Where does a single girl stand these days when it comes to sex, dating and relationships? MyDaily's new columnist Alice White has a few ideas and she's not afraid to talk about them. First off, you know your ideal man? He's probably rubbish in real life...
When I was a little girl, my aspirational career wasn't to be a princess or astronaut. I dreamt of being a gravedigger. I had an unhealthy obsession with skeletons which is fitting because I'm pretty sure this new column will end up exposing all of mine.
Anyway, there was a beautiful graveyard where I grew up (the same graveyard I'd later spend my teenage years drinking litres of cider when I wasn't busy giving handjobs round the back of the library). In this graveyard was a house in the shape of an octagon. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. I dreamt one day I'd live in a house just like that while I tended to my graves.
Obviously, my life panned out a little differently but this did teach me about dreams and especially about giving up on men who are wrong for you. Or in this case story, wrong for anyone. A few years ago I met a man who invited me round to his for dinner. I arrived to find he had a rather unusual shaped home (you know where this is going, right?).
I phoned my mother in between blow jobs, "I've found it, I've found the kind of house I said I'd live in when I grow up!" I saw this as fate, a sign that I'd met the man of my dreams at such a young age. Well, I was young, he wasn't - first warning sign should've been that.
In time, he turned out to be a bit shitty to me. He put me down and compared me to other women he knew. I lost interest shortly after he talked about how my best feature was that I was "obtainable".
The last time I left his house I looked at the many, many corners (well, eight to be precise) of the old stone building and knew it would probably be the last coincidental chance I'd get to live in the house I'd grown up fantasing about, albeit it not being the country estate most little princesses dream of. He drove me home for the last time.
Of course, I could always buy my own octagon house. I hear women buy houses too, and tell jokes. Who knew? Maybe one day I will. I'd been, admittedly selfishly, romantising about my own childhood goals to the extent I'd thrown acid in my own eyes trying to blinker the misery of trying to achieve them.
So this is a message to all the little girls waiting for a knight in white shining armour to whisk them off to their castle. As soon as he says "maybe if you spent a bit more time on your hair", dismount that horse. Or in my case, get out that '89 Saab two blocks from your house because, for the love of God, if I'd have to have heard one more thing about his receptionist's push up bra, I would've been able to achieve my goals of putting someone in the ground.
LOVE THIS WRITER? Follow Alice on Twitter @alicewhitey.
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