Gotta Love the Internet

I’d recently spent an evening at a small Mexican restaurant surrounded by people I hardly knew, bar one: the birthday girl. I was listening, with neck outstretch forward like a turkey, as they swapped online-dating horror stories that were, by default, friggin’ hilarious. One with a guy who was so painfully awkward that my friend had to cut it short, only to walk an even-more-awkward 100 meters in the same direction as he did, one where the guy was 35 and had entertained the thought of buying a Ukrainian wife for the purpose of having children (“If women want a baby, they can just go out and get pregnant and have one. If men want children, it’s just so much harder”—ig’nant, and mentally fucked up).

Somehow, the spotlight shifted to me. “So, what’s your story? Why are you so interested?” All eyes fell upon my startled, where-the-fuck-am-I-don’t-look-at-me face. “Oh, I’m just curious.” No plans to foray into the world of internet psychopaths.

Once eyes moved back to the other side of the table, uninterested in my lack of juicy stories, I drifted off to the dusty filing cabinets in the back of my mind and tried to recall all the hilarious-but-really-fucked-up stories I’ve had with unintentional courtship. Of course, none of these stories were with anyone I could even be remotely attracted to, let alone anyone searingly hot like Sullivan Stapleton in every movie/television show he’s ever appeared in. Let me just say: It’s hard being a woman trying to do anything in this world. My prime, sole example of anything even faintly resembling a search for someone on internet:

After my finals exams my last year of uni, I was hell-bent on getting to Spain. I just had that calling; I felt the pull, and I was desperate to go. So, I scoured the web for jobs over there, as well as loopholes around the EU’s whole closed-door immigration policy. I found myriad jobs, all eclectic and all for which I would’ve been totally competent…except the whole citizenship thing. Then I thought of WWOOFing, and that search in itself gave me a salad bar of different opportunities.

I found one. And it was the be-all, end-all of looking at online Classifieds for anything: I think it was in Almeria—or Malaga—I can’t remember. Somewhere in Andalucia, which was perfect because, from my studies, I was always so drawn to Moorish Spain. Someone—presumably male, and you’ll find out why—put up an ad for a female horse-handler. I’m going to paraphrase what I remember of the ad:

“You will work approximately seven hours a day with the horses, so you must be able to handle the physical labour aspects of the position… You must also be willing to wear high heels and step on my back for several hours a day.”

 

Bye.

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