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.