I am one of these people who likes to analyse things. Well, I say like to, I don’t like to, I do it and then hate myself for it. It works pretty well most of the time. Anyway, I mull things over, run through potential outcomes and calculate their probability. It’s a bit like poker, except with my life and that I’m not very good at poker.

While I can usually keep my mentalness to myself, sometimes it spills over and causes problems in relationships. Yes, dear reader(s?), I am talking about the fairer sex once again. Make yourself comfortable.

The analysing is just one of the problems. I also have a horrible compulsion to say whatever is on my mind. Again, I can often control this, at work especially, but with friends I usually let my mouth run away with me. They’re used to it, I get more leeway with them than frankly I deserve. But anyway – not so with girls.

Girls are judgemental. And mental – but in a different way to me being mental. Their brains work in different ways. They read things differently. They assume things, usually wrongly, in my experience, then it’s your fault that they have done so.

Another problem. Once I get a bee in my bonnet about something I find it almost impossible to get rid of it. For instance, on Thursday night I asked a question of someone which has hugely unfair. I knew it was unfair. She knew it was unfair. She said so. I agreed. But I still made her answer, even though I knew I wouldn’t like the answer. We haven’t spoken since. It was grimly predictable. I wonder if she’s stopped being mad (she called me mental three times in the space of an hour – I had no valid defence) at me yet. I wonder if I’m over it yet.

I’m stubborn. This is the next problem. I know that in the above situation I am in the wrong and should definitely apologise. I know this, I do. But I can’t. Because I’m stubborn. So I’ll wait until she makes the first move towards a reconciliation and then she’ll be pissed off I’ve made her do it. This is already mapped out – I could stop it, but I can’t. I’m not making sense.

Women terrify me. With their shiny hair and faces and bodies and brains and feelings and emotions and all that shit. They are frightening. If I had a choice between taking on an army of Daleks unarmed or talking to an actual woman I would be picking the rubbish bins with plungers sticking out of their heads every time.

All weekend I’ve been avoiding one of them, you know, one of those female things. Because the last time we spoke I was drunk and apart from the last hugely embarrassing thing I said to her which there is no way I am sharing so don’t bother asking, I remember nothing of the night. Most likely the alcohol, possibly my brain deleting the evidence for me. Thanks, brain.

Anyway, one simple conversation this weekend could have cleared up the situation (is it even a situation? I don’t know, I ran away and hid in Salford for a month), but instead I’ve, er, run away to hide in Salford for a month. Same time next month, aye? Deal.

Just to demonstrate the sheer terror a woman can strike in to my heart, let me share a story. I was working in Smacks (bar in Burnley, been doing shifts there on and off for five years) one time and this woman, shortish, big eyes, dark haired, prettyish, was trying to start a conversation with me, I was probably 18 (young and stupid, nothing has changed since) at the time. I dislike it when people do this at the best of times. The best punters are the ones who order their drink, give you the right money and leave, sharpish. No small talk is needed thanks. Get your liquor and get away from my bar. What can I say, I’m a people person. I am a born journalist.

So I was delaying talking to this girl. She’d managed to get my name and age out of me between serving customers. This was more sharing of information than I was comfortable with. Eventually, there was nobody left at the bar other than her and the chap she was with. It was pretty awkward. The other bloke on the bar had spied what was going on and was in quiet hysterics in the corner, the bastard. So I had to go and talk to her. She was chatting me up. Now, I have little experience of being chatted up (I know, with this face, it is a surprise, but I am telling the truth here), but she was definitely chatting me up.

I figured this was a bit weird with this bloke stood there like a lemon so I was giving her the straight bat, all Jonathan Trott like, resolute in my defence. More punters eventually arrived and I was able to slink off and do some work. But she hung around the bar all night and eventually asked what was wrong with her, why I was being like I was (a dick, to be honest, but she didn’t say that). I can’t remember what I said (thanks again, brain), but I wasn’t very nice and she went off a bit upset…I still feel guilty about this. So she stormed off with her pal and my colleague, who’d been watching this develop all evening comes over, asks me what I was playing at turning down her advances. I tell him it was because I thought she was taking the piss, with her boyfriend stood there, for their own amusement. But oh no, that bloke’s not her boyfriend. My colleague happens to know he is actually a gay man with a gay partner. Yep, I’m a massive idiot.

That was kind of cathartic. Where was I? Another problem, right? I obsess over things. So someone will say something or do something and I will obsess and obsess over it for days, for no rhyme or reason or resolution. I get crushes on people easily. I daydream often and vividly and have even been known to confuse reality with things my mind has conjured.

I think that will do for now. The men in white coats are probably on their way. Part two will come after a self-loathing session throws up a few more problems.

This blog is SO much cheaper than therapy.

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