I couldn’t do that.

I couldn’t.

My table manners were terrible. I’d never been taught.

I sucked at conversation and therefore always ended up tongue-tied, silent, and beet red.

I cussed like a sailor.

My heart-shaped face was very pretty; I knew this. I’d been reminded of it frequently as I was growing up—no one wanted me to forget how blessed I was to have such a pretty face. My eyes were quite large and light brown, rimmed with thick lashes; I had a cute nose that suited my features; my cheekbones were high, my lips were full, and my chin ended in an adorable point.

Which was why my wardrobe consisted of black, gray, or brown pants, skirts, and tights as well as oversized black, gray, or brown sweaters.

I was trying to be wallpaper. This was purposeful. The clothes, my lack of makeup or hairstyle, my quiet and withdrawn demeanor were all typically sufficient to deter interest.

I stared at his phone in helpless panic—confused, horrified. I waited a beat for him to say, “Just kidding!”

But he didn’t. Instead, he lifted his gaze to mine. It moved over my face then back to my eyes—his were still easy and friendly—and I was paralyzed.

His smile widened. “You are too cute….” He said these words like he was talking to himself.

I started, flinched, my eyelashes fluttering at the unwelcome compliment, and I gave into the panic. Looking everywhere but at him, I darted into my apartment, saying lamely, “Uh, my phone is broken or needs repair or got lost, so I’ll just give you the number later, when it’s fixed or I find it. But it was really nice meeting you. Goodbye.”

And with that, I shut the door in Kurt’s face.

***

New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

March 8

If Sporty Spice married a hobbit, had a three-way with a leprechaun, and then gave birth to a sexy, bizarre baby (paternity unknown).

Guess who was spotted this week looking equal parts hot and ridiculous in every kind of synthetic fabric currently manufactured by the miracle of chemical engineering? None other than Colin Farrell (or his doppelgänger) down near the Village. Obviously, no one loves him. Friends don’t let friends dress like this (unless it’s cosplay or part of a bedroom role-play fantasy). If you take a look at the pictures above, you’ll certainly understand my horror at finding anyone willing to wear lime green Lycra and Speedo running shorts. The only explanation I can think of is that he was drunk (you know how those Irish enjoy their whiskey…and beer…and any and all alcohol).

I could have forgiven the spandex, but I can’t forgive the freaky feet. Toe-shoes are never okay. They’re weird and disturbing and really, really pretentious. And, as an aside, for those of you who are interested in looking like a hobbit, this particular brand of toe-shoe will set you back $635. That’s right! You too can look like a weird little man for the very low price of six hundred and thirty-five dollars!!! WTF?

Also, for the record, Colin needs to invest in a cup. Yes, I enjoy the occasional bulge, but this bulge was verging on concealed weapon status. If he continues to run around in these spandex shorts, he will only have himself to blame for the gropings. Goodness, if I’d been within arm’s reach, I definitely would have copped a feel. Amiright, ladies? You all know how I like my bangers and mash, and there’s nothing more Irish than sausage!

Booyah!

<3 The Socialmedialite

Chapter Two

Calories: 4,000.

Workout: 4.5 hours in total.

Eggs: Could go to my grave quite happily without ever seeing another one.

*Ronan*

I’d just finished doing fifty chin-ups when the phone started ringing.

And if that wasn’t the opening line of a narcissistic arsehole, then I didn’t know what was. I’d spent way too much time around privately educated, privileged rugby brats, and their ways had finally rubbed off on me.

At least I didn’t say I was getting my pump on.

Anyway, I’m not a narcissistic arsehole. However, I might be a bull-headed idiot with too short a fuse who lets his temper get the better of him when there just so happen to be paparazzi hanging about, but that’s a story for another day. Or you could go out and pick up a tabloid.

Yeah, I was going through a bitter patch, but I had every right. I was sick of my private life being splashed all over the papers. Somehow, I’d never connected the idea of being good at a sport with the possibility of becoming a “celebrity.”

I understood my role; I did my best for my league and for the sport. I knew what rugby needed from me, and I wasn’t planning on letting anyone down. But if there was one thing I hated in this world, it was people who wrote about other people’s personal lives for a living. Those people could all do with taking a dive off a very high building, in my opinion.

You see, bitter.

Picking up a towel, I wiped the sweat from my neck then went to pick up the phone. My little sister Lucy’s face was flashing on the screen which made me less hesitant to answer. I thought it might be my publicist, Sam, with some new instructions on how I could clean up my public image, and I was in no mood for that shite.

“Luce, how’re you doing?” I said as I held the phone to my ear and looked out at the Manhattan skyline before me. Some people might have been well up for living in a penthouse apartment in the center of New York, and yeah, it was my choice to come here; but I hadn’t anticipated there would be nowhere to drive. Driving was one of the only things that kept me sane. Me and my 1969 Chevy Camaro and the open road. No stress, just miles and pure freedom. Ah, that was the life.