To say I’ve been unlucky in love in my short 25 years would be an understatement.
An eternal single gal and third-wheeler, I became dangerously good at being a wingwoman. My strike rate was near-perfect, as was my capacity to cope with the rejection of pretty much every romantic conquest I’d ever undertaken.
Throughout my schooling, I always fit the class clown archetype. I set up camp in the friend zone and made myself at home.
If my life were a TV show, I would 10/10 be this poor guy.
A lot of this stemmed from insecurities about my appearance. Specifically, my afro-like mop of bright red hair.
Like most kids, I was ridiculously cute - shiny curls, rosy red cheeks and a glint in my eye - up until those standard 'I'm going through puberty' years.
You've been there, wrestling into a crop top trying to cover up those boobie things. And you stunk. And looked... greasy.
But unlike other kids (or so it seemed to me), my awkward phase was more like an awkward decade. Hence, my entire primary and high school experience can be summed up in two words: unrequited love.