To Catch A Forever Girl

Big Tits and Understatements

Have you ever walked away from a fight only to realise that calling your best friend a, 'crack whore,' in front of her mum probably wasn't the best idea? Sorry Phoebe.

Have you ever lay awake wondering why your sister told Danny Greenhall you liked him eight years ago in front of his boyfriend? Don't lie, you and I both know.

Have you ever regretted letting someone go?

Because if you haven't, you're about to.

The phrase, 'forever girl,' began to circulate within my social group about... 6 years ago? When Isaac texted me that this, 'hot piece of ass,' he devoured at the drive-thru two nights before would definitely be his type of forever girl if she could see past her tits. Then when Will decided that Kaylee Anderson would definitely let him copy her science paper because 'she's a total forever girl,' not that, that was something I would understand.

But I knew.

Please, I knew before they could unhook a bra one handed.

They saw it as nothing more than another one of their lines. They all did. All, except one, maybe two. But I knew it was so much more than sex machines and science sheets.

In their hormone-induced minds, I was too wrapped up in Uni applications to know or care what a forever girl was, and besides, I wasn't the qualifying type, was I? A sarcastic little bitch like me? Who were they kidding? I mean, was I the type of girl who would pluck their eyebrows, had huge tits and didn't mind when they picked their noses? Because as far as they knew, no. I wasn't. Why waste time grafting a budding crazy cat lady when they could lapse in the attention of the sexually loose or desperate?

I was in the background. I was unexpected. And that was how I liked it.

So when my cousin told me that Arthur Moore had made a comment at the library that dying my hair red made me look more like a prostitute than a forever girl, to say I was bewildered was an understatement. Believe you me he didn't know jack shit, I made sure of that, but the fear I inhaled that moment shook me to the core.

There and then, whilst sprawled upon her sofa, binge watching Skins, I pledged my allegiance to research: I would find out whatever the fuck they thought a forever girl really was and end this. I scoured my sources; Tumblr-bound as I was, until a link to Urban Dictionary managed to inform me further.

At first, I was speechless.

Then torn between a wild mixture of disgust and hysteria.

'When you have a girlfriend that doesn't totally suck. She is better than all of them other hoes, and she'd suck your dick any time of the day. Last but not least, a forever girl will always be your main bitch, no matter what! #blowjob'

"Oh, boys." I shook my head violently. For near-enough college graduates, they were somehow thicker than Maisie Lee's padded bras which was saying something... and that was the problem - saying something. All was well. They knew nothing. But far too much had been said.

With little left to take and much to give, I left. I left the suburbia, in the hopes that whilst I was away playboys would actually learn how to play the game before they got burnt. Game's no fun for the dealer if you play the American average, so when the deck was presented to me I flung my cards. If you don't play, you can't lose... But you can't win either, and I am not one for drawing.

Through the following years, I grew in my disgrace and perspective, and I was worshipped. The playboys lived for it; feasting upon the idea of me, other women like me, other men like me, but never learned their lessons. There were things that blinding city lights and motorcycles could teach you that Skins and Urban Dictionaries simply couldn't. And still, they had no clue. Not an inkling.

After 5 years, they were still bluffing about Jokers when I held the Ace. It was time to deal with my own deck. It was time to head on home for my final intervention.

Smile and wave boys, because I'm going to teach you how to chase, catch and keep any forever girl. Just not this one.