real life

Only two people will fall in love with you in your lifetime.






You have two chances to fall in love. Two.

Of all the fish in the entire sea, only two will make your heart feel zip zap tingly times. After that, the sea rejects you and you’re done. Get yourself a cat and a favourite TV show.

So how do I know this (obviously) completely legitimate fact is true? Because it was in a ‘study’, my friends. A study conducted at a three day festival, no less.

Apparently it was determined that we each fall in love an average of twice in our lifetimes, and 46% of people would be willing to leave their current partner if they met the love of their life.

Hmmm… I know what you’re thinking. A ‘festival’ study, Rosie? Really? I know. But I have this problem where I believe everything ‘studies’ tell me. As soon as someone puts percentages in a sentence, my mind is so dazzled that I take it as fact. For example:

Random person: “Hey Rosie, did you hear about that study that says 65% of people with blonde hair are also psychopaths?”

Anyone who ticks ‘yes’ after reading this may be my soulmate.

Rosie: “65%?!? Well that must be true because SCIENCE.”

See? Regardless of whether a study is legitimate or not, it sucks me in.

So back to this ‘two chances for love’ thing. Basically, I’m screwed.

I’ve been in love once in my life. So according to this study that I’ve now decided is the definitive word on all things love-related, that leaves me with one more chance to lock this thing down.


Whoever I fall in love with next, needs to be the one. And I need to be their one too, because I don’t plan on being with someone who’s part of the 46% who walk out when they find someone better.

So here’s my plan: I’m just going to lay shit bare. Put my worst baggage on the table, so whoever I end up with next won’t be surprised in any way. I’ll know the one is the one because he knows my worst crap and is still interested.

Putting the worst parts of myself on the interwebs? THIS IS A FLAWLESS PLAN THAT WILL NOT BACKFIRE.

Ok, here goes. My top 6 pieces of crappy baggage. If you’re still interested after reading this boys, you know where to find me.

1. I am the furthest thing from a domestic goddess you will ever meet

I can’t cook, nor do I have any interest in learning how to, so you better be able to. I was living in my current apartment for a year before I realised that the oven was broken. Also, I’m messy. You know how people say: “Oh, I’m such a neat freak. I just can’t stand when something is out of place.”

I am not one of those people. I don’t understand those people and I don’t want to. I should probably also mention that I follow the ‘drop ironing’ system, where I just put clothes straight on and assume the crinkles will ‘drop’ during the day.

2. I will always pick staying in over going out

I stayed home the last three Saturday nights in a row because I found out old episodes of Unsolved Mysteries were on at 11 pm. Yeah – it doesn’t take much. Which leads me to…


3. I have an unhealthy relationship with television

I would not even have to think twice about choosing the Breaking Bad finale over sex, nor can I get through a single conversation without quoting Seinfeld. It should also be noted that I will not associate with anyone who watches anything created by Chuck Lorre. Ever. I’m a television elitist and I make no apologies for that. Although I currently have Season 2 of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo on my desktop, so by ‘elitist’ I mean ‘You had better like exactly what I like or I will judge you’.

4. TMI is a foreign concept to me

I have referred to and/or written about my vagina on the Internet here and here and here and here. Just a heads up.


I will need to have separate bedrooms from my partner. There can sleepovers. There can be sexy-times. But sometimes a gal just needs to sit on her own bed eating ice cream in her underwear. Nobody needs to see that but me.

6. Farts are funny

If you disagree, this is not going to work.

So that’s my worst baggage laid bare. I will now sit back and wait for the emails to flood in. Until then I’ll continue my totally legitimate relationship with this guy:

If you didn’t have time to mess around, what baggage would you put on the table?

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