WHEN people ask me why I am single, I tell them it’s mainly because I cry before, during and after sex and use a bit too much teeth. Not every time, but regularly enough for it to become a bit of an issue for my partner. I like to call it a mild quirk. You know, an acquired taste.

But the reality is, much like the desperate and dateless dolts of The Bachelor mansion, I have been holed up in a prison of uncertainty, waiting ever so patiently for the man of my dreams to throw me a boner.

I am thirsty for the elixir of love. Hungry for my rose. And tired of waiting.

Introducing Pinger Boy, 33, one of the many producers for the Bachelor.

From all reports, I’ve heard this guy is super nice and a really good and genuine person. But what does that count for when you’re a flake?

I am not the biggest fan of context and my favourite past time is jumping to conclusions. I prefer to omit pivotal details in situations to position myself as the hero of the story. Sort of like the Taylor Swift of the blogging world. Except I have way less money and have dated more guys. But I’m going to include context in this situation because I don’t want to get sued for Alexslander. (That being said, if I do get sued, it wouldn’t exactly be the worst case scenario: at least I’d get to see him in court, right?)

The term “Pinger Boy” was first coined by my 17-year-old self. Pinger Boy and I kind of went to uni together briefly. All I remember about him was his intensely striking blue eyes and that he would charismatically waltz into class with a noticeable air of confidence. To me it seemed like he was always pinging off his head.  I am fairly sure he wasn’t but I had a tendency to see things in strange ways. I still do.

In what appears to be a sick yet masterful next-level audience integration strategy, I have been unwillingly thrust into a bizarre game of back-and-forth for NINETEEN MONTHS.

However, unlike the dingbats in the Bachelor Mansion, I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS SHIT.

I have lost track of the amount of times this man has given me a date card, only to rip it straight out of my hands and heart. Offering someone a date card then reneging on it is so sick, even the morally dubious, highly edited mind fuck of a show we all love to salivate over doesn’t use that as an entertainment tactic.

But that’s old mate’s favourrrrrrrite game.

What’s the equivalent of a shit impression rose? A big steaming pile of shit? Yeah. Cool. Can I give him that?

I don’t know whether this guy knows the monster he has created.

I want my rose. I want my caviar. And I want my fucking picnic, bitch.

AND I WANT IT NOW.

(Look, at this rate, I’ll settle for group date if it’s easier. Put me in one of those sumo suits. Seriously. I don’t give a fuck.  I will annihilate the competition. And then I’ll get a bunch of roses and shove them up his rear end).

FEBRUARY 2015

This is where my version of ‘He’s Just Not That Into You, But With A Twist’ really begins.

I’m out on Oxford Street dancing on a dirty podium, about 45 vodka lime and sodas deep like deadset legend.  Swiping incessantly on Tinder in the midst of a 15-in-row matching hot streak, balls deep in mediocre matches who I will never respond to when…

BAM! Ring a ding ding. Ping! Ping! Ping!

I’ll tell my friends, alright! Thanks Tinder!

Now, I wouldn’t exactly say we “hit it off”. I am not always on Tinder to date. I am on Tinder to inundate. Inundate sexy men with my wit. My words. My womanhood.

So inundate I did.

I blew this guy’s phone up so hard he wouldn’t have known what had hit him.

But he must have liked being hit because he gave me his number and told me to hit him up with more with of the crazy. I wasn’t surprised and I obliged.

The ‘banter’ (fuck I hate that word) went on for a little bit. Then it came to us actually meeting up. He suggested a drink.

But the timing was never right. We played back and forth with plans for a good 4-5 weeks. It was pretty frustrating. There was a hell of a lot of, “Let’s do Thursday/this week/this weekend/next month/ next year/ next century/ when your ovaries are shriveled and your tits are decrepit etc”. Unfortunately,  in the midst of this, I shacked up with my ex and this love story was over.

The end.

Noooooot (fuck I love ‘not’ jokes, very underrated).

EARLY MAY 2015

Despite initial celebrations, as these things tend to do, the fragile yet persistent flame I’d tried to re-ignite with a former lover burnt out in spectacular fashion. It’s one thing to have a flame, but you need to be good on paper too because paper and a flame creates a spark like no other. And as Bruce Springsteen says, you can’t start a fire without a spark.

Which brings me to the perfect musical interlude:

LATE MAY 2016

So love was dead, and yet again I found myself on a podium about 45 vodka lime and sodas deep and feeling a little sentimental.

I thought, “Hey! I’m gonna drunk message THE SHIT out of Pinger Boy and see if he wants to try and meet up again”.

As is evidenced by my life history, ‘normal’ texting for me is like a dog walking on two legs. I mean, I can do it. But it’s just not natural and it’s massively off brand.

Me being the drunk lunatic I am, wrote an in-depth, self-analytical style essay text covering topics ranging from hang ups with my ex, insecurities, hopes, dreams, ambitions, genetic set-points for happiness, cognitive bias, confirmation bias and even touched on the classic conundrum of nature vs. nurture.

All this to a man I have basically never met.

ALLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He never responded. And then Osher walked in and said “ALEX. I’m sorry. You did NOT receive a rose. And you suck. Why are you so intense? Why are you so hell-bent on writing about yourself to people who don’t even know you or care about you? Don’t you know men don’t give a fuck about your context? Are you deluded?”

I said, “Yes, Osher. I am. I am very deluded. I have an overactive imagination and a penchant for chasing emotionally unavailable men. But writing about myself is like verbal masturbation for me, and if I told you to stop wanking, would you? No. You wouldn’t.”

THE FUCKING END.

SEPTEMBER 2015

I’ve forgotten that guy. I am dating another guy. But I have to dump this new guy because he tries to change me.

Anyway, I am text fighting with this idiot new guy when out of the blue, old Pinger Boy sends me a text.

In a nutshell it said this (it was actually a bit longer but I honestly can’t remember):

“Hey Alex, I’m sorry for being so slow on the response. I think you’re really amazing and talented and funny but I think you might be a bit much for me. Regards, Pinger Boy.”

Yeah? Well you know what? Your dick probably isn’t enough for me.

Go straight to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

You will not be touching my community chest.

I pretty much responded with “Yeah you’re right. I am really talented and I am probably  going to be famous so remember my name, bitch”.

Look, I sort of appreciated the sentiment. But enough time had passed that I didn’t need that extra rejection. I got the point.  I still disagreed though. Why can’t he see we could be the Frank and Clare Underwood of the television world?

At least I got a bit of closure and another good chuckle (at myself, he isn’t as funny as me, obvs).

As our generation tends to with all these sex apps, I met another awesome guy. I know, I know. What a slut. My entire dating inventory is basically on display here. So Mum, if you’re reading this: I’m sorry. But it’s so hard to maintain my virginity when I’m just so interesting, charming and I’m a part of the Sex and the City watching, Mamamia reading sexually empowered generation of women who like, yer neeeerrrrrrrrwwwww don’t need to explain themsaaaaalves.

APRIL 2016

I end up on Tinder again for obvious reasons.  This time I added into my profile, “I would be a real catch if I wasn’t such a psychopath” just to keep it real, yanno?

Yep. You know what’s coming. Ding Ding Ding.

Oh FFS.

Shoo fly, don’t bother me.

But while I’ve got you here, I’m gonna ham this shit up big time.

His response?

PLOT TWIST:

He does exactly the same fucking thing.

Seriously. What kind of cruel twist is this? Am I being trolled? Does HE have a blog that he’s reverse blogging our beautiful love story?

I know the ladies in The Bachelor mansion sit around panting, pleading and painting their nails. Why can’t he realise this is not a show? He is not The Bachelor and I do not like this game. Who the fuck do you think I am? If I was in the mansion I would probably have turned lesbian like Tiffany and Meghan by now.

I KNOW YOU DON’T LIKE ME YOU HAVE ALREADY TOLD ME. I AM TOO MUCH. I DON’T CARE. I DON’T KNOW YOU. LEAVE ME ALONE. STOP SUGGESTING THINGS IF YOU DON’T ACTUALLY WANT TO HANG OUT WITH ME. I AM A FUCKING LEGEND. GO AWAY AND GROW THE FUCK UP.

You are a thorn in my side. I do not want a rose. I am out. Exit stage left.

I text him this:

He didn’t respond.

Good FUCKING riddance.

The end.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooot.

OCTOBER 2016

Ding fucking ding.

The nerve of this man.

Old Pinger Boy wants another crack at our unfinished love story:

Oh really? We’ll probably fall in love? That’s so sweet.

FUCK YOU.

His response:

Of course you’re in the Blue Fucking Mountains. Bachelor producers love the BLUE FUCKING MOUNTAINS. He was probably planning another perfect date for me to watch on television.

No response.

I’ve come this far and I am seeing it out to the end goddammit. I will fight until the death. And by death, I mean when I kill him.

TWO WEEKS LATER

I decide to suggest a catch up, which mind you, is basically the FIRST time I have actually messaged to suggest something. But what have I got to lose? My dignity? No sir. I lost that somewhere on a dance floor back in the mid 2000s.

So chill.

CHILL AS FUCK.

Okay. So This has officially been going on since February 2015. We are now in NOVEMBER 2016.

By this point I think there’s been some kind of glitch in my brain. I am like a thirsty camel in the dessert looking for water. The final and most recent chapter had me imagining him at the Gladstone like a mirage.

I swear to God it was him.

But apparently not. Has this back and forth genuinely led to some kind of brain malfunction?

Half an hour later:

Okay, so I do not know this person. This person does not know me. But it’s pretty clear this guy is ‘The One’.

I’ve actually started planning our wedding. It’s going to take place at a Keep Sydney Open Rally with a lovely reception in the Blue Mountains and cold-press juices all round. And to keep in line with our reality TV themed love story, we’re going to be Married at First Sight. Unless I am being Catfished. Which would be even better and definitely in line with our theme.

The truth is, there is no happy ending. There is no moral to this story. There are no answers. But you know what? If all I got out of this situation was a new blog entry, I’m actually pretty happy with that because I haven’t been writing much lately and I quite enjoyed writing this.

How’s THAT for a boring ending?

Shout out to my editor Eloise Dempsey who read over this nonsense in her spare time and tried her best to keep me in check. My psychic Nick who has given me insight into this situation which has yet to be confirmed. And to my beloved friend Mark Arena for encouraging me to throw all the men in my life under the bus as collateral for my creative pursuits.