Say you met at a party. He was nice, you were reserved as you always are but flashed him some smiles, and soon you caught him looking at you with what he probably thinks is flirtation. Someone should tell him that these half-opened eyes might seem a little creepy to girls. Anyways, he followed you outside when you left and asked for your number and you thought it was only polite to give it to him.
So far, so simple.
The next morning, you woke up to a late text, saying : Have a good night and sweet dreams!
You screenshot the text and send it to your best friend. You respond. And that’s when the trouble begins. 

….but sadly, those people who made us reluctant to check Facebook have successfully configurated another social media account. We all recognized them with fear as we were innocently scrolling down our feed, and I have taken the time to list them for you to strategically unfollow:

That person who puts the hashtag “bacardi” in the caption when there clearly is no bacardi in sight. Only him and his Ralph Lauren polo shirt which probably was on sale.

The guy who seems to be in labor. An unfamiliar sight. Or maybe he is crinkling his forehead and squinting for a deeper reason I am unable to see because I simply am not swag enough.

The girl who pulls off a duckface like she is freaking serious. There’s a grim determination in her face which scares me, because her golden gladiator stilettos look as if they could serve as a weapon just fine.

The girl who poses next to her new BMW convertible as well as her boyfriend who seems to have the same purpose, i.e. give her something to brag about. Hashtags in this case are “ootd” and “everythingblack” - she obviously hasn’t read Anna Wintours answer to “what would you never wear?”.

Leading to the most common species to watch out for: All those people who mix up the meaning of hashtags with the meaning of captions. Maybe actual words are outdated, #but #it’s #SO #annoying #likeforlikesorsomethingequallystupid.

Short but sweet, these have been the most unpleasant discoveries for me so far. If you’ve been deeper into the jungle and have seen worse, please warn me.

Love,
Rosy Smith

….long before midnight. At nine o’clock, precisely. And while we’re at it we might as well mention that there were three damsels in distress at the ball, which was actually a concert.
This tragic tale started when an orange flyer (should’ve known by then that it’d all end with a pumpkin) announced the event where that one sweet band guy (remember him?) was going to play. With his band, but who cares.
So I grabbed my two lovelies and put on a decent outfit which didn’t seem too dressed-up, a rust-colored miniskirt and a tucked in black shirt, black nylons and boots. We left our Kingdom and made our way dooown to the Lower East Side, having to walk about a mile from the Subway station to some tiny little church where the Church Rock Night was about to take place.
As we arrived, we took a look, saw that there were a lot of old people and really small benches, and turned around because of the shock. We had to take a Starbucks recovery across the street. But since I took the risk of getting caught there for a reason, I insisted on going back in. Of course, it had already begun. Which shouldn’t have been a problem-it was a concert, after all, a rock concert even-however, every single person in the room judgementally glared at us as we made our way to some free seats. So much for not getting caught.
We sat on the wooden bench in silence and listened to the first act for some time, then we naturally began to whisper-and I mean whispering as in “uttering words under our breath, barely noticable”. Somebody tapped on my shoulder. I turned around to face a middle-aged woman with an angry expression, hissing at us that we, and I am qouting here, should “go to the playground if we wanted to talk”.
Excuse me? I just stared at her blankly because I felt unable to comprehend the impertinence she had, telling us to stop talking during a freaking ROCK CONCERT where the music clearly was loud enough to swallow the sound of our tiny voices, what with the SPEAKERS and MICROPHONES and whatnot. We turned back around, completely taken aback. Writing on our phones, we shared our infuriation and decided to leave this barren place immediately. I felt really bad for making my friends come: I also didn’t want them to put up a serious fight with the rude lady. So, sacrificially as I am, I stood up to leave when the break was announced-and felt those judgemental glares (what is even up with all that? It was a church, after all, there should not be any judging) on me again. Way to make an impression, I’d say.
How was I supposed to know that the host had prepared a speech? Besides, it wasn’t even funny, it was chauvinistic. And it lasted way too long. We practically ran out of the room when it was finally over, eager to leave the place of humiliation. As I looked over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t lose my lovelies, I caught my band guy coming after us, so I walked a little faster.
And that’s how our three heroines ended up sitting at a bus stop in the East Village, laughing hysterically so we wouldn’t have to cry about our ruined evening. Due to the lack of civilisation in form of taxis, we took the public transportation home and had to go on a long walk through Sheep Meadow to feel ourselves again.
See, there’s no prince at the end of this story, because I am way too fond of my shoes to leave them behind. And I bet the good fairy never told Cinderella to keep her mouth shut at the ball. Because that’s not gonna get you anywhere.
In this spirit,
Love,
Rosy Smith