In which your hero pities himself

I’m not a very attractive person. I’m not. I do have a nice smile. I quite like my toes. And I have the perfect amount of hair on my arms.

I’m the kind of guy who has a “lovely personality”. Puke.

Overall, I’m fairly gross. I have a big red face, with yucky blotches on it and tiny eyes that disappear into my head when I smile even a little. I have the white skin of an uncooked turkey, except for the pink bits which are also quite similar to raw poultry. My body is made up of blubbery curves and wobbles, like a pregnant walrus. And my entire self is adorned with shiny stretchmarks like an old and overused elastic band. My tummy is alright-ish when I stand up but there is absolutely nothing that would make my thighs or bum attractive.

There would need to be something fairly wrong with you to be attracted to me.

The one thing I haven’t told anyone about the guy I was (am?) dating is that he is clearly some kind of fat fetishist. He told me that my superpower was being cuddly and that he loved my massive thighs. He called me “big” from the start to the end of our second and third dates.

I was willing to accept it. He was totally out of my league, looks-wise. He clearly liked me a lot. Yes, I did find his fascination with my size creepy, because I hate my size, but I thought I had lots in common with this guy, and I really liked him and he was interesting and so, so very hot that I was willing to get over the fat fetish.

But he hasn’t been in touch in a week.

I have less than three days to find a date for Simon Amstell, so I went back online and started talking to other guys. One guy in particular. A guy whose profile is headlined “lookin 4 chubby guys”. He seems fairly sweet, even if he’s a bit strange. But I don’t feel any attraction towards him at all. At all. Also, his spelling and punctuation are crap.

Do I just wait until I’m thin to date again? Then I’m not limited to Dublin’s eleven gay fat fetishists for partnerships.

I thought that with my recent victories of willpower – smoking, boxing, swimming, running, coming out – that I’d finally be able to diet, but last week’s attempt at dieting was a farce. I practically ate myself into a coma earlier today – my first real binge in weeks. I don’t know what to do – I’ve had enough of being alone. I really have. I don’t want to wait any more. And I might never actually get thin. I hope I do, but I never have been and I might never be.

I know all this sounds very gloomy. And I am emotional. But I know it’s 2012. It’s my year. And a huge part of me believes I’ll get my Prince Charming. And my Castle in the Sky. But another part of me is afraid and that’s the part that’s writing tonight.

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