Ugly Duckling.

I don’t like chocolate. I especially don’t like chocolate that’s been tainted with a questionable apology.

Let me explain. Last Thursday night was my first-ever official work “party” at some strange-ass Sausage Bar on King Street [I don’t mean sausages as in “there were a ton of penises there” although I’m sure there were just as many as there were vaginas] and it was probably only the second time I’ve been black-out drunk since I was 20.

The first being the time I decided to lure Mr.NB to the beach, dig a hole and then throw up in it. It’s a wonder he still continues to date me after some of the things I do, I swear.

So there I was, sipping rose wine [which I don’t even really like] and eating sausages made out of rabbits and kangaroos and fries cooked in duck fat, getting to the know my co-workers while everyone’s 3 litres deep in alcohol and having a blast.

Until this guy comes out of nowhere and tells me I’m ugly. 

Wait, what? Yeah. That happened.

I’m used to people not liking me. Hell, I’m used to people telling me I better start working out because my legs are looking a little hefty but in my entire life I’ve never had a complete stranger come up to me and for absolutely no reason, tell me he finds me unattractive.

And in case I didn’t hear it the first 2 times, the third time it came up in the less than 2 minute conversation we had, he mentioned that he realized I didn’t think I was ugly, but that in all seriousness, I was.

I can deal with constructive criticisms like, “Excuse me miss but your weave is sticking out of your hair” or “That shirt makes you look a bit on the preggers side” but I’m not a huge fan of being told I’m ugly when I’ve tried sufficiently hard to be the opposite. Mind you, I’m not a huge fan of dirty construction workers screaming “Hey sweet-ass, let’s fuck” at me [and every other girl on the street] either, so I guess maybe I’m just being picky. 

I can’t tell you a lot about what happened after this all happened. Photos that surfaced later involved individual cups of mint chocolate chip ice cream and break dancing, if that tells you anything.

And the next morning, after getting ready on my bathroom floor and wanting to die a little bit [read: a lot bit], I came to work to find a Jersey Milk chocolate bar and a note that said I was amazing….. from the guy who less than 12 hours prior had gone out of his way to call me ugly. 

TALK ABOUT MIXED MESSAGES!

I can’t really say I’ve ever bought into the “he’s mean to you because he likes you” school of thought. I’ve actually tried to stay away from advising my friends about this as well because throughout history, at least for me, the ones who have tormented me have actually, legitimately hated my guts.

Like the kid in public school who punched me in the shoulder blades, tried to run me over with his bike and muttered “I fucking hate you” under his breath when his father dragged him by his rat-tail over to my house to apologize to me.

I think the previous night’s comment and the note kind of cancel each other out, so that left me with a chocolate bar I immediately gave away. Chocolate riddled with confusion and unnecessary commentary on my appearance?

I think I’ll stick with Cherry Blasters and sticky notes on my mirror that tell me I’m pretty, just the way I am.