Ahhh, rejection. We meet again. Or; what to do to feel instantly (sort of) better.

Warning: this is being written in a heightened emotional state and may not make much sense but haters can leave because I need to process my feelings and I don’t even need to explain myself, really. So leave if you don’t want to join my pity party, K? If you stayed I love you and I need you and never leave me. 

Prior to my self-imposed dating ban and mass deletion of all online romance generators, I came across a dashing young lad who asked me for drinks. Three dates and 12 days later, and I just received the dreaded rejection text:

Hey Emily, I had a great time the other night and you’re really smart and pretty, and a lovely girl, but I’m not feeling the spark I wanted to be feeling. Sorry.

Ugh.

Just ugh.

I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO DEAL WITH A REJECTION TEXT AND PASH RASH AT THE SAME TIME IT’S JUST NOT FAIR.

I also know what you may be thinking. And I acknowledge the irony of being the author of a lengthy post about Ghosting, and then still being unsatisfied when I get a perfectly reasonable and considerate rejection text. I won’t go into the specifics of why I just spent the past hour and a half crying in my bedroom. I liked him, I made myself vulnerable by showing it, I got rejected anyway. It sucks. My heart hurts. I know it could have been worse, but half of me is sad because I liked him, and half of me is sad because the hope is gone.

Ugh.

In response to the moderately crushing rejection I just got, here’s what I did to make me feel (sort of) better (kind of) straight away. Here’re some things you could do too:

1. Cry. Preferably alone. Preferably loudly. Preferably in a space where you won’t feel self conscious about crying over someone you hadn’t even met 12 days ago.

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2. Invite everyone you know to a pity party. Tell your friends that you’re upset. Don’t be afraid to tell them that you don’t want an inspirational speech, or for them to tell you that everything will work out. You just want them to feel sad with you, for you.

3. Watch every single Ask Amy episode. Start crying again. Wish that Amy Poehler was there to give you a hug and offer situation-specific advice.

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4. Construct an amicable response text that conveys your feelings without being overly angry or spiteful. Remember that all you can ask for now is to handle yourself with grace. Write and rewrite the message. Send it to your friends to proofread. BE HONEST. Wait an hour, then send it:

I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I appreciate that you’re being upfront. In the future, though, maybe mention that before you sleep with someone. I can’t help but feel crumby now, and knowing that would have let me know what I was in for before I made that choice. I hope everything with masters ends up well.

5. Go to your online happy places. Log out of Facebook. Say no to every little thought that you did something wrong. Fuck that noise.

6. Turn your phone off, or put it in on silent in a different room. Get rid of that thing.

7. Go wash your face with cold water. I don’t know why this works, but it does. Wash it again every time you start to cry. Don’t feel bad about starting to cry again.

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8. Put moisturiser on that pash rash. If you don’t have pash rash, put on a face mask. Paint your nails in a colour that reflects your current mood, and then feel the catharsis when you take it off because you don’t feel that way anymore. Have a bath. Do something literally make yourself feel better. Keep feeling sorry for yourself.

9. Write a blog post. If you don’t have a blog, write a journal entry, or a letter to yourself. Don’t feel at all guilty if you tear it up straight away because reading past journal entries are mortifyingly embarrassing.

10. Take as much time as you need to absolutely feel sorry for yourself. Don’t drink or take drugs. Force yourself to feel the emotions. Be a glutton for punishment.

On a scale of 1 to all better, I’m currently sitting at about a 3, so I’m not at all claiming that you’ll be out of the woods in 10 easy steps. I’m also a very big fan of wallowing in the depths of self pity until that becomes exhausting (because it undoubtably will), and I’m not even close to being done with that. The waterworks almost started again, and all because I saw a couple of (kind of terrible) people making out on Big Brother. Emotions are here. Hopefully we’ll have some good news to report soon. If not, feel free to share your best worst rejection stories. I promise I’ll come to your pity party with bells on.

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Send me love,

Emily-Rose.

I am forever at your service…

My self-imposed dating hiatus lasted all of 3 days. Willpower is totes my strongpoint.

Although I said goodbye to Tinder and my 200+ matches *cries* *gloats*, I reactivated my OKC account, more because I was bored, and not because I spend any significant time on there anyway. What can I say, sometimes I’m so complex that even I don’t understand my motives.

Anyway, more to the point, I decided not to get sucked into the vortex of “I’m going to die alone I’m not good enough for all the people who are too good for me I’m going to live in the woods and sell friendship bracelets out of a van.” I’m writing a fucking thesis. I don’t have the physical time to dwell. And if Gala Darling has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you need to decide not be miserable.

However, I do have time for the babes in my life – namely, if you’re spending your valuable time reading this – you. And I love helping people. And I love hearing other people’s stories. And I love giving advice. And I’m even kind of good at it.

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Meaningful expression. Harry Potter jumper. Trust me with your problems.

So begins instalment #1 of Ask Emily-Rose.

Take your troubled mind, organise it into an email, and shoot it to everythingemilyrose@outlook.com. I won’t publish any real names, and you can even make up your own pseudonyms (it’s surprisingly fun). The more detail you give me the better. I can promise you two things. First: I care. Second: I don’t know you, so I don’t have any reason to lie. Or fluff. Or feed you platitudes that I don’t think will help.

I’ve found unexpected joy in seeing that you’re reading my humble musings. And I’ve loved reading your comments. And I’d like to give a little something back. Pay it forward. Show I’m grateful.

I wait with baited breath,

Emily-Rose. x

It’s time for a nap.

I like you guys too much to bullshit to you. I’m exhausted.

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My life.

I find that, when it comes to locating my person via the interwebs, my energy is like a dying star. It burns brightly at the start, but it’s gone before any real momentum is made. If someone doesn’t completely rock my world within a few months; if I go on unsuccessful date after unsuccessful date; if mine and my date’s feelings aren’t on the same level at the same time, I need to hide. Hibernate. Unsubscribe, deactivate, delete. It’s about that time now.

I’m not going to lie, I’m still feeling the burn of being ghosted by Perth BoyRitchie is kind of still around, but whenever I spend time with him I feel shrouded with an icky feeling somewhere between guilt and melancholy. The charismatic, delightful Harry Potter lover showed me my first deal breaker, and I haven’t even told you guys about my permi-crush who decided to cause an emotional ruckus before moving to another country for the foreseeable future (I’m sooooo not ready to go down that rabbit hole). I’ve been unlucky. And it blows.

Now, the more logical among you is probably thinking that I should get a grip. I think so too. I know that three months is nothing when it comes to finding my person. Hell, Mr. Clooney only just found his, and he’s… well… mature. Call it my impatience, call it the loathsome Gen Y trait that dictates that I need everything and I need it NOW, but I’m bored and tired and disheartened. If Love Actually taught me anything, it’s that love happens fast and it happens often and the waiting is driving me up the wall.

That’s why, this week, I decided to take a break. I’ve deleted, unsubscribed, and deactivated. The funny thing is that, other than gaining a (depressingly) large amount of time back that I would have ordinarily spent swiping left or right, I don’t feel like I’m at a huge disadvantage. I’m finding it harder to believe that I’m going to find my person through the internet, and I think that getting a little bit of the mystery of strangers back is going to be healthy for me (I’m a Scorpio: I’m ALL ABOUT the mystery).

If history has taught me anything, I know I’ll probably be back one day. That siren’s song will draw me in when I need an ego boost. But for now, I’m off to metaphorical bed.

Goodnight, my loves. X

The thing(s) about online dating…

Happy hump day!

Please accept the sincerest of apologies for my radio silence! In the past two weeks I’ve started two new jobs, been struck down with food poisoning, actually tried to get some work done on my thesis, started house-hunting, and suffered two particularly terrible hangovers. Life, hey? I promise I still love you all and you’re all delightful baby unicorns. 

Online dating is… well… it’s a world of it’s own. I could probably write a book about using the internet to find romance (and I haven’t even found it yet!) So instead of eating another piece of pizza, here are three things you should know before you dive head first into online dating:

You will stumble across people you know. These people will probably try to sleep with you.
I’ve been on Okcupid on and off for about a year. During this time, I’ve run into co-workers, old high-school peers, acquaintances, Tinder matches, close friends, friends’ housemates, and most recently (and super awkwardly) one of my new bosses. As a logical human woman, I assumed that this wouldn’t be an issue outside of the inevitable uncomfortableness of seeing these people in a vulnerable state. They, just like me, are basically telling the world that they’re looking for their person, and that can be scary. Instead, most (if not all) of these people have sent me messages re-introducing themselves (mate, I haven’t forgotten who you are), and generally expressing romantic interest. As much as I appreciate their time and effort, if I was romantically invested in these people to begin with, I probably wouldn’t have signed up to a dating site in the first place; just because I’m on a dating website doesn’t mean our entire history is wiped clean. If I didn’t want to date you in 2007, chances are I don’t want to date you now.

People will question why you’re on a dating website – including the other people on the dating website.
This one was hard to deal with initially. If I had to guess, I’d say about half of the conversations I’ve had with other people on the site eventually roll around to them asking me: “Why is a girl as pretty as you on a dating site?” “Why are you on here? Surely someone like you doesn’t need help to find a boyfriend?” etc, etc. Now, again, I know the intentions here aren’t malicious, but how the dickens am I supposed to answer that?!

“Oh, you know, I’m a failure at love in the real world so I thought I’d trick someone into loving me before we meet.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to die alone and this was my last resort.”

“Wait… you mean this isn’t Facebook? I thought they had an update?”

I guess this one was (and sometimes still is) especially tough for me because I don’t actually know the answer. I don’t know why, in real life, I pick the people who never pick me back. I think I’m a catch, so it’s hard to explain to complete strangers why singledom is my default setting. So, you know, just don’t ask.

You’ll get that one person that just wont. stop. messaging.  
I feel like one of the unwritten rules of human interaction is that if someone doesn’t respond to a message/letter/phone call/carrier pigeon, you can reasonably assume that they don’t want to talk to you. I won’t be naive and try to tell you that it’s not you: it probably is. Maybe you’re estimated to be 99% my enemy. Maybe you don’t have any photos showing your face. Maybe you rite lyk dis and I need an extra three minutes to try to decipher what your message actually says. Maybe you propositioned me in your first message, or asked me why I was on a dating site. Whatever it was, something has made me put you in the ‘no’ pile, and my lack of response is demonstrative of this. I think the hardest part of online dating in general is to not take rejection personally, especially when I just spelled it out that it is personal, but FOUR MESSAGES IN TWO WEEKS IS EXCESSIVE. Visiting your profile is not an invitation to message me again. I was probably just trying to figure out who you are.
(When/if this applies to you, you get mega super bonus life points for being graceful in your rejection. We’ve all been there.)

My instincts are telling me that this will be part one of an instructional booklet of what to do/expect if you’re looking for a nice brain and nice genitals on the interwebs. It’s an intimidating world out there, but I’m glad you’re here with me. X

Dealbreaker: Volume One.

I love to party. I flipping love it.

I don’t take drugs, but I do drink and dance and roam and talk and sing and laugh and do all of the things that happen in a city as amazing as Melbourne on a Saturday night. I don’t drink during the week or when I don’t have the money for drinking, but when I do consume alcohol I tend to go all out. On an average night, my friends and I will be out until 5am, hanging in a dive bar, clutching to the last hours of the night before the sun comes up.

On my first date with the sexter, he told me he doesn’t drink. And suddenly, I really knew the meaning of deal breaker.

When I daydream about the individual who I’d like to take my heart, he’s there with me, pushing the hair out of my tired face while we’re waiting for a cab to take us home. He’s doing a questionable shot with me as Black Sabbath plays loudly over the speaker. He’s there in the morning, crippled by a hangover, legs intwined in mine, playing ‘rock, paper scissors’ with me to decide who has to get up and get the water. He’s my partner in crime.

There’s part of me that does feel strange ad mitting that a love of board games and a willingness to be in bed by midnight is a deal breaker, but I don’t want my interests to become a burden to someone else. Not only that, but I adore the thrill of getting to know someone over a cocktail or two, with the buzz of the Long Island iced tea combining with the soft glow of bar lights to create the perfect storm of affection. In the world of Emily-Rose, alcohol plays an important role in the courting process: inhibitions are lowered, courage is raised, and you can figure out who’s a complete fuckwit when they drink. (Hint: if someone’s a fuckwit when they drink, they’re usually a fuckwit when they’re sober. You just haven’t seen it yet.)

Although on paper the sexter was (and is) lovely, I think I need someone who loves the things I love, and partying in my wonderful city is one of those things. There’ll undoubtedly be times when I want to lie in bed and snuggle and watch Parks and Rec, now isn’t one of those times.

Looks like it’s back to the drawing board for me. Cheers to that!

Let’s talk about sext, baby.

I have all the feels about sexting.

In Emily-Rose land, sexting is any kind of messaging where sex is implied/insinuated/outright referred to. If you’ve used more than one winky face emoticon in a span of five minutes, chances are you’re sexting. 
(There’s also the chance you don’t realise there’s a tonne of other emoticons on your phone. This happened to me last week.)

I googled 'All the feels.' I was not disappointed.

I googled ‘All the feels.’ I was not disappointed.

My feels on sexting are really polarised. If there is the clear and present danger of sex actually happening, I am ALL ABOUT IT. I’ll send dirty messages as long as my phone battery lasts, and even then I’ll probably steal your phone battery so I can keep going. (Yes, I have done this before. I feel for all you iPhone users and your trapped batteries). In my experience, it’s a super fun, relatively effortless way to get your significant other’s/consensual sex partner’s juices going. Use a little bit of imagination, and it’s also a really great way to suss out what your person likes, or to drop some clues about what you like without the pressure of being in the boudoir looming over you. 

If there is no chance that I’m actually going to sex you in the foreseeable future (I’m a girl, I’m complex, I have reasons), then sexting is just a waste of my time. I honestly don’t see the point in sexting or sending dirty photos (guilty again) and getting all worked up FOR NOTHING. In the interest of not being a shit bloke, I ALWAYS let a boy know if it’s just not going to happen, and I appreciate the ego boost that is someone messaging me saying they want my bod, but to date I’ve never changed my mind mid-sext because I’m so swept up with passion that I run to a boy’s house sans underwear.

Recently I’ve been messaging a boy I found online (I like saying ‘found’ online rather than ‘met’ online because, let’s face it, online romance has more in common with shopping than dating), and so far he is yet to disappoint. He seems cute, he’s funny, and he passed test number one – he’s moderately obsessed with Harry Potter. Our schedules mean that nothing official has been organised yet, but suggestions of meeting and sharing a beverage happen fairly often. The only thing that strikes me as weird is that he swings the conversation fairly quickly toward the sexting side of things.

It started with a hint towards a kiss, then a message about running fingertips down backs; nek minute he was outright talking about (my) orgasms. I usually replied to the messages with positive feedback (show me someone who doesn’t like back scratches and I’ll show you a filthy liar), but the orgasm thing took me by surprise. I mean, we haven’t even met yet, let alone actually had sex. Not only was the sexting a little premature, but it was the epitome of NOTHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN TODAY. Why would anyone want to sext with someone they hadn’t met yet? (Legitimate question. Please answer, I have no idea). 

For those playing at home, my response: 

…as tempting as some sexy time is, I’m more after, well, dates with the possibility of sexy time. It’s cool if you’re not, just let me know because it’s becoming kind of hard to tell haha. I think the scoundrel is taking over. 

I like to think I handled it well, and lo and behold he ticked another box by clarifying that he wants the same thing, and asking me to pull him in line if ever he crosses it. I must admit, I’m a little bit excited about this one (unless that means the universe is going to jinx me. In which case pffffft, boy? What boy?).

Best of luck in all your future sexting endeavours, and if you solve the mystery of sexting, for the love of cheeses let me know. 

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Stay cool and stay tuned, lovers. 
Emily-Rose. X

The Sunday-night curse.

At around 8pm every Sunday night, it hits. 

The curse. 

Call it an acute awareness of loneliness, or a strong desire for human contact, but every Sunday night I need attention. From anyone. (And by ‘anyone’ I usually mean anyone I want to have sexy time with). It’s not that I’m actively seeking out someone to bang (I’m not that brave – kudos to you if you are!) It’s more that I’m usually riding high (or hungover) from the fun of the weekend and I’m not ready for it to be over. I’m in denial that Monday is only hours away. There’s still a chance to have fun and be exciting and dang it someone is going to talk to me until it happens!

And, sometimes, Sunday nights are lonely.

I’d like to think that I did what I did because of the curse. In the grips of loneliness, I started questioning my entire romantic life; when I was inches away from both crippling boredom and mild panic about dying alone, I did a bad thing. I messaged Ritchie. 

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Demon icon, you will be my downfall.

Reasonable, rational, Monday-morning Emily-Rose knows that Sunday-night Emily-Rose only messaged Ritchie for an ego boost. Come Monday morning, I knew that I probably wouldn’t die alone, and even if I did, so what? There’s more to life than dying with a dick by your side. But it doesn’t excuse the fact that Sunday-night me didn’t care that Ritchie seems to like me (a lot) more than I like him, and that a harmless message excusing my lack of communication was, essentially, a big ol’ fat invitation back to dating town. In a nutshell, Sunday-night me was a bit shit. 

Being a woman of my word, and figuring that I was the one who got myself into this mess, I agreed to date number three tomorrow night. I feel, at best, like a time waster, but I do genuinely want to want sweetheart Ritchie. Maybe I’ll find something that wasn’t there before. Maybe Cupid is running a bit late. Maybe nothing new will happen, but I’ll be brave enough to tell him that despite his obvious positive and redeeming qualities, I just don’t have that feeling. 

Dating is hard. All the in-between time is harder. I think that from now on, I’m disabling my social media every Sunday afternoon. 

To Ghost or not to Ghost?

The subject of Ghosting has always been close to my heart. Mostly because it’s happened to me before.

For those who are lucky enough to have never been ghosted, let’s let the internet’s wisest information centre – urbandictionary.com – break it down for you:

Disclaimer: Apparently there are heaps of different definitions of Ghosting. Some of them are gross. Search at your own peril.

Ghosting: The act of suddenly ceasing all communication with someone the subject is dating, but no longer wishes to date. This is done in hopes that the ghostee will just “get the hint” and leave the subject alone, as opposed to the subject simply telling them he/she is no longer interested.

So, yeah. You’ve probably heard of this before. Or know someone it’s happened to. Or (and I’m kind of judging you here), you’ve ghosted someone else.

Give me the nice kind of Willow ghost any day.

Give me the nice kind of Willow ghost any day.

I’ve been ghosted, and it sucks. The most recent time was Perth Boy. After texting daily for six months, and exchanging a plethora of x-rated messages (and a couple of x-rated nights), I was ghosted on the same weekend that he finally came back to Melbourne. The ghosting also came with a side order of deletion from the only social media he had – Snapchat (classy, I know). Perth Boy should have said something: of course, he’s entitled to change his mind, but after six months of something between dating and relationship land, and planning to go on another date that very weekend, he owed me more than silence.

But how much do I owe someone else? Enter Richie*

*Richie’s not his real name, obvs. I feel like such a grown up, using aliases and all.
Richie and I met on Tinder (yes, you can laugh). He is lovely, and complimentary, and has no issue showing that he’s keen. Our interests are similar, he’s not unattractive, and he appears to have his shit together. All that’s missing is the spark. My spark.

We had two nice dates. He’s a nice kisser. We talked about nice things. He held my hand, which was nice. But I didn’t feel any passion, any spark. My brain (above or below the belt) never said YOU WANT THAT.

I just want someone that makes me feel the way Jeff Goldblum makes me feel.

I just want someone that makes me feel the way Jeff Goldblum makes me feel.

That’s when the temptation to ghost crept in. He asked if I wanted to go on date #3, and I knew that I didn’t. I also knew that I didn’t want to tell him that, because that also sucks a whole bunch. Call it rejectors remorse. I’ve been on the receiving end enough to know that I never want to make someone else feel that way.

But where do I go from here? Is it necessary, after two dates, to send someone the ‘I’m sorry, I’m not interested’ message? Or is ghosting a completely valid option when you haven’t even made it to three dates? (For all those opting to ghost, DO NOT add the person you’re dating on Facebook. Ghosting and posting don’t mix).

I ended up doing what all reasonable adults would do in my position: bent the truth to make myself sound busier than what I am (mature, I know). More than anything, I felt like I needed to buy time to figure out what my next move will be. I still don’t know what I’ll say if/when Richie follows up, but I know that I’ll have a whole lot of trouble sleeping at night if I become a ghoster.

…Wait, does this make me a Ghostbuster? Heck yeah!