He walks past. I can smell that he’s wearing Creed ‘Silver Mountain Water’ (erm, I have a long and complicated relationship with fragrance), he has one blue eye and one brown, and he has headphones on.


Ah, I’m crushing. Again.

I am a serial crusher. It’s always on the same type of man. No, not always bearded- surprise surprise. It’s the illusion. The mystique. The suggestion of depth; where every little mundane detail Means Some Thing.

It’s just one big imagination fest.

I had a crush on a boy I’d seen out and about, this crush went on for a month or two. He dressed amazingly well, but not “gay amazing”. He seemed friendly enough (but not to me; I seem to be completely invisible to him), and, outwardly he would seem to like the same things I do (hatred of Rihanna and radio, etc.)

So a few weeks go by before I pluck up the courage to be brave. So brave and noble, I ask his colleague what his name is.

Cue sound of miniature violins. It wasn’t Johnny, Mick, Frankie or Dave. He was christened with the most unfortunate of names.

Next reality check, his colleague quips “Oh him! Allllll the girls ask about him. And the guys too.”

I am finding it hard to resume my crushing, but, I push on.

A week later, my friends and I are driving down the boulevard… and I scream.


No. No. It was Mr Sadname, walking, hand in hand, with the most beaniest pole surfey wonderful young blonde girl.

Mystique, out the car window.


Crush, shattered.

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