I got my fourth date. It’s been four months and I’ve never really given up hope.

I now have butterflies in my tummy, I can’t stop singing and I keep smiling without meaning to.

And yet, from the outside, the date didn’t go that well. I’m 60% sure we’ll never see each other again, he is no longer interesting and I could think of very little to say to him. There was no kissing, and I came home alone after less than two hours.

I was calm during the day. I had little flutters, but generally I was fine.

At lunchtime, I went to WeightWatchers. I’ve lost another two and a half pounds (1.1 kg), so I’ve lost 13 pounds in two weeks and I’m down to 24 stone 2 pounds/ 338 lbs/ 153.3 kgs. Whoptee! 13 pounds in two weeks.

My measurements: neck – 17.25 inches/ 43.7 cm; chest – 52.25 inches/ 132.7 cm; arm – 17 inches/ 43.1 cm; waist – 56.75 inches/ 144.3 cm; thigh – 28.5 inches/ 72 cm. Yaaay! Over two inches off my waist. Ha!

So the day was going well.

I was floaty in college, not really minding when my supervisor realised I hadn’t actually talked to him about my PhD in three months and happily making an appointment with him, not really thinking about the fact that I have more or less nothing to show him.

In the half hour before the date, I sat at my desk singing along to 80s pop songs on YouTube to distract myself and psyche myself up for what was to come.

I was four minutes late. AND HE TEXTED TO SEE WHERE I WAS! Wait a second. I thought I was the needy one!

I arrived. He’s still incredibly hot. He’s been working his arms and you can see it. He gave me a very, very solid hug.

I spent two of my last three euros on a cup of tea. And we talked. He talked more than I did. He talks a lot.

I began to get bored. It was like the scales fell from my eyes. Months of pining are behind me. I’m fine without him. I briefly got excited when he started talking about Nietzsche. All my intellectual pretensions were kindled. Then he didn’t stop talking about Nietzsche. Yawn. Dum-diddle-dum.

I’m cured.

But that’s not the wonderful bit. As the evening went on, it became clear that he finds me very attractive. Me.

He couldn’t not touch my hands. He couldn’t not rub my arms. He couldn’t stop himself reaching over and stroking my belly.

My hairs stood on end, my chest tightened, my heart started pounding, my throat went dry, my tummy knotted. This man WANTS me. He wants me. MEEE!

For one second, I saw myself through his eyes. I stopped seeing pale hairy blubber. I started seeing manly bulk.

I felt sexy. I felt wanted. And that brings me to another place. A place I don’t get to visit often enough.

We hugged goodbye. It was lovely. A strong, manly, sexy hug.

We’d never get on. He waffles about work and about Nietzsche. He dissed both Justin Bieber and Lady GaGa. I can’t think of much I’d like to tell him.

But if he calls again, I’ll totally be there. I would still like him to do bad things to me. But he’s not staying for breakfast.

However, he’s more than served his purpose. I’m on Cloud 9. Fuck that. I’m on Cloud 18.

I’m going speed-dating tomorrow, and I still feel nervous. And I don’t believe I’m sexy, but a part of me does. For the first time in a very, very long time, a part of me feels attractive.

I came home, spontaneously singing, ejaculating joyful noises. And I came home to my own place. My own corner of the world. And I cooked myself a dinner. Because that’s who I am now. I’m a Connor that cooks. And I’m a Connor that’s losing weight. And I’m a Connor with sexy butterflies in my stomach and happy tears pricking my eyelids.

Good night. x

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