By KIRSTY PETRIDES
My blog Letters To Losers eventuated on a Friday evening with friends, when after a few glasses (ok I’m lying, bottles) of wine we began to reflect on the worst dates we’d been on.
We soon realised that between us we had quite the collection of ridiculous and hilarious tales. Yes, everyone claims that theirs is ‘the worst date of all time’ but you’re wrong. These dates are.
And so Letters To Losers was born. A compilation of short (imaginary) letters to the males who have provided my friends and I with dating comedy gold. Comedy that’s simply too good not to share.
Dear Bear Grylls,
Yes, during our time together, I referred to you not by your actual name, but by Bear Grylls. Now don’t get ahead of yourself – this has nothing to do with you being ruggedly handsome or being able to survive weeks in the wild with nothing but a pack of Tic Tacs and some sticky tape. This nickname originated due to your ridiculous reasons for cancelling dates.
Including, having to fly out to the Amazon rainforest to hang out with giant snakes for a month; going to Bangladesh to camp in the middle of nowhere for ‘research’; or going to Singapore/Indonesia/various other Asian countries at the drop of a hat for undisclosed “work stuff”.
I am sure you understand that the plethora of trips to other continents where you indicated you would be spending most of your time outdoors with not much more than a swag and bottle of Mount Franklin, caused me to aptly nickname you Bear Grylls. (Quite the stroke of genius by me, really. Coming up with nicknames is a skill of mine, along with the ability to develop stress acne and sing the entire rap sequence of Five’s ‘When The Lights Go Out’. )
I am sure you also understand that it’s rather annoying to have a text sent 30 minutes before a date saying ‘Hey, totes sorry but can’t make it tonight, had to fly to Africa today where I won’t have reception for a while and will be sleeping in the desert with a bunch of strangers checking out the soil and drinking my own pee. ’ (I may have paraphrased there but only slightly.)
When you start making these last-minute cancellations a regular occurrence, “Hey, soz heaps” doesn’t cut it, and is the reason I inevitably threw in the towel with you Mr. Grylls.
And as a side-note, texting a girl telling her she has regrowth is not a sure-fire way to impress her.
Actually now that I am compiling all this, it’s becoming apparent that you may in fact lack social skills. This may have something to do with all the time you spend alone in the Amazon jungle with no one but a bunch of snakes.
P.S. It wasn’t regrowth, it’s called balayage. Look it up.