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Mossy Brackets: The Mossy Prophecy

Everything Mossy writes is becoming true! Shit is getting real, and our sex blogger is not sure that's a good thing. Is this the beginning of the end for Miss Brackets?

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Film still: Femina redins

We’re getting to that time of year when even the most sassy Berlin vagina gets sick of doing monologues, i.e. the air gets chilly and the entire city quickly finds itself set round the hour at cuddle o’clock. And thus just when I thought I had it all: I meet a beautiful German DOCTOR who works for an INTERNATIONAL AID ORGANISATION helping the vulnerable in the likes of Haiti and this is actually what my ZzzzZZZzzzz BORING FANTASIES are made from. The ideal winter cuddle bubble!

And then he drops that he is being sent to Syria of all places. Like is Syria’s role right now to just endanger the lives of eligible guys or what? Like it was a terrible way for the world to realise, but was James Foley not the hottest thing ever? Obviously the fact that he was super kind and noble factored into this. And I know you’re not meant to say that people who’ve just been executed were really sexy even if I can’t quite understand why. Let’s just pretend I didn’t say it. But then this shocking realisation dawns on me. I get an awakening that perhaps the Mossy despisers out there will relish: I have become the Delphic Dating Oracle, pre-ordaining my own fate of deadly dating disasters! My silly blog is coming true!

The frightening realisation came at the end one of those aimless autumn promenades, a romantic Herbstspaziergang with a new BFF pondering my meaningless hipster existence. Almost upon my doorstep a man walking just ahead of me whips around to meet my gaze straight-on.

It was one of those arrestingly intense moments of recognition that could only belong to an estranged ex-lover. This was a guy – German, should it matter – with whom I’d had an intense love affair four years ago. Before I go on, I should add that he broke up with me not just via SMS, but via an SMS after three hours waiting in the snow for him to help me move apartments stranded with a Robben & Wientjes van that I couldn’t drive. As I was desperately scrambling to find someone else, he wrote that he wouldn’t be coming to help because he’d gone out the night before, met someone else and couldn’t get out of bed with her. I thereby christened him with the spirit animal of scorpion: VERY mean at the end. (I am also a scholar in the assignment of spirit animals, so unless you wanna end up an axolotl, do not mess with Mossy B.) I arrived that day to my new WG with distraught tears dripping down my face, arms full of my boxes of fluff, wondering what other horrors my first Berlin winter would have in store for me. Hope you’re getting your Schadenfreude on, my loves.

Fast forward back to current day Awkward Encounters of The Very Awkward Kind: standing on my street with the snow-move-no-show. I don’t know if he was being a jerk ,or whether he was kinda out of it, but he seemingly pretended to forget my name, then followed with, “Oh yes, of course, I remember you.”

“Oh, you do?” I say, hackles vaguely up, not wanting to let this guy upset me so long after the fact.

Luckily I was in top form with a true comrade by my side, a belly full of mediocre Vietnamese and freshly applied lipstick.

“So have you been in Berlin this entire time… since…?” He kinda seems kinda genuine now, maybe remembering my quiet, dignified death when he stood me up so cruelly.

“Yeah, mostly,” I reply. “Actually, on this street. That’s my place just across there,” pointing to my front door.

Then, remarkably casually, he says, “Well, that’s good to know. I’m living in the hospital at the end of your street.”

As in the head hospital, ladies and gentlemen. The tracksuit pants he was wearing and the Späti plastic bag of crisps and bottle of Mezzo Mix in his hand suddenly illuminating this awkward exchange of information. I said that I hoped that worked out well for him, which sounded trite but I did really mean it.

Continuing to walk down the canal with my friend, we debriefed on what had just happened.

“Didn’t you just write a blog about dating mentally ill people…”

“And didn’t you just write a blog about wanting to bump into your exes on the street looking hot?!”

Me: “Okay, I did.”

“And stalking, but wait, which one of you will be the stalker?!”

Mossy got some bad-ass prophesised karmic returns – bumping into her exes who were in fact in mental hospitals. So clearly I am blessed with Vagina Dentata and that’s where I will from now on, dear reader, express caution. Are all men who make it through the moss and into the brackets so ill-fated? As Theodor Adorno once said, there shall be no poetry after Auschwitz; and so Mossy says, there shall be no comedy blogs about dating and sex after meeting a dream doctor the week before he is travelling to SYRIA. Do they print shirts for those left at home that say ‘My boyfriend works for Doctors Without Borders and when he got beheaded in Syria all I got was this lousy t-shirt’?

They should! That’s it, no more jokes.

XOX Mossy Brackets XOX

REMEMBER: Apart from your daily affirmations in the bathroom mirror, never refer to yourself as ‘sassy’.