Soundtrack: Disco Hades II by Head Automatica.
My relationship with The Postman was perfect. That’s what I told people, and it’s how I felt. He always checked in with me, always made time for me, and always fucked me well. I couldn’t find a single thing to complain about. Arguments were talked through, if we even argued at all. I was well and truly on my way to falling in love with the man… right up until my birthday party.
It’s funny how men always manage to fuck shit up, isn’t it?
Haha. Very funny.
Birthday
It was my birthday, so, of course, Bestie and I were planning a good ol’ knees up at The Flat. Any excuse, and all that. For this particular gathering, though, my family were going to be present. It was the first time that they’d ever been invited to one of our infamous bashes, and it would also be the first time that anyone in my family met The Postman. Super nerve-wracking stuff. I felt like I had far too many things to stress out about, so I decided to not worry about any of them and get drunk instead. It was an approach that had always worked well for me before.
My party started without a hitch and on time, which made a real change. I was, always have been, and always will be perpetually late for everything. It doesn’t matter how many alarms and reminders that I set for myself, I’m going to be at least seven minutes late. I have no idea how it happens, but I’m starting to just accept it about myself. Whatever. Time isn’t real, anyway. (That’s definitely a debate for another day, though.)
The Postman met my family, and it went really well. He was chit-chatting to all of them, paying close attention to what they were saying and genuinely seeming interested in what they had to say. It was heartwarming to me. My family are/were pretty important to me, so it’s pretty important to me that they like my boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever. You know?
Birthday Party
Everyone was getting nicely pissed and playing party games when someone pointed out that our big ol’ corner bath had been completely filled with colourful balloons. Bestie had probably done it. He knew just how much I loved balloons.
“Get in, NotSo,” The Postman said, grabbing one of the many disposable cameras that I’d grabbed for the event. “I’ll get some fun photos.”
Now, the idea of having birthday photos taken in a corner bath full of balloons sounds ludicrous. Back then, it seems like the best idea in the world. Why wouldn’t I get in the bath, surround myself with balloons, and post as demurely as I could in a white corset that barely contained my breasts?
He did take a couple of photos, and I did pose. Around the time that I asked someone to hand over my very large glass of red wine, The Postman stopped taking photos, though. He had other ideas, apparently.
I took one sip of my drink, then he flicked the shower on. It rained down on me, as showers do, until my red wine glass was barely tinged with pink, and my makeup was running all down my face. Between the balloons, the corset, the wine glass, and the water, I was having more than a little trouble getting myself out of the bath.
“Why would you fucking do that?” I hissed at him, and I still remember being fucking furious. Quite rightly, too!
I was dressed to the nines, had spent hours straightening my long hair, and perfected my eyeliner flicks in the mirror for all the time that they always take for no reason. Like, why would he ruin all of that? In the middle of my birthday party? When we had plans to go clubbing once all the grownups had gone home?
Honestly, it felt really fucking cruel.
“Oh, come on,” The Postman said, putting his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t be grumpy. It’s your birthday!”
That, of course, made things worse. Much worse. Bestie was on the verge of physically throwing him out of my birthday party at that point. For some reason, I persuaded him not to. Looking back now, I totally should’ve let him. The Postman had acted like a prick – and in front of my family, too! I was soaked and humiliated, which is not the best combination for a birthday party. My bloody birthday party!
The Girl I Can’t Forget, who I’d forgiven and befriended again, rallied around with a hairdryer and towels. My mother helped, as did my aunt. My sister and Bestie’s sister soon followed and lent a hand. Within half an hour, I was almost bone dry again. The party could continue… without The Postman, it appeared.
“He pissed off when all the girls went to help you,” Bestie explained, passing me a fresh glass of red wine. “Probably thought the lads were gonna beat him up.”
I laughed it off; it was my birthday and I’d laugh it off if I wanted to, after all.
You might be happy to learn that we did all go clubbing (without The Postman,) but not all of the grownups left. Some of them came with us to party the night away, much to the surprise of all of us young’ us.
My hangover lasted for almost a week after that. I carried on drinking for two more nights, then gave myself alcohol poisoning; and my Gramps nursed me back to health with Heinz chicken soup and Jackass/Dirty Sanchez DVDs, randomly.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one:
Thank you so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
Would you like to read all about The Postman’s story, right from the very beginning? You’ll find that right here.
You can also read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
Alternatively, why not have a little peek around here: