Let's not even talk about ghosting in (sorta-)relationships. That's unnecessary, childish demeanour and we all know it. But I'm afraid that this sort of misbehavior has latched over to plain, platonic, friendly conversations, and to that I quote the great Stephanie Tanner: How RUDE!

See, sometimes in a girl's life, one feels a bit lonely, especially on certain holidays that are otherwise known as "celebration of love". And in that case, one evaluates their possibilities: Whom to text to get a little pick-me-up? Not every guy in the phone book is suitable for this occasion. The ones with real emotional attachment are too dangerous, as that might lead to further confusion of the heart and a great big case of the Christmas blues. The ones who have ghosted before simply do not deserve to be honored with an outreach at this mushy time of the year. Which leaves us with the one category you hadn't managed to screw up yet: The Friendly Platonic.

The Friendly Platonic is someone who maybe sorta likes you in a non-platonic way but never did anything about it, and whom you like enough to not be totally appaled by the thought of him doing so sometime in the future. It is totally innocently fine to text him first, 'cause you haven't become involved in any texting games yet, and it provides just the dash of excitement and attention you need during this gloomy patch of yours.

It's nice. It's harmless. It's a bit awkward, for that matter, but it's only smalltalk.
Until he asks a nice, harmless, slightly awkward question and then fails to respond to your answer. He reads it, but the day goes by without a follow-up, and then another day, and by now the conversation is basically slandered forever and you are fuming and cursing this poor, friendly guy. And that's because basic rules of common courtesy have been set out of works by all the millenial-textinggame-crap that's out there. It has clogged our natural reaction pipes and fogged our minds and tricked us into thinking we have to have the upper hand in every last two-line exchange. I hate it with passion and fury and at the same time I know that it only affects me so much because I'm getting such a kick out of it myself, when it's playing out nicely for me, that is.

So here I am, a week or so later, in my kid's pyjama's at eleven pm, reading Dolly Alderton's "Everything I know about love" (which, by the way, is another work I'll add to the names I confusingly drop when trying to paint a picture of what I want to do with my newfound graduate status, all while talking so fast no one can follow along so they just assume I have a plan), annoyed with all guys and myself while I'm at it. See, New Year's went by as of today, and I am pausing my read to reevaluate the "Whom can I text on Christmas Day"-question that has turned into the "All the boys who did not wish me a happy new year and why"-saga. Obviously, I did not worry about that at the appropriate time of midnight on the 31st because I was in lovely company in a velvet nineties dress and sparkly tights, looking forward to mousse au chocolat. No, this is for the gloomy first days of January when your new year new me plan is not exactly kicking off to a quick start because you're still binging Christmas candy.

Anyways, see, now, not only do the "attached emotion" and the "currently not talking to me" options fail to surprise. The Friendly Platonic has not redeemed himself by saying "oh wow I got sidetracked, but happy new year doll, maybe we shall meet again soon, would certainly hope so" (please note my oh so visible attempt of a British accent). Well, his loss. I would have dead-on swooned about that for weeks to come.

Get this, lovelies. After getting worked up about the swooning I missed out on I was just over here scrolling through particularly nice messages from the "currently not talking to me" guy, reminiscing about a time when I would stay up until two chatting, get up at six, not eat all day and then meet him in my skimpiest workout clothes to make him text me again after hours (honestly, I know how that sounds, but I assure you it was fun), and whose name pops up as soon as I switch back into online mode (I don't like to see people online while I'm stalking my own conversation with them)? Yeah, indeed.

Am I supposed to wish him a happy new year back or call him out on how firstly, it's the second day of the year so really, it's old news to me, and secondly, how dare he ignore my "you up" text for the whole of  December and then try and slide that past me with a half-effed smiley face and a little fireworks emoji? Or does he want to make a move on me again?

Okay, maybe it isn't a clear indication that he wants to make a move on me again. It's not the "you have every right to be mad" speech he pulled off last time. But it's not like you have to wish someone you ghosted a happy new year. I certainly wouldn't do that. It's a bit much on the false sense of moral, even for him. Also, today is probably the last day you could use new year's wishes as an excuse to randomly contact someone (and ignoring their "you up" text in an elegant fashion): Not doing it around midnight could be due to heavy drinking and other people priorities, not doing it on the 1st due to the hangover and other people priorities still being at your place. So.

 It's been 45 minutes and I still haven't decided if/when/what to text him. Two of my friends are dealing with January troubles of sorts that do not call for unsolicited screenshots and me retelling my whole tale of why I still think it's a good idea to talk to someone they repeatedly claimed to despise. My loveliest friend is probably working and not looking at her phone; also, she very definitely despises him as well. Still, I can't be left unsupervised with this.

I hope you've had lots of cute texts from people you actually love, and if not, here's mine to you: Have a magical new year!!

Love,

Rosy Smith

....you know, the kind guys wear to parties to make it look like they tried at least a bit to get dressed up even though they're essentially only wearing a jeans and a tshirt. But let's face it, it's not a bad style. Unless you're bad looking. In that case a leather jacket probably wouldn't change that. But let's not get judgy and off-topic.

Those jackets do not only spice up a guy's outfit, they also serve in the process of picking up girls. Imagine this: A party in the middle of a chilly April with fireworks at midnight, you wearing a short black dress with bare shoulders and a boy who's been the only one left sitting with you having that obligatory jacket on. He's walking behind you as you step into the breathtakingly cold air and in the corners of your eyes, you notice him taking off his jacket; good for you, as he's now about to wrap it around your shoulders.
What you think: Great, at least I won't be freezing to death.
What he thinks: Great, now she and I are an item for the night.

So, when you hug the birthday boy you're holding on to that jacket so it doesn't slide down, and its owner is standing next to you as you watch the fireworks, and when the cake is cut you walk up the stairs together and sit down with your legs touching, and when he has his arm 'round your back you're beginning to think it might have been crucial to mention that you kinda, almost, sorta are in a relationship. And that it might be a bit awkward if you go "well that's funny 'cause my boyfriend said the same thing the other night" when you're standing outside while he has a cigarette, wearing his jacket again. So you try not to stray too far from the crowd in order to not technically be alone with him because in a movie, he would try to kiss you, and movies are evidentially a reliable source for all things concerning boys.

See how that damn leather jacket blew everything out of proportion? You were simply trying to have a good time and a nice chat with someone who happened to sit next to you because you didn't know anyone else at that party, and suddenly the girls are giving you suggestive looks and the guys are closing doors behind you "to leave you alone". It's like he's put a button in your ear or a brand sign on your butt or something. It's not very feminist. And it's definitely annoying.

After living with that realization for about an hour filled with conscious scooting to the side and keeping your eyes on the floor, it's time to go home. So you leave and decide to avoid every body contact by clumsily waving at everyone within a five mile radius and basically running out of the room, your heels way too loud on the wooden stairs. Then, you bump into your host, and you hug him goodbye because he is the sweetest, and then he's all like "Let's do something soon" and you're all happy, and then he clears his throat and looks a bit uncomfortable and asks: "What was going on between the two of you, anyways? Is there something going on?" And you want the floor to open beneath your feet, because the only thing more embarrassing than getting accused of hooking up with a random stranger who's also a friend of the host whose birthday it is is actually being guilty of doing so. And it doesn't really make things better when you state that the reason why you're demonstratively saying "NO NOTHING AT ALL" is that you kinda, almost, sorta, are in a relationship. Because now, people aren't only confused but also alienated. And you really liked that birthday boy.

Take my advice, lovelies, and refuse to take the leather jacket. Except if you're trying to get the guy (or, at least, wouldn't mind it too much).

Love,

Rosy  Smith

....and there's me on the street listening to Sparks Fly VERY loudly and pretending to walk down a T-stage, only that it's 8 am and way too dark to see anything resembling a spark.

I swear, I was on lovesong-level zero a few nights ago, seeing as somebody changing his hair can make me loose all interest I ever had in being the love of their lives (proving once again my unbelievable personal depth). At least I thought so for about three hours, and the worst thing is, I was actually fine with it. Usually, as you might know, I get seriously disappointed when I realize that my latest affections were given to the way somebody carries their jeans and quickly disappear as soon as they change into a bermuda. It's always a little sad to find out it obviously wasn't the real deal, once again. However, this time I just thought: Alright, saves me some complications during finals (what have they done to me, here I am, being reasonable).

I mean, it's not okay that your hair grows longer than mine does within three months. (Relative to one another of course. I can't tolerate long long hair, that's just....no.) It's not only unfair, it's against the rules. The rules, if you're wondering, include not getting a tattoo, nose job, or new haircut while I'm crushing on you, 'cause that's interfering with my imaginary feelings. Sorry if this isn't very comprehensible, but it all made sense to me around 4 am that night.

The thing is - and here goes my issue - that I actually think I got over the hair. Devastating, isn't it? Me, the girl who will scratch your name from her diary if you blow your nose in her presence. I know. My loveliest friend suggested that there is always some kind of backleash after you've not seen somebody for a while and went totally crazy for them in your head. Because after the first shock, you remember why you sorta kinda liked them in the first place, and remember how sweet they were, looking down at you and making sure you find a seat and smiling that little smile that can keep you up for hours wondering if they're an annoyingly, adorably polite person or if they like you just a little, little bit in a way that makes them, too, go....

....well, damn.

Not much to add here.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Def: “The table drummers, the fitting jeans-carriers, the ones with the nice haircut and headphones dangling from their shirtnecks, the ones with the guitarist wrists and lullaby voice and the kind of thoughtfulness that’s necessary to write a song but also enough self-confidence and humor to be thrilling onstage. Easy to fall for, hard to catch alone (and single).”

So, I wrote this totally validable definition of band guys for the world to treasure and teach their children back in 2013. The reason for that's been that I'd been crushing on one of them at that time....and reminiscing about it, almost all of the boys I've ever been into have been members of that species.

No.1, front man of this group which was, like, the rock band of our school. He was the designated hearthrob and I've mentioned him quite a few times 'cause hell I had it bad for him. The first time I've ever seen him, without surprise, had been on stage, when he sang his heart out to a cover version of "Through Glass" by Stone Sour. I'm still in love with that song. You should've seen how he held on to the mic holder when he hit the high notes. Isn't that what a girl's dreams are made of?

No.2, somebody who wasn't even in a band, nor was he especially attractive (putting it the nice way), but he played the piano sometimes and I was always "coincidentally" hanging around there, trying to share deep glances with him to classical music. It was so awful.

No.3, a cute boy-next-door type who was nice and thoughtful and jokey and probably wouldn't have been of any interest to me at all if he hadn't had his own band and wrote his own songs and recorded this demo and stuff. I was infatuated with - or let's call it fascinated by -  his passion for words and music, just like mine, and he had some pretty good tunes, and when he played the guitar and got all absent-minded, I thought we shared something deep.
Gosh, we would've been SO BAD together.

No.4, a lovely, lovely guy I've met this summer. He was so right about so many things. And he was not right for me in so many ways. But he had a guitar, and he had such a great taste in music, and we could talk about it for so long, and he took such great interest in my taste in music, and we made music together, and something about the way he looked at me when he played just made me very happy.

That's it so far. Let's see if there'll be more band guys crossing my path. Until then, tell me about the ones you met!

Love,

Rosy Smith

....So, it's summer, the days are hot and the nights are long and perfect for going out. This is why this time of the year is also called dating season (not sure that's official, but it should be). But, as it is a cruel, cruel world which is so unlike The Notebook most of the time, it's not all fun and games. In fact, my loveliest friend and I came to the conclusion that in between all the horrible scenarios and faux-pas that could happen, it is a very rare phenomenom if a date actually isn't bad. However, a girl can dream, right? That's why I am going to tell you about a truly perfect date and you are going to sit back and relax and enjoy the story like a nice little fairytale and imagine that you're the main character....

It starts with him calling you unexpectedly. You have met before, but he didn't say he was gonna call, and you didn't really think he was gonna call, and you were perfectly fine with having spent some time with such a nice person without having to wonder when he is gonna call or if he is ever going to do so or if he just said it to be polite or if you shouldn't dare to think somebody's actually gonna call you. No, you are contently sitting at home doing something irrelevant, when the phone rings and he's there and he says that he was wondering if you wanted to go out with him some time. He knows this lovely small restaurant down by the river you've never been to and you say that you'd like that, because of course, you're very happy that he asks 'cause honestly, deep down you have hoped that he'd call- you do want to see him again, as soon as possible. Tomorrow?, he asks, which is flattering. You pretend to check your calender, though ("never be needy" has basically been etched into your brain forever) and he says he'll pick you up in his car (I'm warning you, I'm a sucker for the old-school act) and that he's looking forward to it and after you hang up, you call your best friend, because duh. Let the outfit choosing begin....

Cut to the next day. You're looking effortlessly pretty in your favorite new red summer dress (choose your own color) and some light heeled sandals. Your hair has been totally cooporative and smoothly flows past your shoulders, you have not put out your eyeball with the mascara wand and your lipstick doesn't make you look like a total slut. He's there at 6 sharp and you're ready on time (this is the point where it gets utopic), so you just grab your bag and float out the door. If he's a real gentleman, he's brought some simple white flowers, but that's not a must seeing as it might be a bit too much thought for a first date with somebody you haven't known for long. Anyways, to speed it up a little, you have a fun drive out of the city and the restaurant lies next to a sparkling river and has a terrasse with a table for two under a scenic pavillon and there's fresh flowers in simple glass vases and candles on the table, but they don't get in the way while you're eating your rice which doesn't get everywhere and is easy to swallow and you are having a truly inspiring conversation about literature highlighted with some funny anectodes from your childhoods, but not the emberrassing ones which involve nudity, but the cute ones which show how bright you've always been. The topic of food is not being brought up (see, N?) and when the check comes, he takes it before you can even think about the right way to ask who is gonna pay how much.

You leave the restaurant but it's still so beautiful outside what with the obligatory sunset and everything and you both still want to enjoy each other's company (although none of you has to ask if the other one would rather go home, that would be too awkward) so you take a stroll along the river and talk about really existential things, but so jolly and freely that it isn't too weird and involves a lot of laughter, and somehow, he takes your hand without you even really noticing. Scratch that, you obviously notice and get way too excited about it, but no sweaty hands occur, you just smile up at him in that "I know you like  me but I'll pretend I don't know but just so you know, I know, and I like it, I might even like you too"- way, and you'll both be confident in your mutual affection and able to relax and have fun. Then, you'll drive home in some kind of giddily tenseness, because when you're home, the well-known question is going to come up....Is he going to kiss you?

But since this is THE perfect date, you're not fussing over it, you simply let him walk you up to your front door, there'll be an epicilly romantic/funny, whatever you prefer, two-liner and he'll lean in to kiss you, and it'll be awesome and lovely and passionate but not slobbery, heaven forbid. After you finally untangel, he'll ask you when he might see you again and you say, soon, and he'll say he'll call you and he will, this time expectedly, and you'll go to sleep in a daze of amazement, bearing the knowledge you just experienced a honestly perfect date.

Sweet dating dreams, lovelies,

Love,

Rosy Smith

....100 tips to get the guy you want. 35 irresistible flirt lines. 12 hairstyles that get them going. Whatever, you name it. Long lists of two-liners explaining that it's a safe thing to make somebody fall in love with you by spritzing some perfume into your hair. I'd say the only thing safe here is that you'll need more shampoo next time you shower.

Because seriously, lovelies, have any of these tips ever stood up to your expectations when it came to reality? Not for me, I have to say. And I do understand, seeing as I, too, wouldn't exactly crush on somebody who ran into me on purpose to show how adorably awkward he is. Or somebody who happened to wear the same color as me. I mean, if I hit on every black-clothed person around me, I'd have a problem with nymphomania.

Moving on to the actual flirting techniques suggested, a spontanous text saying "I'm getting a milk shake, wanna come join me?" may sound like a nice thing to do, but every real girl who has ever texted somebody they liked knows the serious struggle that already comes with simply waiting for a reply, let alone the psychic horror of contemplating whether or not he'd come to meet you in color and 3D! Would anybody dare to take the risk of sitting in a diner all by yourself and crying into your milkshake while you read his answer: "Sorry, busy 2day"? If so, then you're braver than all of us.

What else? Oh, yeah, I'm dying to know how exactly one should manage to play with a strand of hair while keeping your hands still and trying to "accidentally" touch his arm (right, 'cause I slightly brush along my speaking partners elbow all the time, it just happens), gazing at him from below but looking away often to appear mysterious and aloof. I bet it's going to be an especially mysterious sight when my fingers get tangled in a big knot in my hair and I can't fix it because I've gotten some mascara in my eye ("for a seducing look") from all the upward glancing.

But the worst thing, which sadly comes up in EVERY SINGLE ONE of these kind of articles is the completely pointless and contradictory sentence: "Just be yourself".
How, pop culture, fashion and teen magazines, how can you think that a girl who reads this particular piece of advice, who is desperately searching for a step-by-step manual on how to finally get this stupid guy who never does to notice her, would ask for you to tell them there is nothing else to do but simply "being"? This is not about finding inner peace and confidence! Why on earth should we read your tips if we could handle it all by ourselves?

Sure, I'm not saying you shouldn't be yourself. In fact, real love is probably never ever going to be something we can force on us or anybody else by wearing dangly earrings. My point today, however, is that while those "48 dating rules" etc. are fun to read and try, they sometimes really lack the originality needed to at least appear serious.

But hey, since I currently can't give you any sensible optional guidance either (I'm a writer, not a wizard), I'd suggest you smile a lot, but not always at him, and let the rest come naturally....It might actually happen.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Ps: Disclaimer: I'm definitely not pleading innocent when it comes to putting my hope into these things. That's why I'm allowed to make fun of them.