And I thought about the Canadian musician: another small part of my history, whose name crops up every so often; we haven’t been in touch for a few years but we could be. I remembered #129 and how we’d crush out on each other like crazy, tell each other “you kill me”, basically act like manic teenagers and revel in it. I thought of people I’d taken for granted and people who wasted my time and people who hurt me so goddamn much I couldn’t imagine not feeling the pain, the pain that eventually faded. It always fades.

I was kind of checking people out as I walked through the city, not with any real agenda but just for the hell of it. I mean, if the past year-plus is anything to go by then I’m never going to get action in Europe again anyway, but that’s okay because my life these days consists of pinballing around the planet on one-way tickets, and, you know, sometimes, just once in a while and without any longevity, stuff happens. And anyway I’ve resolved to be a little less opportunistic, a little more discerning. That’s not to say I have any regrets about all the people I kissed before, or indeed that I need to be looking at some kind of committed true-love scenario with anyone who’s yet to show up, but, times have changed, I guess, and quite considerably.

I thought I was good at being alone, but this past year has unlocked a whole new level of it.

So yes, I still have stories to tell here. But, at this time, I don’t feel like telling them. Maybe telling them would be like going home, and I don’t know when or if I will feel like committing to either.

I tell other stories instead. Some of them are over here.

And I keep moving, no end in sight, and even the bad days lead, eventually, to something good.

But it was packed and claustrophobic and #184 left me looking after his stuff while he went out to smoke, so I quickly got bored and said my goodbyes. I still wanted a party, but there wasn’t one.

Maybe it’s because I was pretty drunk by then, or maybe it’s because it was really like that at the time, but I remember the walk home as if there was haar hanging over the city. When the haar is in place, there’s a blanket of silence as well as fog, but I don’t know if it was quiet around me; I was listening to music anyway.

I passed someone who threw a shoe, not at me, just at nothing, and I made some sort of comment about it without sticking around to notice an answer. Apparently, though, #211 was impressed by my offhand response. He was walking the same route, and I turned round and started talking to him, and wound up taking him back to my place for uncoffee.

He had to have been more sober than me, and, as far as I can recall, he seemed like a generally decent person. I remember noticing that he was actually really fucking cute. He was a fourth-year student doing a placement at an organisation with which I was very familiar, and we had a whole bunch of stuff to talk about as a result, which we could have done for a lot longer if I hadn’t made out with him.

I guess it wasn’t meant to be, but I always kind of wondered afterwards if there would’ve been scope if I hadn’t made a move so early on. After a little while he stopped and looked at me with concern and said, “Did you say you were out with your partner tonight?” and I explained that no, #184 was my partner in crime, which was a totally different thing. But he made his excuses and left not long after, and no contact details were exchanged, and I didn’t suggest it because the atmosphere had already turned awkward. Maybe I’d made him feel uncomfortable – he’d come back to my place ostensibly for conversation, nothing else.

I filed him away in the back of my mind. There was every chance I might pass him by on the street sometime, but I already wouldn’t be able to recognise him. I was still in the middle of figuring out whether I was actually seeing #210 or not, though, and #184 and I had a whole lot more drinking to do.

I contacted #210 to get her take on what happened next.

What do you remember about the night we first met?

Well, there was this lovely moment when we started talking, that moment of discovery when you meet someone kindred in a busy place – we were talking about stuff and getting quite passionate and heated.

As I recall, we jumped straight into a discussion about exotification and cultural appropriation.

We did indeed! And it was so gratifying to have meaningful chat in this crazy whirlwind of party. And then I remember you kinda tricking me into kissing you by distracting me with the #184/Gavin hook-up.

Oh. I may need more details here.

Well, I think #184 and Gavin were kind of standing around awkwardly, and you took control of the situation by vaguely challenging/suggesting Gavin snog #184. And I was very encouraging.

Did that work out?

It did! And then almost as soon as it did, you started kissing me!

I don’t think #184 even knows that that happened.

#210 and I subsequently spent a significant portion of the evening in Gavin’s bedroom, with #184 stumbling in every five minutes with his hands over his face, apologising profusely while scrambling for another can of beer (I guess it never occurred to him to maybe just take all the beer away with him in one go).

I was really surprised that you’d never kissed a woman before. I had just assumed. And somehow being the first in that category makes me feel like there is some extra level of responsibility, and I was like: whoa, should i backtrack?

Why did you assume? Because I had so many gay friends?

You know what, I think I assumed because one of the only things I knew about you was that you were non-monogamous (although details were very vague), and I don’t know many straight people who are. I still don’t actually know how you identify – or indeed whether you bother to.

I don’t really – it’s a case by case matter, I think. I suspect I may have encountered this experience sooner or later …

The fact that #210 didn’t have any dramas about her first experience with a woman was a relief to me, in the wake of the episode with #203. The following morning, I awarded myself a hangover day and gave myself permission to just faff around; I embarked on a task that I’d been putting off for a long time precisely because of its ludicrousness, which was to make a list of everyone I’d ever kissed, and then I started thinking about what to do with it.

I wasn’t sure where you wanted things to go after that night.

Gosh, me neither – bearing in mind that I actually spent the night with Gavin.

Although the fact that you contacted me online in about three different ways the following day implied that I hadn’t made a terrible impression.

Really? That makes me sound quite desperate!

No, I never took it that way. And obviously, regardless of whether further action was on the cards, we got on well, so it was all good. But still, I wasn’t sure. I quite liked you and realised that I would be interested in seeing you again in a more-than-platonic way. Which felt unusual, since around that time I was mostly just getting off with people in an opportunistic manner and not really looking for re-runs.

It was nearly two weeks before we met up again. We had lunch, then fed the squirrels in the Botanic Gardens, had uncoffee, and checked out a sex shop, where we didn’t buy anything but marvelled that they’d renamed the butt plugs ‘derrière plugs’. All in all it felt more organised and date-like than pretty much any date I had ever been on, except I wasn’t sure whether it was a date at all. The fact that we’d set a precedent wasn’t enough to go on. It never ceases to amaze me how awkward I can find these things; it doesn’t get easier with experience, at least it doesn’t for me.

So when we met up and went to the Botanics that day, did you see it as a date? Or a maybe-date? Or what?

I did see it as a date, though I had no idea how I felt. I knew I genuinely liked you as a person, and thought you were cool, interesting, different. But because I hadn’t really considered the girl thing before, I wasn’t sure how I was approaching it.

And for my part, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to kiss you or not, so I didn’t … and a huge reason for that, I think, is the first-experience thing. Although actually I’ve been equally inept with other women who’d already had experience. So.

But did you want to kiss me at the Botanics? I didn’t think you did!

Really? I think I did! Although when you put it like that, I don’t know whether I might have spent more time on trying to actually read the situation from your perspective rather than focusing on how I felt. Which is kind of ridiculous maybe.

No, no – I think it’s kind, in a way. Not wanting to intrude on my space, as it were.

I guess it was like: I didn’t have my heart set on going out with you, so I wasn’t going to be crushed if you said no, but I would have been up for it if it had been a clear option. And then there was that night you came back to my place, and I really didn’t want to overstep boundaries, but I didn’t know what those boundaries actually were. This is probably the part where I should have just asked. In plain English. Maybe.

Oh, but it was fine – I think I was much more at ease with the possibility of something happening that night. Just maybe because I’d gotten more used to the idea.

Still, I wasn’t sure, even when we got into bed. It is entirely possible, however, that I am excessively cautious in these situations. On one hand I think it’s good: having set any precedent should never imply that anything further is on the cards. On the other, I need a better way of sussing out these things.

I, of course, am hilariously unperceptive in these situations. Even when we were in bed, I didn’t actually think anything was going to happen. I just didn’t consider it, I think! This might have something to do with the fact that you’re a girl, I think, in retrospect. I mean, in the same situation with a guy, I’m pretty sure I would have gone “hmm, we’re going to be sleeping in the same bed, and we’ve had some action before…”

So like, on one hand you were open to the possibility, but on the other you didn’t think anything was on the cards?

Exactly.

Okay. So, yeah, my main concern was not doing anything you felt uncomfortable with.

How did you feel after that night?

I was fine. But I think my feeling never went away of being reluctant to take the lead if I was with you, but then again, there was once or twice at the Forest after that at which I was ludicrously drunk and less discreet.

Yes – Queer Mutiny was a bit difficult.

I’m sorry for that. I don’t actually remember, and was astonished to learn MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT that I’d been somewhat full-on.

It’s okay – that was a weird night for me anyway as my ex was there, much to my surprise.

Which would make it rather more indiscreet of me, indeed. And it was a friend of yours who later described in glorious technicolor detail how I’d pounced on you.

You’re obviously forgiven.

Thanks! I figured, though I certainly do regret making you feel uncomfortable. I had to mainly rely on eyewitness accounts of that night. And the day after, you said to me on IM “is it okay if we become a snog-free zone for a while?” or words to that effect.

Right, yes. I think I was feeling a bit confused, generally, and also, I’m pretty good at sussing whether I have a romantic future with someone and I kinda sensed we didn’t.

And you had a lot on your plate then already.

Indeed.

Also, I am really goddamn flaky, so it was smart to make that decision! I would never have been able to promise much more than what we already had, I think. I liked the idea of romance, but wasn’t really in the headspace to make it happen. But it was good to end that side of things without it turning into general awkwardness. I mean, when you said “for a while” I took it to mean “that’s it”, but that’s all fine.

Yeah – I didn’t want to say neversaynever, but I guess I was also trying not to hurt your feelings.

I think overall, we managed things pretty well. I still feel like I may have done excessive tiptoeing (when sober) versus excessive mauling (when a train wreck), but … we’re still friends! So, kind of made that transition seamlessly, I think.

Yes! it’s pretty awesome. Even though it didn’t go anywhere, I’m glad it happened. It made me test my boundaries a bit and found a friendship without much damage or fallout, which is pretty unique.

#86‘s first name appeared on the list twice and I wondered whether he’d been double-counted by mistake. I couldn’t remember anyone else with his name. I put it at the end of the document under “Outstanding Issues”, which meant I pretty much forgot about it.

Which is why #209 is in fact not the #209 I was planning to write about, but whose blog entry should instead probably have been written around the #100 mark. I was only reminded of his existence by chance last week, and I find it particularly galling that our encounter, which I still do not really remember even though it sounds perfectly plausible and I have no reason to believe it didn’t happen, must have taken place around ten years ago, completely fucking up my attempts at chronology. The fact that he was a Cop Shoot Cop fan makes it all the more perplexing that I forgot him.

Here, then, is all I know about him, as supplied in a chat with #96 last week about my potential impending move to Transylvania:

#96: #209 (who you might remember…) stayed out in Bulgaria for a bit. he refused to go there in the winter. pretty inhospitable.

me: #110 (who you might remember?) (i am not sure about #209?) lived in bulgaria for a year, so yeah, winter sounded pretty intense. have asked her for further details

#96: #209 came up to visit from london once and the two of you got to know each other better in the front room after me & #83 had turned in for the night

me: WAIT WHAT
how can i possibly not remember this? please furnish me with a description

#96: tall, good looking, big boots, probably a very severe undercut at the time

me: holy fucking crap. did i definitely get off with him?
something sounds DIMLY familiar

#96: big cop shoot cop, foetus, etc fan

me: oh my god where is my memory

To conclude: when people ask of my blog, “How do you remember them all?” the answer is, clearly, that I don’t.

#208 was a waiter at a restaurant that #235 had recommended to me. He was very nice – I mean, yes, it’s usually a good idea for waiters to be nice to customers, but he was nice to the point of insisting #110’s girlfriend used his phonecard when she needed to make a call. When we finished dinner, I asked him if he could recommend any good bars in the area, and he said he was just finishing his shift, so he could show us in person if we liked. Sure.

The rooftop terrace at Ritim was a good choice, and I got even happier about it when the DJ played Goran Bregović and Athena. #110 and her girlfriend and I drank a lot. #208 didn’t. I remember something about his friend showing up and trying to grab #110′s crotch, so we did our best to avoid the friend, which made for a weird dynamic.

#208 mentioned that closing time was approaching, and we looked at each other sorrowfully for a moment before I decided what the hell, and kissed him. This was a good idea for about a minute but then I realised that I was dangerously close to getting married. I declined to go home with him, so he negotiated with a taxi driver to get us back to our hostel, and phoned to make sure we’d arrived. I felt uncomfortable about all that: it was nice of him, but I was capable of looking after myself, especially when travelling with two friends (and also it cost me money to receive calls while abroad, and I wanted to preserve my credit for actual emergencies). The next day, he phoned to report that he was finding out about boat tours on the Bosphorus, which we’d mentioned in passing was something we’d like (but couldn’t really afford) to do. “Is that your boyfriend?” asked #110 in that disparaging tone she has, and I marvelled at the fact that I’d barely hit Istanbul before needing to have The Talk with somebody.

The Talk was quick and painless, I suppose, but still not fun. I met him again along with a local friend of mine who I’d been looking forward to catching up with; I sat in the corner making awkward conversation with #208 whilst secretly wishing I could join in with everybody else. “I think we should just be friends,” I ventured finally, and he agreed, and then I said I’d e-mail him when I got back to Edinburgh, and then I totally never did.

I wrote for a local newspaper, and then I wrote for a national magazine, and I set up my own zine and started dealing with record and PR companies directly. This was all pretty cool given that I still spent my days at school grumbling about authority, arguing with conservative kids, and generally being sullen and cynical.

The thing was, though, I was totally bluffing my way through it. In particular, I had never been a musician myself and couldn’t even identify the correct musical instrument half the time. But I was a teenager, and therefore I knew everything, and bluffing was just fine, and it seemed that people liked my writing enough to let me away with it. And so I blagged more and more, because I could. A few years previously, I had turned down my parents’ offer of a CD player because I couldn’t envision ever being able to afford CDs. Now I got them all for free.

I still had this blagging mentality by the time I showed up in Edinburgh. I’d barely been in town a week when I saw #207′s band. They were playing on a rooftop on the Royal Mile one afternoon, and nine people got arrested. Here’s me, eighteen: OMG, THIS CITY IS AMAZING!

So I talked to him and blagged my way in to his gigs and got some demo tapes and whatnot. And I never ever got around to writing a word about his band. My plans to relocate my music zine to Edinburgh faded; I got sidetracked by university and by writing about queer stuff.

“Sorry about that,” I said to him a few years back when we ran into each other again. “I was such a bullshitter.”

“Not at all!” he exclaimed. “I just thought you were really creative and dynamic.” I was kind of stunned to think I’d been that good at bluffing, but okay.

#207 is one of those people who drift in and out of my life. They vanish for ages and then we pick up where we left off.

·

Monday morning. I am on the number 7 bus. I feel haggard. I’ve barely slept, I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I’m on my way to work, slightly late as usual. I have no regrets, because these are the choices I make. Someone gets on the bus and looks at me; I don’t recognise him, I barely look at him, but he stops in front of me and it’s #207. Forgetting how to turn the music off, I remove my hat before I think of removing my earphones.

#207 is more haggard than me. He passed out in the toilets of the Bongo Club last night and was locked in. He doesn’t know when or how he got out. He’s carrying a couple of plastic bags full of stuff which he left outside his house all night, and he’s looking for his bike. He thinks it might be on Broughton Street. #207 is twelve years older than me, although he doesn’t look it. For all the pummelling his liver gets, he’s fresh-faced. I was thinking of him just the other day, wondering what he was up to. It’s two months and two days since I last saw him; my memory for dates is still pointlessly accurate. I tell him I’ve got a new zine, he says you’ve got a museum? I give him a copy. He asks if he’s in it, I say no, he says what does someone have to do to get in it, I laugh and say you’ll see. He’ll probably drop it in the street, forget I’ve given it to him. He leaps off the bus saying he’s had a sudden flash, his bike was last seen at the Bongo Club.

·

I went to a dinner party at #207′s place. I hadn’t met any of the other guests before. #207 talked about the time he tried magic mushrooms and thought he was an Inca temple. He got out some instruments and there was a jam session, and I played the cheese-grater, which was disproportionately exciting for me because I am not musical. Oh, and then I did a line of coke for the first time. I didn’t really see the appeal, but thought what the hell, I was thirty and everything. And I was also introduced to sloe gin, which I loved very much. And then eventually I went to crash on some cushions on the floor in a little room, and then I have a very dim recollection of #207 coming into the room and lying down and making out with me for a little while.

I woke up at 9:30am, feeling like death, and trudged home, probably still drunk. I got into bed and woke up again in the afternoon, at which point #207 promptly texted me to suggest Black Russians at my place, but I opted out. “Enjoyed kissing you, by the way!” he informed me, which confirmed that I hadn’t just dreamt that bit.

We kissed another time, a bit over a year later, after going through a load of champagne and some coke, and showing up at a party. #207 got kind of tactile with me and we kissed for a moment, but then I got sidetracked and wound up getting off with his bandmate instead. So that was kind of weird.

I started to see the stepdaughter and #206 at parties and events. They had a habit of talking in stereo and they enthused about my tattoos and squealed a lot. It felt weird to run into these schoolkids everywhere and be aware that I was significantly older than them, but that was okay. I couldn’t help comparing my experiences growing up in Northern Ireland to theirs growing up here, and how they had spaces available to them where they could grow as activists and do fun creative things, and they always seemed to be involved with something cool. I guess I managed okay back when I was at school, but I think there were fewer options open to me, and maybe some of that was just an accident of geography, in that I didn’t live in a city.

Anyway, so time passed, and then eventually it was the day of the clegs and #205 was making out with me. Drinking continued. I danced with #184 to The Knife. “Nine,” he said. “Who is leading?”

#206 was avoiding someone, an ex-girlfriend or some similarly awkward person. She asked me to look over and let me know if she’d gone. “I think so,” I said, not entirely sure who I was scanning for. “Good,” said #206 and kissed me, taking me by surprise. “How old are you now?” I asked her. “Twenty,” she said, and I’d barely spluttered a “!! !” by way of response before she added “Nearly”, and kissed me again.

I felt kind of weird about it even though technically there was nothing wrong with it, but I guess that didn’t last long because I subsequently made out with her a few times. I don’t know. We run into each other when we’re drunk; it happens. I don’t think it’s one of those things that really needs to be analysed.

So it was the day of the clegs, a hot day in the summer, and in the evening I assembled people to go to The Golden Hour at the Forest, but when we got there I didn’t feel like it. The prospect of being crammed into a stuffy room didn’t appeal; it gets too crowded when it’s the Golden Hour, and I can’t hack it, much as I’d like to attend. Plus I hadn’t seen some of my friends in a while and I wanted to catch up with them. So we legged it to the off-licence two minutes before closing, bought some alcohol and drank it outside on the pavement. #205 distributed cups so we looked slightly more civilised. Once the event was over, we wound up inside and I drank bramble wine and berry wine and ate chocolate cake.

Few people seem to have a makeout rate to rival mine, but I witnessed #205 doing the rounds. Holy shit. I put on a CD and we danced to Civil Twilight by the Weakerthans. We made out by the staircase. It was a late night; when I woke up I found mystery bruises that were practically black.

A few days later I had a stall at the zine fair that #205 had co-organised. That was how we’d originally met, I think; she’d invited me to take part in it. #196 kindly came along to keep me company, and I wrote some blurb explaining what kind of stuff was in my zine, and endured the usual awkward moments of people flicking through your very personal thoughts and then putting them down again and walking away; but in the end, I sold quite a few.

I was tired. Late in the evening, I returned to the Forest for #205′s genderfuck party. She was leaving town the next day. I had decided to try to be edge, and I had been there all of five seconds, standing against the wall waiting for #196, listening to music, oblivious, when #205 appeared by my side, in drag king mode, and handed me some vodka punch. I was shy around her. I would have probably made out with her later, or certainly made a move in that direction, but it was not to be, because then there was some drama with my friends and we left the party early.

It was a long time before I saw her again: more than a year. She was back in town for a while – for longer than she expected, due to a passport glitch that left her stranded. Out of the blue, I got an invitation to her birthday night out. I happened to be getting drunk with #191 and her girlfriend and #116, so by the time we made it to the pub, I’d forgotten why we were there and was surprised to run into #205. As a result I don’t remember a whole lot of our conversation either. I’d gotten back together with #116 by that point (you know, the undocumented post-blog-entry version) and #205 was possibly interested in her or in me or in both of us, it’s hazy so it’s hard to say. “If you want to get off with her go ahead,” #116 advised, but I knew she wasn’t really okay with it, and I skipped it: we were too drunk to suddenly, finally, have the non-monogamy talk, it would have to wait.

I scrolled through my phone to see if there were any names I didn’t recognise, and eventually found one. It could’ve been there for a while; it happens sometimes. (Who the hell was ‘Mark Australian’?) But maybe it was the mystery rickshaw driver. Finally I caved in, texted the number, asked whether we’d met last night. The mystery rickshaw driver agreed that we had, and said I could give him a shout if I wanted to meet for a drink sometime. “You’re French, right?” I asked, trying to recall hazy details, and he said no, he was Polish. This was the sort of thing I would normally remember, given that I’ve been learning Polish on and off for the past few years.

It seemed that I had a date. I hoped he was as cute as I thought I remembered. I appealed to #184‘s community links: “Do you know a Polish pedicab driver called #204?”, but he denied having ever heard of him.

I met up with him the following Sunday. I was nervous: dates still scare the crap out of me, and plus I had to make sure I was early. I needed him to walk in and recognise me, because I wasn’t confident I’d be able to identify him. We met in a café and quickly moved to a pub, and yeah, he was fucking cute. Two things I can generally count on when I’m being a drunken idiot are my homing mechanism and my beer-goggles.

I asked him to fill me in on how exactly we met. It turned out that #184 and I had both encountered him when we left the party together; #184 had attempted to negotiate a lift home to Leith, and then we’d wound up chatting for a while. #184 apparently went off to pee and just never came back; #204 and I talked for ten or fifteen minutes and swapped numbers. “Do you remember what happened next?” he asked me. “To be honest, no,” I said, “but I can imagine.”

I was delighted to have had such a serendipitous drunken meeting. I felt instantly at ease with him. He’d grown up listening to riot grrrl and Polish political punk, and he used to play in a band. He had a crappy old bike and had been living in Edinburgh for three years, and I really liked his voice. We went back to my place for uncoffee and some making out. I talked really openly, about past relationships and queerness and non-monogamy and sex and panic attacks. He was absolutely cool with my boundaries, which shouldn’t be remarkable, but I guess when you’ve been with a few people who were less so, you notice the difference. At around 1:30am we took a walk around the Meadows and then he cycled home, sending me a text when he got in to say that it had been really nice to meet up. All signs were good.

It was two weeks before we saw each other again, during which time I felt utterly, utterly twelve. His parents were visiting him. He texted to advise “I will give u a touch once theyll be away”; sent “greets and hugs”. Was it ethnocentric of me to find his English endearing?

We finally met again when I’d organised a documentary screening in someone’s flat. I was a little nervous. There was no real reason to be except that I was battling panic attacks a lot that summer and when you have to worry about that sort of thing, all logic goes out the window, so it doesn’t matter a damn that you know there’s nothing to really be nervous about. It was going to be a cool event, and we had a special guest arriving, but I couldn’t shake my anxiety. I sat on the floor by the window with #191 and #200, and they gave me pep talks, and #191 went to the shop downstairs to fetch me some gin to calm my nerves, and I started feeling better. Although I frequently drink for fun, I don’t like the idea of using alcohol to fix problems; but that evening I felt the need to make an exception. #204 arrived late, took a seat on the other side of the room, and we finally got to talk to each other after the screening.

He mentioned that he was going to be meeting someone later, a girl, so far they were just friends but maybe it was going to be more. Oh, right, I said, probably. Okay. He asked me if I’d maybe met any girls or anything lately, and I said not really, actually I pretty much just wanted to see you. He said the same, and I thought, okay, maybe we’re back in business.

I joined him when he went outside for a smoke. (And the kissing was great, but it always is when it’s doomed, isn’t it?) He said he preferred to be honest about this stuff and he wasn’t sure where things were at right now and there was this other girl and so forth, and how did I feel about it? I admitted that I felt slightly weird about it but we’d just have to see. And that I kind of wanted to go out with him and that I’d been thinking about him a lot. I was trying to focus on the part of me that considered it refreshing that he was so open about things, rather than the part of me that was experiencing a sinking sensation along the lines of: maybe if you hadn’t gone on about non-monogamy last time you saw him, this situation would not now be unfolding. But other than that our evening together seemed to be progressing nicely. He came to the pub with me and my friends, hung out some more, finally kissed goodbye around midnight. I was going in to a show and he was going to meet that girl. Next week, we said, we’d meet up again.

·

#184 was never the king of tact. But after we’d walked out of the show, #184 looked at me with concern, said we would talk about it later. Earlier he’d been out smoking with #204. I said, “Do you think you have bad news for me? It’s okay, #204 told me.” But no; he knew what #204 had told me and he knew what #204 had told him, and he’d told him that he actually had a girlfriend. “You’re going to get hurt,” he said. “He’s too young for you anyway, why bother?” (#204 was 23, seven years younger than me, though that’s pretty much par for the course.) But it’s a bit difficult to get talked out of it like that. “He’s really interested in you,” he said, “but he has this girlfriend.” I put on a brave face; stomped home suddenly hating everything.

I felt disappointed, and I didn’t understand why #204 wouldn’t have shared this information since he was talking about being open and honest. He came across as sincere and I didn’t want to think badly of him. Something here was not making sense but I wasn’t sure which aspect was the odd one out. It softened the blow somewhat to hear that he was “really interested” in me, but being fucking interesting was not enough. I felt like I was having a flashback to the microbe chronicles, twelve years previously, when the microbe boy had been considering me and considering someone else and then, surprise surprise, chose the someone else. I was crushed then and I didn’t want to be crushed now. It seemed that #204 and I were both interested in having a relationship, but I was interested in having one with him, and he was interested in having one with someone. And my big insecurity was that I felt that pretty much anyone was better at being a girl than me, so the outcome looked like a foregone conclusion.

I worked things out somewhat with the office punchbag.

I texted #204 for clarification but he basically reiterated what he’d already told me. He didn’t know if it was going to be an official relationship with this other person, but he understood my worries. I figured that my reaction was already sufficiently mopey that I needed to get the hell out before I got properly hurt. It felt so weird to feel so disappointed about someone I’d never known existed until recently.

I put together a two-week mope-like-fuck plan. It was perfectly simple: stomp around a lot, kick stones, get drenched in the rain, behave like an angsty teenager at every opportunity. Exaggerate the moping as much as possible so you can get it out of your system. Basically, turn into a caricature and revel in the melodrama.

For some reason, I kept listening to Left and Leaving by the Weakerthans, even though I’d barely known #204 so it wasn’t like the lyrics fit. I stuck it on a mix CD that was subsequently labelled Music To Mope To. I packed up and travelled to #128 and #141‘s civilisation, on my own because #184, who would’ve been my guest, had gotten himself hospitalised. I was couchsurfing and I felt pickier than usual: I felt too emotionally fragile to stay in a busy flat full of students or put any energy into getting-to-know-you sessions with people who didn’t seem like my type. I lucked out, staying with a woman in her fifties who I got on with perfectly. I tried not to mope too obviously through the civilisation, not wanting to distract from the happy occasion. Having a partner in crime with me would probably have made a big difference. I felt scared, turning up with all my stupid emotional baggage on a day like that.

I read this line in the Doris anthology that I really loved, about having a crush: “Sometimes I think about him so much I think I should just slam my head into a wall.” Such a marvellous summary of what crushes do to you. Only my current head-slamming mood was less giddy and hopeful. I was gradually letting go of waiting to hear from #204 again; and meanwhile it was festival time and surely to god I should be able to find myself someone new to lust after. But I just walked around town and thought: hey, people are really funny-looking. What the fuck happened to my crushing skills? And there were also pedicabs all over the fucking place. It was like my own stupid version of The Jeep Song.

Somehow, the two-week plan worked. After that, when I thought back to the #204 saga, I recalled it as an unfortunate state of affairs, but nothing that had done me lasting damage. I wondered for a while what it would be like if I ran into him again. Wondering this meant that it definitely wouldn’t happen.

I was heading to a party upstairs from the one where I’d met #199 three weeks previously; he and I had gotten off outside the door. This time round I locked myself in the bathroom with #203 and there was applause when we finally emerged. I also have a flash of being with her in a dark bedroom. She’d never kissed a woman before and I’d offered to help. “#203 is in love with you,” #184 had pronounced dramatically the week before, after I’d introduced the pair of them to Frenchie’s. I’d assumed at the time that this meant platonic straight-girl love, but maybe it was more of the bi-curious variety.

Whatever: it didn’t exactly go according to plan. The next time I saw her, at a bar several weeks later, she only stuck around for half an hour, and avoided the hell out of me. #184 explained that she had some Issues, that it wasn’t about me, it was about her. So it didn’t bother me, but I was sorry that she felt weird. My strategy was to keep out of her way until such time as she felt comfortable with me. It was a couple more months before I saw her again, at the flat where I’d met #199, and I initially kept my distance, but she came right over and started chatting to me and normality was restored.