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You can share photos, chat with new people, meet girls, meet boys, find girlfriend and find boyfriend.Your friends and even people nearby might visit your profile, rate your photos and comment on your photos.So how, you may ask, have I now applied this acceptance into my current dating life?I suppose the only thing I’ve learned how to do is keep my expectations low (and I mean exceedingly low) when it comes to chivalrous behavior.Because fannies are glorious things people, but if you could upcycle one with a cheeky bit of ylang ylang, why wouldn’t you? Saying shit to me like: fucking lovely, but they were also new, so I couldn’t crawl up into any of their wombs yet. And even though the convo was beautifully devoid of small talk, very funny and refreshingly honest, I couldn’t be honest, it’d just kill the vibe at the table. Because deep below the ground, under all that green space and clean mid-century architecture, almost every subway station is filled with fucking vending machines.And maybe, you might ask, why was Thursday such a bad mental health day? Stocked up with chocolate, just ready and waiting for a drunk, sad person like me. But it was definitely an interesting first midsommar.Anyway, I get to one of these machines, and like a drug addict, check that no-one is around to watch me, as I proceed to spend almost 200 SEK (nearly 20 Great British Pounds! (Sorry Patrick Stewart, I love you buddy, but you’re as bald as my father, and even for me, that’s a bit much.) * I just don’t see the point in washing my hands if I didn’t get pee on my fingers. READ MORE FROM BY BIG FAT SCANDI MELTDOWN: Read my first blog, here. And check out my OTHER blog (it’s pretty much EXACTLY the same blog) at mybigfatscandinavianmeltdown here.) on TEN BARS and SHARE BAGS of chocolate³; reinserting my bank card for each individual transaction because, like some kind of SICK JOKE, (or as an effort to curb such unhealthy behaviours and save me from myself), you can only buy ONE CHOCOLATE BAR at a time. Like funny, interesting and embarrassing shit that you just don’t talk about with a stranger really. Oh, and as if I hadn’t overshared enough, you can find out more about ME, here.

(Notwithstanding all the bras I stole that time from Ann Summers.) Secondly, I'd just had a really bad mental health day on Thursday. Basically, I was feeling sad about myself and I just wanted a fucking cuddle.We ate our frukost in relative silence but I remembered asking him, “Why did you rush inside so fast?It was kind of rude.” (I have no problem calling someone out on their behavior – maybe that’s the American in me.) “I was hungry,” he said simply, then shoved yet another piece of hart bröd that he had smothered with butter, egg and caviar, into his mouth.I think my first brush with this cultural propensity was right after I had first moved to Stockholm and had been casually dating Klaus*.He kept raving about the brunch at Scandic Anglais and so one Saturday morning, after a particularly boozy night, we hopped into a taxi together, both of us hungover and famished.

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