Another Sunday, another day filled with regret, crushing guilt and calls for help to my mother and best friend. Such is life.

This week started off fine, lots of applying for jobs that I don’t want, grooming men on the internet and consuming my weight in saturated fats, as standard. I planned an old skool all day drinking session and night out with my best friend Amy. Me & Aims (or Titty McEverest, Double E, Lake Areola or whatever big breasted related name I’m calling her this week) met in sixth form when we became united by a burning hatred for most other people in our year and a love for bad nu-metal music. She was a nice, normal girl when I met her, living in Saintfield so she didn’t get out much. I ruined her. I took her out in Belfast, fed her beer until she was falling asleep under tables in the Limelight or climbing into bed with my little brother. My favourite memory of a night out with Amy was when she drank a bottle of wine and a half bottle of white label vodka before leaving the house, threw up on the doormans shoes while waiting in the queue for the Limelight before brushing the vomit splats off her tits and swanning on past him and into the bar. My hero.

Anyway, Thursday we started drinking gin & tonics at about 4pm, by 7pm we were falling over ourselves and declaring how we’d always love eachother and be there to pull eachothers babies out of our cooches and stuff. Beefeater gin is 47% dun know. After terrorising my brother and his 3 friends for half an hour, we danced in my bedroom to hits such as ‘Hotel’ by Cassidy, ‘Never Leave You – Uh Oooh Uh Oooh’ by Lumidee and my personal favourite, ‘Home Alone’ by R Kelly. Amy asked the taxi driver what his favourite brand of coleslaw was which progressed into us screaming abuse about man mayo. Shoulda got him to turn around and take us home there & then really.

We went to Sketchy, which is a club full of school kids but Rigsy always drops Jay Z and Ghostface for me so I’ll always have love. We were behaving as we usually do, dancing inappropriately, trying to do the dutty wine, bunking the queue at the bar by touching men in the gouche and drinking Hennessy, thinking we were ghetto supastars. A lot of our male friends were there who we take out with us to supervise and make sure we don’t get ourselves shot or knocked up or nuthin. We realised we’d had a bit much and Amy had already been punched in the tit by some blokes angsty girlfriend, so we called it a night and came back to my house to spoon eachother to sleep.

Friday morning came around, I struggled to get my mascara glued eyes open and made sure Amy was up for work – anyone who had a burrito from Boojum on Friday would’ve been wholly disappointed with its quality. After about 20 minutes, I discovered a big shiny ring on my finger that I didn’t have before. I figured the magpie in me had spotted it after some poor bint took it off to wash her hands and I pilfered it. Then…then things started flooding back. One of my male friends taking me to the side and telling me how great I am (he was right), how beautiful I am (he was right), how funny I am (he was right) and how I’m gonna grow up into a really great woman (he was so wrong). Then the “we’re such good friends and you deserve better, I think we should get married” came back. Now the problem is, I ask men to marry me on nights out ALL the time. They rarely say yes. The fact that the tables had turned and my lovely little friend - who is pro-bmx and has some sort of hookups that could keep me in free rum for life – had proposed to me obviously made me squeal with excitement, roll around on the floor in a fit of manic laughter and say “yeah bruv we can get married, but only if I can wear a gold lamé leotard at the wedding” (true story) before going to buy a celebratory shot of Jagermeister.

After a conversation with Amy, it was confirmed that I was engaged, to my friend who I had never so much as groped in public let alone been on a date with, he had been totally serious and we had celebrated with a bowl of pasta and hotsauce when we got home. This was a new low. Although I did have a bloody huge diamond on my hand that Lil Kim would’ve been well jelz of.

After an hour or so of mental torture, lying in bed in the foetal position and repetitive whimpering, I decided to man up and go call off my 12 hour engagement, armed with a sheepish look on my face and a caterpillar cake, cause caterpillar cake solves everything innit. I explained as best I could that as much as I really love my little friend, I didn’t wanna marry him cause I didn’t like the idea of him ever seeing my fanny in anything other than a non-comedic scenario. Oh, and that I just didn’t think it was a good idea for him to throw his very good life away to try to save mine. I also asked where he got the dollar to buy me my super bling ring, when he told me it had belonged to his dead mother. Guilt. Burning, gut rot, crying inside hate myself and want to throw myself out his 4^th floor window guilt.

It wasn’t half as bad as it could’ve been though. He realised it was probably a bit extreme, gave me a proper telling off for havin such low standards and chasing men who are no good for me and will treat me bad cause they have daddy issues then gave me a hug and told me it was okay. We spent the rest of the day watching come dine with me and eating caterpillar cake, I analysed the smell of his armpits and stole one of his hats. Everything was right with the world again.