Me, Cutie and Cutie’s Girlfriend

There’s always the point at which you realize, “this shit might be getting out of hand.” For most people it’s the time you’re shitfaced drunk, and you declare your feelings to someone who should just never hear them. Or, like me, you excel in all aspects of your life, and this moment hits when you’re having a screaming match with a girl, over a guy she’s been dating for two years.

There’s no nice way to tell someone you love their boyfriend, especially if she’s thought you were his best friend for the past six months. It’s also harder to declare these feelings without tearing up. However, I advise you to avoid tearing up. It does nothing but piss everyone off. You are not the only one going through shit here, sit the fuck down. Be humble.

I did not see the point in declaring where/when I’d caught the feelings, but they were now obvious. We’d spent the past couple of weeks playing Far Cry 4, staring deeply into each other’s eyes and being utterly gay. Note, there’s only specific levels of gay you can be when you play Far Cry 4, but we excelled at them all.

So, what happened? You ask. Honestly? We had sex. That earth shattering orgasm that makes you believe in a God, in a good good God who cares about your feelings and believes you are special. All this isn’t the problem. The problem is when you want more. I wanted it all. I wanted Cutie (we can’t use his real name because I’ve sworn never to mention it again) more than I wanted life.

None of this was helped by the fact that my DMs had been experiencing a dry spell. My various inboxes were drier than healthy octogenarians’ vaginas. And into this dearth (yes, it’s a word) steps in Cutie who brings life to colour, my inboxes messages that make my heart go pitter patter, and has me as smiley as Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

Objectively, there’s nothing wrong with any of this. However, when the object of your fascination is a strapping young man who has a girlfriend, problems might arise.

So, Cutie stops talking to me when I become a little too intense. This involved, but is not limited to, appearing at his room shortly before midnight in an overcoat and pata patas and not much else…In my addled state of mind, the fact that he’s stopped talking to me means he’s being held back by his girlfriend. And, of course, I feel that I simply must interfere. Which I do, like a boss. I appear at her hostel bearing chocolate chip cookies, and a desire to break up a relationship.

Somewhere in the middle of my ranting and raving, I realise Cutie has arrived. It seems his girlfriend sent out an S.O.S, and he comes running, like the Yellowbone Knight in shining armour he is. My face livens when I see him, and immediately expect an embrace. He however sidesteps me, and enfolds his girlfriend in a hug that would have been at home in the final ten minutes of Titanic.

I then, without preamble, fell apart. I sobbed pathetically, describing my feelings to a watching crowd of part final medical students, and walked my way back to my room. I spent the following week and a half in a fascinating depressive mood. I felt unconnected to my own body, and endlessly surprised that I could manage to eat even if my soul felt like it was leaking from my body. I picked myself up, eventually. Well, my friend threatened to come dress me and drag me to lectures. And nothing reads “broken” like your friend coming to campus every morning to ensure you’ve showered and eaten, and gone for lectures.

I managed to avoid Cutie and his gang until our final year, when I finally drunk texted him. And he came over. And…. That’s generally a story for another time, I think.