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Each week Critic wants to hear from you if you’re struggling to approach the man or woman of your dreams. Does she always sit on that front row seat and give the lecturer far more attention than you’re comfortable with? Does he stroll past your window each morning and your only attempts at getting his attention have been taking a little longer to put clothes on? Flick your stories to crush@critic.co.nz

It was the Tuesday of O-Week when I found you wandering down Leith Street North. You were on your way to a mate’s place with a sparkle in your eye and a six-pack of Diesels in your hand. I was sitting on the doorstep of my friend’s flat, downing a bottle of wine and stargazing to the soothing background music of drum and bass. Could you feel it then? The romance in the cool Dunedin air? I know I could. And as I sat there, gently swaying to the beat, our eyes met and I thought, “you’ll do.”

We had an instant connection and, tossing back the last of my wine, I led you down the alleyway next to the house.

Let me be frank. You are amazing at what you do. So much so, that it gave me acid reflux (a common side-effect of a night on the sav) and I knew at that moment things were going to go very, very south (much like the current position of your hands). With no time to think, I pushed you away and ran into the house, vomiting my bottle of Fat Bird into the toilet. It was not a pretty sight.

By the time I had cleaned myself up, you had slipped away into the night, convinced that I had run away from your wonderful advances, when in fact my cock-blocking oesophagus was solely to blame.

If you’re up for it, I would be very much interested in picking up where we left off. I’ll be at the same flat again this Thursday and will be sticking to vodka this time, promise.

xoxo,

The Moderately Proportioned Fat Bird