Memoirs of a Christopher

Luck

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I am screwed. I am totally and utterly, incomprehensibly screwed.

Chris was a catch. The most almighty catch I had ever had in my life. He was muscly, he was tanned, he had the most beautiful clear green eyes and thick luscious hair and when his eyes caught mine the first time we met, he strode confidently across the room to tell me, “You have a very pretty face.” The girls who had been fighting for his attention all night and I almost fell over in shock.

Now I’m not saying I’m overly hideous, and to be honest I probably do have some endearing qualities, so it’s not COMPLETELY crazy that he came to speak to me, but still… I couldn’t quite believe that he had chosen me.

Annoyingly, his amazing qualities didn’t stop there. He was intelligent. He was funny. He was incredible with his hands and could fix or build anything. Seriously, it was not a rarity for literal strangers that we had met for the first time together as a couple to turn to me and say, “Oh my god, you are soooooooo lucky!” It was such a common comment that it became a running joke for him to do something gross like fart on me, or accidentally break something, and he would turn to me with a cheeky grin on his face and tease, “Wow… You are sooooooo lucky!!”

He looked like freaking Ryan Gosling for god’s sake! (Which, by the way, he hated being compared to.)

But I was lucky. And I knew it.

Fast forward 11 months after the accident, many, many, many, MANY (times infinity) tears later, and I’m really feeling the loneliness.

I haven’t even kissed another human on the lips since the day before he died.

It’s quite a bizarre feeling to be totally and utterly in love with someone, but actively searching to hook up with someone else.

Cue last night where a quiet cocktail housewarming party turned into a tequila, vodka, peach schnapps, champagne fuelled rave. TONIGHT WAS GOING TO BE THE NIGHT!!!

I was going to break that drought, because, “It’s not like it’s going to mean anything anyway.” So I chose to do it at the dodgiest (and only) club in town.

First I had to find my prey. “Mmm, no he’s not attractive enough. Mmm.. He’s a bit sweaty. Hmm… WHAT is going on with that guy’s HAIR?” Ok. So none of these guys were gonna be a Christopher but they were going to have to do.

I started my “sexy” “woops, I accidently bumped into you” dancing, and realised I have the confidence of a gnat whilst doing this. Now, I don’t know how confident a gnat is, but I’m assuming not very. And awkward. Very, very awkward.

Unsurprisingly, none of the guys were confidently striding across the room to give me a compliment. One of them even kind of pushed me out of the way!

This was fucked.

I went and sat down on the dingy, alcohol soaked couch in the dark corner and started drunkenly reflecting my night.

I was competing against girls and getting rejected by guys that don’t even have an inch on Chris. How did my life end up like this?

Oh no. I was beginning to get my drunk cry on. Time to leave!!

After an hour of hysterical sobbing at home I passed out, and today I’ve been left with a killer hangover and lovely, puffy eyes to match.

So can you see why I am screwed?? The Bachelor plan is really starting to make sense now isn’t it!?

I don’t want this life. I don’t enjoy this life.

I just want Chris to be back, farting on me and joking how lucky I am, while seeing in his eyes that actually, he thought he was really lucky too.

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