Sandra Won’t Be Ignored

Sandra is twenty-one, stands 1.78 meters, lives near Münster, and works as a trainee freight forwarder. Capricorn. She’s drawn to men who wear thick-framed glasses because they actually need them—not for decoration—and she has a thing for messy hair. Football obsessives and men with weak chins and a victim mentality need not apply.

Her ex would tell you she’s perpetually late, hopelessly scattered, and constitutionally incapable of remembering names. She also cannot walk past a mirror without conducting a quick inspection. She volunteers all of this upfront, which I find disarming.

Her stated mission at any given party—have a nice evening, talk to some people—always goes sideways. It gets late, the newly coupled sink into the corners doing their nauseating thing, and she ends up leaving furious at herself, picking apart every moment she didn’t approach the one person she actually wanted to speak to.

When she does connect with someone, she commits instantly and completely. Before they’ve even made it through the front door, she’s already bonded with all his flatmates, toasted to brotherhood, probably reorganized his room while he was at work. And then it still doesn’t become anything official. It ends before it started, somehow.

She has an abnormally developed need to talk—silence in a relationship triggers something close to panic, so she’ll fill it with whatever nonsense is available rather than risk being called boring. Deep discussions about economic policy are not on the menu, though she’s apparently quite good at convincing people otherwise.

Her preferred solution would be Kindergarten rules: locate the target, walk over, climb on, scream "MINE." She knows it would work. She hasn’t done it yet.