Toxic relationships, martinis and the game

I’m a fan of a toxic relationship. I mean, unintentionally, I’m a fan girl for poison. I lap up the lies, the insults, the emotional bolts. I adore it like an ice cold beer on a summer’s day, like a jelly vodka shot and a slutty fancy dress outfit.

It’s something I’ve grown to love to hate. A staple of every twenteen’s diet along with the endless gins, the continuous string of fuckboys, and at least one toxic combo. Whether I’m directly in them or a side branch of the the combo, you’ll always find me there. Like the person constantly at the bar no matter the time of the day. Always lingering.

The person hanging out in the kitchen at parties, the bloke always in the same bar on the same night picking up the same girls wearing the same outfit as all of his ‘boys’. Unoriginal and bound to happen.

I’ll be there.

I’ve tried to walk away but either I draw myself back or I get noosed into the poison. I attract them like a duck to water, it festers within me, on my shoulder, under my bed like the boogie monster. Even oceans can’t prise some of them apart.

The reality shows that thrive on this crap, that leave you hanging on every word of the diseased friendship or relationship, make it normal. Make combos of value vodka, schnapps, sambuca and passing out in toilets seem the right decision.

Mind games after mind games of wasted apologies and fucked niceties that are fine until the next time, approximately three days later.

Every few months I have a sass epiphany, a lightbulb moment of shit, I probably deserve more than a chip butty diet. With the help of Taylor Swift or Beyonce and a jiggle round my room and I’m back. For now “I’m done”.

Now “I’m done” equates to the same I’m done conversation every nightclub toilet has witnessed, every white girl wasted moment, every kebab shop heart to heart. This is until you wake up the next morning with that chip in your hair and the taste of tequila or as I like to call it regret.

And you’re back to they’re not that bad, are they really?

In no particular order and totally anonymous obvs, I give these toxic relationship examples:

  1. The gal pal that’s always putting you down, who can’t bear to see you succeed, and is probably at the heart of the current rumour mill.
  2. A whole lotta history boy. That bloke you make excuses after excuses for because you’ve got history. FYI we all have history if we go back far enough on the family tree.
  3. The people that have always been there so they kind of just have to stay, right?
  4. The avid texter, replies within seconds but is not actually allowed to see you cos their other half rules by the iron fist and is Thatcher in disguise.
  5. The it’s-been-three-years-and-I-still-can’t-figure-you-out one, because everything becomes clear after a while, just like maths? Just another algebra formula.

I don’t need a reason to have a stiff drink but bloody hell do these combos make it all the more justifiable to order a triple gin.

WILL YOU JUST LET ME LIVE. I scream and then text back like always.

Like some grungy 90s track, I’m overplayed and tragically loveable. Like Avril Lavigne.

Lunging from bar to bar scouting out that perfect espresso martini, I’m not quite sure who or what I think I’ve become. And that’s exactly the point. I’ve lunged from man to man, job to job and now bar to bar in search of something, well I’m not quite sure what in search of to be honest.

Ordering more and more fizz placing bets about which poison I’ll hear from next that evening. I’m laughing with my best mate but the game’s got old. Same old story, same old outcome.

Toxic relationships should be as easy to weave out of as untying your shoe laces. Not quite the right fit so see ya later. No biggy.

If it gives you blisters and you just can’t wear them in, take them to the charity shop. B I N  T H E M

It’s also been the week where I’ve consolidated that I am indeed many a man’s burger and not one’s steak. Shame, really. Another line of toxic combos is laid out in front of me.

So I’ll see you at the bar and, make mine a double.



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