i'm scared of everyone.

On Saturday night, I went out in Glasgow with some lovely German people and some lovely French people. (I wore my Cat Shoes and they nearly broke my heart, never mind my ankles. I have blisters the size of planets on the soles of my feet. Beautiful shoes though.) We first hit Walkabout where a pint of Strongbow was £1.80 with the student discount. While the seven of us sat awkward and sober for a while, my housemate, Julia, and I observed the cute boys that were hanging about looking sexy and Scottish (or is that a paradox?). She wanted me to talk to go over and talk to some of them but I point-blank refused. I wouldn't even dream of talking to an attractive boy while I was in any way sober. (The only exception to this unwritten rule is if I'm in class and I have to ask a good-looking boy about course-work or something. Sometimes when I was selling strawberries by the side of the road, an attractive male would stop on his feet or in his car and I'd have to talk to him and it would be painful because I wouldn't be wearing any make-up and my natural facial expression is a frown, if not a grimace.)

In Walkabout though, I started thinking about why I didn't want to go over and initiate a conversation with those boys. I reasoned it was because I was fat and self-conscious of this (which is true, except when I'm eating chicken or crisps or cheese – then I don't care), but then I thought, If I was skinny, I still wouldn't want to talk to those boys. So what is it? It's that age-old, dreadfully boring excuse: fear of rejection. Why risk it? Why risk what little self-esteem I have when I can easily, if not happily, sit here and drink cider and pretend that I have no sexual organs? Acting as though I'm cold and dead inside isn't nearly as fun as kissing a cute boy but it's a hell of a lot better than inebriated tears because no one fancies me. Inebriated tears? I've been there. It's not classy. (Actually, I'm not one for class – anyone who knows me is well aware of this – but I desperately want people to like me, and crying on nights out because you think you're ugly is a sure fire way to alienate yourself: nobody likes a crybaby.)

I avoid eye contact with attractive boys (unless I'm being very brave). In fact, I avoid eye contact with everyone, depending on what we're talking about. If you're telling me about yourself or you're telling me a story, I'll look at you. If I'm revealing something about myself, I just can't. If I'm telling a joke, I won't look at you. It's because I'm scared of other people's reactions but I want to act as though I don't care. I won't look at you when I tell a joke because if you don't laugh, it's okay because I didn't care anyway. I wasn't looking at you so that must mean that I wasn't bothered either way – it was a blasé, off-hand sort of thing. I wonder if I'm convincing anyone? Well, not anymore, obviously.

In any case, a real life boy kissed me in Glasgow at three in the morning and I didn't even have to make much eye-contact. He was a good kisser. The moral of the story? I'm still a mess of a girl.