If anyone tells you it’s not a good idea to f*ck someone you work with, you should probably listen to them.
Obviously, I didn’t. Because, like, I’m a big girl and I can handle myself and blah, blah, blah, *inevitably eats own words*…
To be fair, work had sent my new male colleague and I (did I mention he had an accent reminiscent of Hugh Grant??) to HAWAII. And then boozed us up with an OPEN BAR. I mean, my will power is only so resolute, you guys.
Long story short, I discovered the condom we had sex with inside me during a trip to the restroom on the flight home. Yeah, like I said, I’m no Malala.
I was also feeling nauseous when the plane landed. Not travel-sick nauseous. More like shit-I-left-a-condom-in-me-for-24-hours-I-hope-I’m-not-pregnant nauseous. I especially didn’t want to be pregnant to a 25-year-old junior at my work who’d just given me some of the most memorably bad sex of my life.
Fast-forward 24 hours to me nervously peeing on a stick at home, praying to Oprah to have mercy on me.
My five-year subscription to O Magazine must have paid off, because the stick lit up negative. Good news everyone: I wouldn’t be giving birth to an inferior version of Hugh Grant. CRISIS AVERTED.
Well, sort of.
You see, I have this little habit of taking something good, and sort of, like, shitting all over it again. TBH, if there was an award for putting up with an unrelenting stream of pointless drama, my best friend would have it.
“Dorkface is going to be at the pool party,” I informed her, a fortnight after things had settled from the Hawaii trip. (It was a theme of ours, not to refer to any of the f*ckboys we’d bumped uglies with by their actual names, so as not to confuse them with emotionally intelligent humans.)
“We should totally go, he SO has a crush on you since Hawaii!” She shrieked, as it became apparent this conversation could literally have taken place among a group of 12-year-old girls.