One Plus None.

I recently got dumped (my mother is very proud she raised a winner).



In turn, this also means that by default I became single. This bothers me, because at no point was I aware that I was ever a 'double'.



Admittedly, I am often too much for some- I'll go straight to your head and make you declare your love for the whole wide world before you throw up on your new 'shag me' shoes and pass out in the loo- but to quantify myself like a drinks measure hardly seems fair.



I might start referring to myself as a split mixer or lager top, as in 'SWF w. GSOH WTLM three quarters of a chilled Kronenberg pint whom desires nothing more than a squirt of lemonade to take them to the required legal serving as dictated by our great Queen under her Majesty's weights and measures act of 1963'. Bit catchier than just my name, isn't it?



Hand-in-hand with newfound singledom (*groan*) is several instances of bizarre, teenage-like behaviour that I fear may just be the beginnings of my becoming a cliche. I really hate being a cliche- it puts a right bee in my bonnet. Especially as I thought I was the apple of his eye, the best thing since sliced bread. In the end it was as clear as mud though, cut and dried, and I cried buckets. I'm sure though, that in the end, everything will come up roses.



In the initial instance I did what any self respecting young woman would do and got drunk with my Nanna on cheap white wine and cried at Coronation Street. I chained smoked cigarettes at the back of her granny-flat and refused to eat anything because people who get dumped also get really thin, don't they? I was bloody starving after a day and a half.



I went for a run (waddle) in an attempt to help the process along. That was a week ago and I've passed the time by eating whatever I can find because, after all, I went running six days ago.



I single-handedly pulled the country out of recession by spending too much of money I really don't have on dresses that are so far removed from what I would normally wear that even I- in stage two of my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder- was shocked. An orange dress with blue tights, anyone? White sunglasses? Pleather?



And I also did something that I'm really not proud of. I got stoned. This is so not me, but I think that was sort of the point. I hated it. I spent thirty-five minutes with my forehead on the ground repeatedly saying, "I don't like this... No, I really don't like this..." before finding solace on my friends tiled bathroom floor and thinking how wonderfully symmetrical his ceiling was, and how his voice was as smooth as a Galaxy Caramel. It made me really want a Galaxy Caramel.



I also stared a lot. I was fascinated with how people's mouths moved. I stared at the floor of the bus quite intently on the way home too, and helped myself to two yoghurts, a packet of custard creams and a foot-long cold apple studle when I got home.



I am so embarassed that I ever thought it might have been a good idea. The housemates keep leaving piles of grass on my placemat at dinner to remind how stupid I was, the buggars.



I was told that you can't get over a man until you get under another so I signed up to a dating site online. I ended my subscription after two days when some guy I 'winked' at emailed to say that it was nothing personal but he could never date a vegetarian. Another one bites the dust.



There is not enough fatty food in the world to have me admit to Facebook stalking, re-reading old text messages or desperate attempts to be friends with ill-planned phone calls that my mum shouted at me for. So I won't.



But what I will say is this. Vodka-Tonic anyone? We can go for a run afterward.