Just My Luck…

20 May

I have the worst luck with men. FACT.

Lately I’ve been blogging about my recent spate of crappy dates (and wow, were they crappy), but do you know what? Considering my previous luck with men, these dates shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. I wish I knew what it was. I wish I knew why I constantly attract such jerks. Seriously, you would not believe some of the experiences I’ve had. Recent dating disasters aside, let me share one of my best (or should that be, worst) dating mishaps from my past.

Multiple Personality Disorder?

Fingers crossed my luck changes. And soon!

I met Felipe Santos*, a hot afro-Cuban dude at a magazine Christmas party in 2003. I was so-ooo chuffed when he approached me after the party to ask for my number as I’d already spotted him during the night (true to form, I hadn’t made eye contact though). Anyways, we started talking and texting everyday and went on a good few dates too. If I’m honest, I quite liked him. He was a gorgeous financial advisor, was funny, we had good conversation, was into his music and did I mention he was hot?

After four weeks of communicating everyday and a grand total of five dates. Felipe suddenly disappeared on me. Just like that, gone. Stopped replying to texts, email and voicemail. I was actually worried, thought he might’ve been in a car crash and allsorts. I guess that was because it didn’t make sense to me, the last text I received from him had said he was thinking about my smile and was looking forward to seeing me again. So yes, stupid, naive little old me thought that something was seriously wrong. I was distraught.

Fast forward three years later, its 2006 and I decide to pop to the post office on my lunchbreak. I see a guy who looks familiar wearing a post office uniform selling some sort of utility (gas? electric?) to not-very-interested post office customers. When he approached me, I told him I wasn’t interested in purchasing whatever he was selling and thats when he gave me a confused look and said “don’t I know you from somewhere?”. At that very point, I knew it was him. Mr Felipe Santos* had re-appeared! And he was still looking fine, wearing a name badge that said “John”, but otherwise fine. I played stupid and looked at him, purplexed, “no, I don’t think I do know you”. He carried on “didnt you used to do PR for ….? Yeh, we met at the Touch magazine party” etc. Then I hit him with it, “but, I thought your name was Felipe?”. Cue lots of stuttering, “Errrr, yeh Felipe is my middle name”. Whatever dude.

The Ultimate Douchebag

Since then me and “Felipe*” now have  a mutual friend. Thanks to the friend I now know he wasn’t a financial advisor, he isn’t of Cuban origin, his name is actually John and his surname is a Nigerian-sounding Ade, Abe something or another and I now know that he had a girlfriend at the time we were dating. On the positive side, I also now know it wasn’t anything I said or did. He just happened to be a big, fat DOUCHEBAG!

Yep. Just my luck eh?

*Not a case of a name being changed to protect his identity. It wasn’t his real bloody name anyway!

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