other was a proper card ticket. A quick Google told us the tickets couldn’t be further away either from each other or the stage if he had tried.
‘This is not the crisis scenario you’re imagining, Laur, pull yourself together!’ Resilience seeing me through as always, I came up with a plan that we tell the stewards that Laura was pregnant and we needed to be seated closer to one another, even if the seats were worse than what each of us had – which seemed highly unlikely since my seat would have had me rubbing shoulders with Saint Peter and Laura’s seat was situated somewhere near Peckham. She seemed satisfied by this and, as long as I did the talking, she was happy to go along with the plan. It turns out the security team at the O2 were not so happy with this plan…
Having finished our meal, we decide to go to the entrance of the concert a little early so we can maximise the emotive tale I am about to weave for the O2 stewards as we beg them to take pity on us. My love for Mr E-A is teetering precariously close to hatred as I note a text from him imploring us to ‘Enjoy the show! X’ Even the presence of a ‘X’ could do nothing to assuage my ire.
I push Laura through the turnstiles ahead of me, convinced that if either ticket is going to be troublesome, it will be the paper print out he gave to her-she can withstand the shame, she’s already been crying in public.
Laura thrusts through the turnstiles. I breathe a sigh of relief as I push the barcode of my own ticket into the crimson, Spirograph light. At least the tickets work!
Why won’t my ticket work? I’ve tried scanning it twice now in the neon lights. A cursory glance at Laura reveals she is having her bag checked by torchlight with a particularly large security steward wearing a beanie hat – you can never trust a man who wears a beanie.
My cheeks are flushing brightest rouge and my luxury foundation is doing nothing to conceal it. There’s a build-up of people behind me, impatient to get in and see Bey’s support act, Frank Ocean (I think – because I didn’t see him) who is due on stage in 13 minutes.
Security pull me off to the side-lines. I feel a vibration in my handbag but am now palpitating with embarrassment as I am taken through the turnstiles to a special desk. I can only assume I’m being guided to the place where concert-goers are strip searched, forced to bend over and cough. Laura is nervously laughing as she is led over to meet me. Everyone is gaping at me like I’m a fraudulent piece of scum and this is not helped by Laura’s tearstained, beetroot red face staring emphatically at me with her bloody legitimate paper ticket in her stout hand. I am dying inside.
‘Where did you get this ticket? Who gave it to you?’ The beanie-sporting Security Man is eyeing me up and down as if he’s caught me eating from the carcass of a deceased rat I found in the bin.
In my panic, I blurt out ‘My boss gave it to me.’
‘Who is your boss? What’s his name?’ This is legitimately like an episode of Ross Kemp on Gangs – his tone is unnecessarily aggressive and I note his assumption that my boss was male. I was definitely going to prison – this was overkill for a dodgy ticket, surely? Meanwhile my phone is going crazy in my handbag.
‘I’m not telling you his name!’ Why was I protecting him? And also, thinking back on those moments now, why did I automatically assume this was punishable with a prison sentence?
The beanie guy realises this is fruitless – I’m an information vault, locked down, not giving up Mr E-A over this crooked ticket. I’d take whatever punishment came. If that meant spending life in a prison cell being molested with a sharpened toothbrush by my cellmate, sobeit.
After some confusion and in-house chat with beanie guy and his mandem, Laura and I are left standing alone while they go off to converse regarding my fraudulent ticket in the confines of the curtained kiosk nearby.
‘Pick it up; he has to sort this out for us!’ Laura begs me.
‘We’re fucking leaving. Now! I have nothing to say to this arsehole.’ My voice is quite literally juddering; I am seething and I know if I speak to Mr E-A at this moment the mania will erupt from my soul with a viciousness I cannot hold back.
Still lingering there waiting for destiny in a beanie hat to return with our verdict, we remain. Having 30+ missed calls from Mr E-A, I have relented in the storm and thunder of my indignation and allowed Laura to speak to him. She has one pudgy finger in her free earhole and the other is holding my phone firmly to her chubby, puce cheek. She has walked away from me – I think she knows I’m likely to grab the phone and tell him to shove his fraudulent tickets up his skinny little arse and she is still gripping on to the hope that we may get in to see Beyoncé yet. A pessimist by nature, I’ve already mentally got my handcuffs on and I’m the back of the riot van with a spit hood covering my face.
We have now left the security team like escaped felons. As gas disperses in the breeze, their interest in us had evaporated away. Mr E-A has instructed us to ‘chill out, grab a drink,’ and he will be there to sort this out. After some frank words between Laura and me, I have agreed (against my better judgement) that he must be given the opportunity to rectify this misdemeanour. Laura feels that he can, and should, make amends for this. I have told her she has fallen for his charms like an absolute sucker and he is, in reality, as useful as a knob-flavoured lollipop – that we would be better off salvaging what is left of a wasted Sunday and pick up a McDonalds on the drive home. The repertoire of Frank Ocean (possibly?) blasts out from the other side of a wall that separates us from our dashed hopes and lost dreams.
We’ve set up camp in an empty Slug and Lettuce. Laura has purchased me an Archers and Lemonade to calm my nerves. I sip, livid, becoming more and more agitated as the seconds roll by. The rose tinted glasses with which I once looked upon Mr E-A, the geek in orthopaedic shoes, have now been removed.
‘If he is not here in 5 minutes, we are going!’ I make the statement to no one in particular. Laura says nothing, placing the straw of her own beverage between her super-thin, pursed lips. I have to raise my voice over the raucous sound of partying to the support act going on mere metres away.
My phone starts vibrating across the high-table. I snatch it up as ‘Mr E-A’ flashes up momentarily on my screen. ‘Where are you?’ I don’t even try to hide my fury anymore, niceties are as dead as my vaginal reactions to him.
‘I’ve got your tickets, don’t worry. Calm down. Where are you?’ Is he actually telling me to calm down after this holy show of a catastrophe?
I gave him our location. He said he’d be there shortly.
Still no sign of Mr E-A but frequent phone calls and texts to say he is on his way keep us lingering. Laura’s thinking ‘we’ve come this far, we may as well see what he comes up with!’ whereas I am toeing a more ‘Fuck this cunt!’ line. My detestation for that cretinous man has reached its crescendo. I can no longer remember what I loved about him.
OK, so I know you are probably now reading this thinking, ‘Why the fuck didn’t they just leave earlier?’ Believe me, if I could have dragged Laura away, I would have done. At one point I even threatened to go and leave her there. I was mortified – the horrors of months of effort and energy wasted on getting this man to love me flashed before my eyes as the bubbles in my beverage flattened to mirror our hopes for the day. But I had to remind myself that this was my friend and she had been looking forward to this for months. My personal feelings around being let down by the man I harboured significant love for must be put aside – we had come this far, I needed to see it through – to prove to her and myself that this little weasel wasn’t worth shit!
We’ve moved to the outside of the pub and agreed that if him and his utilitarian shoes do not come clomping round that corner by the time Beyoncé comes on stage we will leave.
FINALLY, he shows up…but wait…who on earth is that with him? He is accompanied by a troop of reprobates. It was such an odd sight; him in his check shirt and his light brown chinos finished off perfectly by the most functional shoes ever to grace the foot of mankind leading forth a multicultural, mixed gendered pack of teenagers brandishing their abdominals in sportswear and TN caps.
I can barely look at him. He corrals us to walk with him and makes the meekest of conversations with Laura while I storm alongside some girl who has broken away from the clique, her beautiful long ringlets cascading down to her low-rise white jeans. Is this Charlotte? I regard her up and down ferociously.
Is that ‘End of Time’ I can hear? We are still walking, where to, I have no idea – we assume we’re heading towards the backstage area based on the distance we’ve walked from the entrance. It is now completely silent amongst the gang and one of the most awkward moments of my life – and I shit on Wasteman Wes so that’s really saying something! Laura’s palpitations are visible as her shoulders tense ahead of me.
Where the fuck is he leading us? This Bratz crew seem to know their way around…it is all just a massive cringe and I wish I was anywhere but here.
We are led, predominantly by the cool posse, to a random entrance. I can feel the music beating in my chest. A tall, attractive young man fumbles a wristband on me. This entire time I have not spoken a word. Mr E-A and Laura have conversed politely but a million thoughts are running round my mind, each one ending with the visual of me punching Mr E-A right in his curved little nose. As Laura is being fitted with her wristband, finally able to relax in the knowledge that we are surely about to be escorted to an exclusive section of the Arena I turn to Mr E-A to confront him on this absolute shit-show.
He is waiting for me to catch his eye. He stands, awkward and clearly embarrassed. I can’t think of a single nice thing to say – I am determined I will not thank him for the torment and anguish of an entire day. So, what cutting remark do I find to leave him on? Perhaps: ‘Well let’s hope we salvage a decent night with what’s left.’ Maybe I could go with: ‘I’ve missed my favourite song but I’m sure whatever you’ve sorted will make up for it.’ Nope… instead I casually ask:
‘So is that your girlfriend!?’ pointing at the girl with the ringlets. Oh my god – what the hell was I doing? Of all the opportunities in the world to tear him to shreds for this, I came up with that!
He sniggers a little. ‘Oh no, Charlotte’s already in there.’ Ah right, cool – that bitch is up there ramming vol-au-vants in her privileged, VIP enjoying face and we’re down here with a crew of ticket touting miscreants and a man whose fashion inspo is Grandad from Only Fools and Horses. He must gauge from my face this is totally the wrong thing to say. ‘Anyway, safe!’ and he tries to fist bump me. FIST-BUMP ME!! I mean, for a start he cannot pull off ‘safe’ as a means of curtailing a conversation at any time, least of all when wearing shoes fit for someone addressing issues with their foot arches. And to top it off he insults me with a fist bump. I physically cringe in his face and leave him hanging, standing there brandishing a closed fist into the empty air.
Oh, fucking wonderful! To top it all off, we’ve emerged through a black curtain to…the concrete floor. We’re standing. So all this time, walking round the O2 Arena to get where we can only assume is backstage and we’re actually being led to standing availability. 15 minutes late so we’re right at the back. And I’m five foot – wearing flats.
So, what can I say about this fuckboy story? Firstly, Mr E-A very clearly took the tickets he had procured for Laura and I when he found out how good they were and left us at the mercy of ticket touts – twice. He thought he could bank on my crush to ensure I wouldn’t have a problem with being downgraded. Secondly, in hindsight Mr E-A was absolutely aware of how I felt about him right from the start and he capitalised on that by taking advantage. I know this because in the years that have passed, he still asks colleagues about me but pretends he can’t remember my name. He calls me ‘our little friend,’ and I know he remembers my name – you do not forget the name of the hottest employee you’ve ever had! For this reason, he can 100% be defined as a fuckboy – because a good guy would have revelled in the crush of an attractive younger woman and left it there. By exploiting that woman’s feelings, especially when he has a ‘Charlotte’ at home, he is absolutely a fuckboy! It does not make me any less of a mug, but he is most definitely a fuckboy.
He text me the following day to ask whether we enjoyed the concert and I took my opportunity then to take him out verbally; I saw red when he stated, ‘You must have seen her fly over the crowd!’ after I told him I couldn’t see anything from the standing position he’d so generously cobbled together for us. Why, yes I did see that, Mr E-A – because being five foot tall I’m very skilled at being able to look up. I sent Mr E-A a huge bill for all the extra work I was doing for him that I had not been charging him for, I retained the iPad in the divorce and I never worked for, or spoke to, him again.
The moral of the story: If they don’t see how wonderful you are, they’re not right for you. So accept it, no matter how hard, and don’t let your visions of a wedding that is never going to happen manifest in your mind. But even more importantly, don’t waste the money you worked your butt off earning on expensive cosmetics, clothes and lingerie for some fugly little man with appalling taste in footwear who thinks he can pull off a fist-bump and the word ‘safe’ while bordering 40 years of age.

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