It is quite coincidental that, just before I left my room, I was thinking about precisely that: that I'd never got his name and vice versa. This is not to say that I didn't know what his name was; I heard one of his colleagues call him by his name once. Still, it seemed a bit odd that I've been seeing him almost every day for the past six weeks, way more than I see my friends, and yet I'd never formally introduced myself. Nonetheless, I thought he should ask me, just because, etc.
I must be psychic now, right? Or clairvoyant, or are they the same thing? He said his name is Matt, which I already knew but I just said, 'Nice to meet you.' While he was making my coffee, he said that my name is pretty special and asked where it's from.
'It's Chinese,' I said. 'But I'm not from China.'
'Where are you from then?'
Then he told me about his three-month Southeast Asian trip; train through Bangkok, Vietnam and Laos. He didn't stop by Singapore because it was too expensive. We made small talk about Australia where he said he lived for a year; he was there to 'improve' his coffee skills, he said after I asked if that was where he learned to make coffee. He shared my opinion about the blahness of Sydney. I was surprised that he didn't go to Melbourne, a.k.a. the centre of the world for coffee, considering what he does for a living.
It was a very pleasant chat. He's always so nice and friendly, and he's also really cute, so once again, I'm really happy that Fitzbillies opened across the road from my college.
I bitched to both John and Barry about the situation with the gross guy, and they both said that he was trying to make me jealous. They both said the same thing on separate occasions.
So either they are both wrong or the gross guy is really that immature and...well, gross. I was not jealous at all; I was just grossed out. Still, I debate with myself if it was more true that my ego was hurt or if my feelings were hurt, and it seemed that the correct answer was that the guise of my bruised ego was a cover for the hurt feelings. But then it occurred to me, why should I give a fuck? Gross Guy is fucked up and that's his problem. It's not my problem.
I suppose the whole experience was still a bit of a shock anyway. In my 30 years of existence, I'd never had someone do this to me: express interest for 24 hours and then demonstrate so blatantly the evaporation of the interest by flirting with somebody else right in front of me. Gross Guy is so lacking in self-awareness that he told me with a completely straight face that he's a gentleman. Um, news flash: real gentlemen don't treat women like shit. They don't tell a girl that they'd see her at some event and then not only ignore her at the event, but blatantly hit on someone else. Part of the reason I met him on Friday night was because I was curious to experience for myself the behaviour of someone like that (i.e. a complete, unrepentant flirt). Of course, I didn't bargain for this and I think no one sane, who hasn't had the misfortune of meeting someone like Gross Guy, would've predicted this. So it was indeed an eye-opening experience, and it reinforced all the reasons I have never been interested in going out with a flirt, and will never again do so.
Good luck to whoever he next cons into going over to his place. Thank goodness it's not me.
Barry was very amused when I told him, 'I'm so glad I didn't kiss him. If a guy wants to kiss me, he has to at least buy me dinner first!'
He laughed, said, 'So that's your price, then? A GBP12.95 dinner and then a kiss?'
Obviously, the point is, I will be taken out properly and I will be treated properly. If I am fixating on this Gross Guy shit, which will pale into insignificance by the end of the week, it is because hell truly hath known no fury like a woman scorned. Have I mentioned how grossed out I am? Because I really am fucking grossed out.
It is rather regrettable that I sullied the nice first part of this entry with the shitty second half. Well, at least Gross Guy is the exception and guys like Matt are the rule. Right?