Dear Bed-Wetter

The part that was so entertaining about you, Bed-Wetter, was your complete shamelessness. It was almost like you didn’t possess the ability to feel embarrassment. In a way, I am kind of jealous. Imagine if I could just run around all day doing stupid things because embarrassment just wasn’t in my repertoire of emotions? Life would be a lot more fun if I could loudly sing along to Kanye West on my morning jog without feeling embarrassed about passers-by looking at me weirdly. 

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Dear Afternoon Delight

It would be fair to assume that by the age of 30, a person would have gone on more than a few dates. They would have experienced the text message courtship. The back and forth banter. The three-day-wait rule before you text them again. Or getting your mates to put a passcode on your phone on the weekend so you can’t text the person you’re dating whilst under the influence. Because we all know that once you send a drunk text to your date enquiring as to their whereabouts on a Saturday night, you have relinquished all power. You have put all your cards on the table and given the other person the complete upper hand. Forever.

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Dear Chompers

Before we get started, I need to point out that I really did admire how unashamedly self-confident you were. So comfortable with you are. Absolutely happy in your own skin. Not a care in the world about what other people think of you. Come to think of it, I actually envy you. I would love to not care about what other people think of me and be that relaxed about my appearance. Imagine how much time, effort and money I would save if I didn’t care about my hair. Or my make-up. Or spending $50 a month on an ‘eyebrow technician’ to make me look like Cara Delevigne. Or concealing the collection of zits that appear on my chin every month like clockwork.

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Dear Fish Fingers

Fish Fingers, we meet one evening at a local bar. You asked for my number, and the week that followed was full of text message banter, until finally you asked me for a dinner date. Points for gallantry. You’re not just going for the traditional restaurant dinner date, only giving yourself the responsibility of picking an eatery. No sir, you’re going all out. You need to do more than just pick a restaurant. You need to pick a meal. Then choose a recipe. Then go grocery shopping for the ingredients. Then come home and lovingly prepare it all yourself. And after all that comes the hardest part of all (which we all now know from watching endless seasons of Masterchef). You need to plate up, Fish Fingers. And damn, that is a whole separate pressure-filled task unto itself, fraught with danger and angst.

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Dear Self Startler

Are you wondering where your nickname has stemmed from? Good, I will tell you then, in the form of a quote from the always-wonderful and ever-wise Zoe Foster: 

"If he wants to see you all the time, swears undying love to you and is planning your marriage after the first date, beware. I call them the 'Self Startlers'. Men who come on so strong, so fast, they scare themselves off. They are in love with love and usually run a mile when you decide you like them."

Gosh darn it, that Zoe has done it again. She has this knack for hitting us ladies square between the eyes with her no-nonsense logic. And in this particular case, she was right on the money.

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Dear Stalker

Now before we commence, we need to acknowledge that the term ‘stalker’ is used quite casually these days. It has become fairly common, almost the norm even, to hear someone say “oh my god, I am like totally such a stalker for looking at Josh’s Instagram before our date.” This, of course, is not stalker behaviour; it is standard pre-date behaviour, and in 2014 you would have to be an absolute dating rookie to not engage in some pre-date research before you sit down for a meal with someone who is essentially a complete stranger that you met in a bar last weekend. So now that we have clarified what ‘casual stalking’ entails, I can confidently start this tale by stating that you are an absolutely legitimate and shameless stalker.

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Dear Sinead

No, I did not go through a dating girls phase. You are a male; however you were nicknamed Sinead. As in Sinead O’Connor. Because you thought everyone was watching you, spying on you, hating on you and talking about you behind you back. Was this a bit of a politically incorrect or insensitive nickname? Yes, probably. But you drove me to this. After bumping in to each other a few weekends in a row at a local bar, we finally chat and exchange digits. I’m excited, because I have been eyeballing you for quite some time, Sinead. What you lack in the general social skills department, you more than make up for in the babe department. You are one handsome devil.

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Dear Acid Tabs

You were great. Not to date, obviously; because if that were the case I wouldn’t be writing about you now. No, you were great because you have hands-down provided the most entertaining date story possibly known to man. (This may have a slight overstatement, but I’m confident others agree.) We meet through a group of mutual friends during a weekend catch-up. The group catch-ups become quite regular so we continue to ‘bump in to eachother’. Oh so romantic. A few weekends in to these somewhat customary group shindigs, flirting ensues. Some text messages start flying back and forth. Facebook friend requests are sent. One on one chats between us start becoming the norm. I’m starting to think we’re building something special here, Acid Tabs. Ross’n’Rachel-style.

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Dear Stripper

It is not often one goes on a date and chokes on her own food when discovering the occupation of the person she is sharing an evening with. But I can now say that this wonderful experience was bestowed to me, and for that I am forever grateful to you. So Stripper, after meeting on the dancefloor of a local club (like all great romances begin) you promptly text me the next day to ask for a date that week. Oh how excited I am. This handsome, very muscular, small-business owner with fantastic dance moves wants to take me out for dinner. How lucky am I.

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Dear Christmas Joy

I won’t go in to detail here, because the details of our romance are not what makes this story hilarious. It’s the text message I chose to send you on Christmas night, in the hopes that you would realise you were madly in love with me and come running to my door. I was slightly obsessed with you, CJ. I won’t lie. You were very, very attractive. And after meeting you at a bar one evening, followed by several ‘late night encounters’, I decided that I was in love with you and had to marry you immediately, if not sooner. Silly on my part, I know. Boys like girls who are hard to get. But I couldn’t resist.  Alas, CJ, you did not reciprocate my love, because you males have this uncanny knack for knowing when we girls are keen, and then consequently becoming repelled by us almost instantly.

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Dear Car-Bed

Let's start at the beginning. In my usual Saturday night state of complete drunkenness, I come up with the brilliant idea that my friends and I should go speed dating. The idea is not well-received, with my dear friend saying it’s actually quite a f*cking stupid idea, and rips my notion to shreds. “Why the hell would we go speed-dating when we are currently standing in a bar full of guys?” she says. Her argument is sound; we are young, smart, reasonably witty, pretty hot dames. Why would we need to go speed dating? But I say ‘Look pal, at speed-dating you’re all there for the same reason, so there’s less fear of rejection.’

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