There’s this theory. That you rate yourself out of 10 and then you can date people two points either above or below that figure. My friend, my rugby playing, non-emotional, beer drinking brother-like friend recently told me I am an eight. I laugh awkwardly and sip my coffee, then think about all the guys I have ever dated. What were they? He asks me about my recent romantic endeavour, one in which the guy eventuated into a drug mule and chlamydia carrier. Undoubtedly ending in disaster.
“Was he hotter than you?”
“What? Hotter? I don’t know. You met him, he was cool,” I said. Ish. Cool-ish.
“He was definitely not as hot as you,” he said. And I sat and thought about it, wondering if it was vain to agree or not, and was that weird.
“I don’t get it, aye,” he said, after I told him about…
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