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Rear Windowing The Neighbours:

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The view from my flat… Missing the river, of course! 🙂

Not many of you may know that I live in a block of flats. They’re not a block of flats in the traditional sense; it’s three stories high and boasts six flats in total, including mine. Mine is ground floor and the patio doors boast a truly phenomenal view, to the point where I like to sit in the rocking chairs outside in the summer and watch the river idle by. Where I live is really quiet, idyllic and peaceful and I love it. I’m not the type of person who craves drama or intrigue, I like to keep myself to myself and living somewhere that is as quiet as my flat is truly amazing.

Even though I live in a block of flats, I very rarely see my neighbours. I sometimes see the family who live above with their tiny little girl who as of late has been screaming for hours on end, breaking her little heart over something that is troubling her. I see the man who lives with his partner opposite who ignores me all the time and sometimes drives in and out of the estate for no reason, before standing outside and smoking for ages. I am also pretty obsessed with the old lady who lives at the very top of the building; I’m not sure if she’s in a same sex relationship with the lady I see around often, but either way, I think she’s the type of person who likes to get drunk on gin and tell inappropriately filthy jokes, which basically makes her my soul mate and I long to pluck up the courage to ask her or happen to accidently drop a bottle of Hendrick’s one night as she wanders past, hoping to strike up a conversation that allows her to be my best friend forever more. There’s another couple that I don’t really know much about; I’ve said hello to them both separately and I very rarely see them… until recently. Recently, dear readers, Brain and I have developed a Rear Window situation, which basically means I am the Grace Kelly in the situation and he is the wheelchair bound James Stewart… we are obsessed with one of our neighbours.

Clearly I am Grace Kelly, look at the glass of wine, man!

Clearly I am Grace Kelly, look at the glass of wine, man!

They’re a young couple like Brain and myself, which means I have often thought about them and wondered what they’re like. I do this with people who are in relationships, because relationship dynamics intrigue me to no end; I like to wonder if all couples are the same and if their concept of love is the same as mine, for example. Like, I wonder if couples behind closed doors spend as much time cuddling on the sofa, or if they like to cook together or if they chase each other round playing stupid games like Brain and I do. I’m obsessed with the closeness that couples share and if it feels the same. This sounds entirely mental, I totally appreciate that, but either way, I have wondered about this couple.

They are both young, they’re both pale and they’re both very polite, prim and I think quite proper. She is very quiet and I haven’t really spoken to her and he only says hello in passing, so I haven’t managed to strike up a friendship with them yet, to be able to outright ask them what I am dying to ask them. So instead, I have to spy. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t shimmy up the side of the building and Spiderman my way along until I can spy in their windows, and I don’t hang out in front of their door waiting or anything, it’s not that bad. Really, my spying is entirely accidental and I think that’s what makes the situation worse.

You see, every evening if I or Brain leave the house, or if we go out to our family’s house and return later on at night, or whatever, this couple are sitting in their car. The engine is running, the lights are on and they don’t do anything. They just sit there. And I am foaming about it.

Last night, we went out quite early because it was my dad’s birthday and we had gifts to take him, so we left at about six o clock and didn’t return until about half ten. When we left the house and I helped Brain put my dad’s presents in the car, the male human from this car couple was standing outside of the car putting his coat on. We exchanged pleasantries, as we always do and Brain and I got in the car. Immediately, as we do, we wondered out loud what they were doing sitting in the car, again. I mentioned that it was pretty weird and put it out of my mind, opting to bother Brain in the car by pushing all of the pushable buttons in the car and laughing wickedly as he clicks them all off, cursing me and calling me a nightmare, then we drove off, not to think of it again.

We had a lovely  night with my parents and after watching the Newcastle match, we came home. We got home at about half past ten and when I stepped out of the car, I realised that the couple were still in the car!! WHY, WHY ARE THEY IN THE CAR!!!!! I immediately started grinning, as I do when I’m excited and nervous and desperate to tell Brain some gossip and as soon as we got in the flat, we began wondering aloud what the fuck they could possibly be doing STILL SAT IN THE CAR. I’ve never known couples who do this, especially when they have a flat of their own to go into and do whatever it is they want to do. So I’m at a loss and I am so excited for night time to fall so I can watch them again…

Why are they in the car?

What are they doing?

Are they planning a murder?

Are they playing Mexican music loudly to mask the sound of them arguing?

What the fuck are they doing in the car?!

Stay tuned, because I will eventually find out. Until next time, Grace Kelly OUT!

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Happy Birthday, Doris Daze!

This time last year, I spent an inordinate amount of time alone; I would wake up alone, lie and stare blankly at the ceiling, wondering how many hours I would have to be awake before I could get hammered. If it was longer than ‘a few’, I would roll over and go back to sleep. During the week, I didn’t see a soul and the monotony of waking up and waiting to get drunk so I could feel something was my routine. My sister would come and see me and not see anything wrong with me, so would retreat back into her brand new relationship, telling my parents they were being paranoid for suggesting that I was depressed. I wasn’t depressed, though… I didn’t really feel anything in order to feel depressed.

From the space between September 2013 and May 2014, I saw my best friend once, a friend I had never met once and my other best friend twice. Other than that, I spent it alone. I hung out with my sister maybe four times. On a Friday, my dad would insist on picking me up and buying me wine so that I would spend the weekend with him and my mam. Neither of them liked the idea of me being alone, because they were frightened of what I would do. I would then spend the weekend staring blankly into space, locking myself in the spare bedroom or crying. I appreciated the effort my parents went to and I would sometimes put on my game face and pretend I was okay for their benefit, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t at all.

I was living in a house that was too big and too expensive to heat, so I didn’t heat it and wore blankets, trying to keep the winter chill from getting to me. Sometimes, I could see my breath when I lay in bed, it was that cold. It was a house where electricity was too expensive to light, so I didn’t light it and kept all of my energy for my laptop, so I could use Facebook and chat to my mam and my friend Sarah online. I had no job, I had no money and every day I received threatening letters about pay-day loans and other things that my ex had signed up for in my name – he had committed fraud, but I was being left to sort them out myself. My bank balance read £0.45 and I wasn’t eligible for any form of governmental help, so I had to rely on graciously accepting familial donations of £10 here and £20 there… I ate one meal per day, unless it was a special occasion (like, my sister came to visit, or my dad took me shopping) and that usually consisted of lettuce or cucumber, bread and the occasional tin of mackerel. I also used a lot of that money to buy wine, so that my nights weren’t spent cold and lonely, terrified of sleeping, of my environment, living in constant fear that my landlord was going to break in and be horrible to me. I hated my life; I hated waking up and feeling the way that I did, so I used a lot of the money that my family donated in good will, to getting wasted and self-harming so that it didn’t hurt as much anymore.

Then, one day, I decided to start a blog. I was at my parents’ house, as it was my dad’s birthday the following day and I was staying in my sister’s bedroom as she wasn’t home. I used her PC to play Skyrim on, which was my perpetual comfort blanket, when suddenly, for the first time in a long time, I decided I wanted to write. My family, particularly my beloved grandma, were panicking about Valentine’s Day, given that it was my first one as a single lady in a long time, but, as I told her, I didn’t celebrate Valentine’s Day – I’d made the effort over the years, because I felt that it was right to do, but even to this day, I’ve only received two Valentine’s Day presents and they were both off my sister; An Audrey Hepburn print and a vintage-style champagne flute with some pug socks. So Valentine’s Day doesn’t really represent ‘love’ in my opinion. Then again, nothing I had experienced, really represented ‘love’. Convenience, maybe. Sex, maybe. But, love? No way… anyway, my first post was about Valentine’s Day. It was an entirely creative piece, but it was funny, I thought and that’s what I decided I wanted to do: I wanted to make myself laugh. I wanted to use life experiences to pull myself out of the perpetual slump I was in, because I wanted to move on. I didn’t want to be sad any more. And that’s how Doris Daze was born.

The happiness that I’ve been able to feel through writing this blog knows no bounds; it has been my constant, amazing best friend for a whole year now, and continues to be something I love to be a part of. Blogging helped bring me back to life again and allowed me to discover who I really am. Through this blog, I have managed to communicate with some amazing people, including some of the best friends in the world: Mungle, Sian, Emilie, Rachel, Amy, Marie, Leona and Becky. I rediscovered friendship and what it feels like to be loved and appreciated by people I get to call friends. I haven’t been a part of their lives much recently and I realise how much I miss them all; they are my lady humans and when I met them and began using social media to chat to them hundreds of times a day, waking up didn’t seem as bad anymore, because they were there to laugh and to play with. They were my company and slowly made the sting of loneliness disappear. Through these girls, particularly through Emilie, I rediscovered feminism and I embraced the movement like an old friend, which in turn helped me become newly self-assured, confident and respectful of myself. I began to write cathartically about bad things that happened to me and used feminist ideals to progressively feel better about those bad things so that they weren’t making me cry any more. I became an overall healthier person, intent on living life for ME and not for anyone else. I owe all of that to the opportunities that blogging has given me.

Moreover, and perhaps the most important gift my blog has given me, is the fact that it was Doris Daze that brought Brain and I together. Initially, I’d made an active decision that I would never be in a relationship again, that I would never allow another person to diminish my character and make me ashamed of who I was; I didn’t need a relationship and I didn’t want one – I didn’t believe in what people could do to you and the power they could exert over you when you were in a relationship. They were dangerous, I thought, and the words my ex and his mother had imprinted on my consciousness was that I didn’t deserve happiness. That I wasn’t good enough. So, it genuinely upset me that I was smitten with Brain from the moment I was introduced to him (Bob Dylan t-shirt, blue eyes and a beard? I mean, come on, I didn’t stand a chance) and we became friends. We became best friends, actually, on our first day of meeting and it only got better – those days where I was getting to know him will forever be etched into my memories as the best time ever – I’d made friends with the male version of myself and it was awesome. Brain was also the first person I actively gave my blog link to; it was the closest and most personal thing that I could share with someone and before then, I’d never felt secure enough to do so. It made me feel vulnerable, but for some reason I also felt like he was the only person I could trust with something as special as this. I have the link to him one Friday afternoon and by Monday he had read it in its entirety, from beginning to end, just like that. His reaction was, you should show more people, I think it will make them like you more. And that’s when I knew that Brain would remain the most important person in my life for as long as I could possibly try to do so; he didn’t see the bad things that happened to me as a black mark on my character and he didn’t besmirch me as some kind of terrible human who was to blame for all of the things that happened to her; he liked me more. Which means more to me than he could ever possibly know… well until now, because he still reads my blog 🙂 hiya!

I couldn’t be more grateful of the people who have taken time out to read my blog, because it means everything to me. Without my blog, I really don’t think I’d be in the position I am now. I’d probably be living at my parents, hooked on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication, living in a perpetual state of unhappiness and regret. Instead, I am head over heels in love with the most amazingly sweet and genuinely best human I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing and, better than that, I feel that I deserve the love he has to offer me. We live in an amazing little flat, overlooking the water, filled with belongings and paintings and posters that encapsulate our personalities (which are basically mirrored in one another) and our relationship… everything is so important because everything here I have experienced with him. I feel so safe, content and I feel happier than I have ever felt in my life and, more importantly, I feel that I am deserving of all of these nice things. I’ve genuinely forgotten what it feels like to be truly sad and when reading back through my old blogs, I really don’t know why I allowed myself to be so manipulated or so abused, or so sad as I felt about someone who was never worthy of my time.

It’s funny what blogging can do for people, but I’m really glad that my blog helped me discover who I really am. Thank you, all of you, who’ve taken time to read my blog over the past year… Here’s to you all. And here’s to you Doris Daze, happy birthday, my love.

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Chapter Four: Becoming a Woman

If you didn’t read that in a calming, soothing voice akin to Counsellor Diana Troy’s voice from Star Trek: Next Generation, then you have failed me. Go back, read it again, and come back to me with a fresh perspective and better attitude towards the piece I’m about to write. Back? Okay, thanks for that. If you’re male and/or slightly squeamish and are reading this with increasing trepidation that I’m about to go into a Vagina Monologue style rant about my first period or the first time I touched myself, then don’t worry, because I probably won’t. But then again, I might do, because I’m cruel and also because I’m trying to practice literary improvisation.

A lot of the things I read online tell me that gender roles are established very early on in life, depending on what toys you play with, thus, modern parenting techniques advise that parents don’t force their kids to play with toys depending on what part of the toy store they’re in; let kids be kids and choose their own way in life is the mantra. Anyway, I never had that. I played with Barbies and dolls (well, I smacked their faces against walls) I played with prams (ran over bees with the wheels) and played with toy make up and jewellery, as well as girly arts and crafts – I never grew up feeling that my place as in the home or in the kitchen (unless the fridge was fully stocked) and I don’t hold any kind of resentment towards my parents now for me playing with gender specific toys. Granted, I had both of my parents telling me on the daily that I would be a smart, career driven, independent woman who would be able to drive, tell the time without getting confused when the afternoon rolled in and never forgetting which way is right and which way is left, meaning I would just point in directions and say ‘over there’ by the time I was twenty six. Parenting successful, you guys, you can retire now… Anyway, I never felt that my toys were a suggestion of my future to come, nor did I think they were sending me subliminal messages, telling me that I’d make a great home maker/mother/wife, because my parents screamed even louder in my face that I would be AMAZING and BRILLIANT and high fived me when I didn’t wet the bed… In a way, I’m pretty pissed off that my toys didn’t have more of an influence over the adult I’d become, because my favourite toy, Barbie, had an amazing life and other than the subsequent body/self esteem issues I’d undoubtedly acquire by being too influenced by the blonde babe I played with daily, I’d still have been pretty happy with the outcome.

My Barbie dolls were awesome and their lives were pretty sweet. They lived in a giant mansion, all together with their best friends and enemies alike and they’d go on all sorts of adventures and divorce and marry people within a week. Imagine that life? It’d be like Dyansty! More to the point, I’d have been married to a Ken doll and we would have been amazingly well dressed and matching at all times. He would have enormous pectoral muscles, which I don’t agree with, and a questionable crotch region, which I agree with even less, but with the wealth of Barbie and Ken and the abundance of available plastic in the world, we’d be able to sort that kind of thing out, no problem at all. Life would be sweet. I’d also have an entire wardrobe style house full of clothes and every single day would be my first day at a new job. It would be like that first scene in Clueless where Cher is sorting out her outfit du jour via her amazingly technologically advanced computer; the only difference being, that my outfit match would be what I’d be doing as a job that day. My work week may have even looked like this:

Monday: Palaeontologist
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Tuesday: Canadian Mountie
Wednesday: Yoga Teacher
Thursday: Surgeon
Friday: Ambassador for World Peace
Saturday: NASCAR Driver
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Sunday: Princess

I mean, that’s way better than any of your careers, right?

Unfortunately, my toys had very little influence over my life. Unless you count my Speak and Spell which taught me how to spell swear words correctly and maybe my doll pram for killing all of those bees.

***

Do you remember watching ‘coming of age’ movies and TV episodes in the likes of Sister Sister, where they’d discuss womanhood like it was some kind of amazing journey we were about to go on, filled with love and romance and in the end, a tub of ice cream and laughs with our best friends for life humans? Then, as it got closer, all it really entailed was a lot of general hysteria at not only your perpetually changing body, but at the entire world around you for being so selfish by not realising your CONSTANT DAILY STRUGGLE WITH EXISTENCE!!! I was expecting magic carpet rides and new found responsibilities that had absolutely nothing to do with shaving my arms or legs, or being metaphorically thrust into the world with new squishy bags on my chest, thus suddenly agonisingly aware of my SELF and the perpetual gaze of the male ascending on me every time I chose to leave the house. It was awful.

Suffice it to say that I didn’t enjoy growing into a woman very much at all; I mean, I love it now, because I’m a woman and I firmly believe that is a great thing to be. I can’t think of anything that wields as much power as a woman’s vagina, except maybe her cleavage in a bar. Or more important things like what a woman has to go through to bring life into the world. There are some people who champion the sheer genius behind sperm and go into advance scientficit discussions about how far the sperm has to travel and out of the millions and millions THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE that assists in the creation of new life.

I’m not sure about you, but when I hear that, I’m sitting there metaphorically patting the head of which ever idiot has come out with that one, before retorting with what actual reproductive heroics actually entails. Firstly, women only have a certain amount of eggs and they start depleting from the moment we start our periods – did you guys know this?! – so when people start talking about biological clocks ticking, they don’t mean that one day you’ll wake up and have an overwhelming urge to reproduce and maybe, potentially steal a baby off the street, like I thought happened… Oh no: It means that you only have a certain amount and that the more periods you get, the more you lose them, because they just disappear. So if you only have like thirty eggs in your uterus and you’ve been a woman since you were like, eleven, then maybe you won’t have eggs in you at all and you’ll be BARRON. Which is really unfair when you think about it, like men can just wank incessantly on the daily for their entire lives and even when they’re like, ninety, they can still use that sperm to impregnate someone. I’m foaming I can’t do that with my vagina eggs.

I genuinely expected that becoming a woman would bring with it some kind of epiphany and that my entire life’s purpose would suddenly become abundantly clear, but other than the fact that I woke up in a pool of my own blood wishing I was born with a penis and that I could now house babies in my womb (ones that were grown there, not just put there as some kind of horrifically upsetting babysitting service) and that the concept of ‘babies raising babies’ suddenly became very clear to me, nothing else really changed. I still liked cartoons and I still believed in Santa Claus and cried when I didn’t get my own way. When I think about it now, I think of it in terms of history and how women throughout life were treated once they began menstruating, relief washing over me when I realised that upon having my period, my dad didn’t trade me in for a few goats to a middle aged man, I was lucky that my dowry remained very much non-existent. I was also lucky that my period coincided with the new millennium; otherwise I may have potentially been procreating for a well over a decade now and making food for a much older man, whose sweaty body had no concern for mine at all (what? The nineties were weird, man!). In a way, becoming a woman for me, meant staying a child, and I found that pretty awesome.

Me, on my 12th birthday, seducing babes, being a woman.

Me, on my 12th birthday, seducing babes, being a woman.

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My Career Aspirations Growing Up.

Maybe I could be a telephone operator! No… I wouldn’t like to wear those things over my ears. I wish I had a guardian angel, you know like Debbie Reynolds had in Tammy? What do you think?

As someone who, at the age of twenty six, seems to be having a career orientated life crisis on an almost daily basis and is generally anxious about her future because she has no idea what she wants to do other than earn money and buy shoes, I thought it pertinent to add a post depicting my journey through desired career choices that I’ve had since being a small child. As you will probably be able to tell whilst reading, I had very little grasp on reality growing up and was constantly changing my mind about career choices, which is probably why I’m so cast adrift now. Thanks, child me!

Teacher – I think every girl wanted to be a teacher growing up. I wanted to be a teacher, because my teacher at the time had really nice shoes with bows on and I liked the sound they made when she walked through the classroom. Also I was persistently top of the class when I was a kid and liked being the favourite of pretty much all of my teachers and also I was always picked to read first and was colour-groups ahead of my classmates who I helped teach how to read. So really becoming a teacher was a natural calling in my life, at this point, as let’s face it, aside from the great shoes and the wages, I was a teacher. One of the career choices people constantly tell me to look into is teaching, but as I grew older, I realised that kids are little bastards and that the older they get, the more arsey they become. I genuinely don’t think I’d be able to keep a level head with some puberty ridden shit bag being a nuisance in my class. I’d end up on the front of all national newspapers as the woman who beheaded a little bastard for bad-mouthing Shakespeare. And I’d stand by it too, the little rat.

Vet – If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t think I knew what being a vet entailed growing up. All I really knew is that I liked watching Animal Hospital and loved watching the vets talk about the animals in great detail, soothing, calming tones lulling both me and the animal into a false sense of security. I would still like to be a vet today, but I wouldn’t want to operate on anything or euthanise anything either. Really, I guess all I wanted to be and what I would still like to be, is a professional dog and cat stroker, which according to my career’s officer at school, doesn’t exist and I should probably focus on a more realistic career goal instead.

Woman who walks around museum pointing at stuff and then talking about it – I don’t think that’s the real name of this particular career choice, but all I had in my head was a “curator” which is something different; I think that’s the name of someone who gathers stuff in the museum, rather than shows groups of school kids around. Anyway, I went on a school trip when I was little and this is what sparked my initial interest. An amazingly articulate woman showed us around and I decided that I wanted to be her, so when I got home, I presented my sister and mother with all of the things we owned in our living room and spoke proficiently and seriously about how all of our living room objects were from ancient China. Maybe guess what the exhibit we were shown around was? Ancient Chinese artefacts. I needn’t have gone, given my living room was bursting with the stuff!

Librarian – This career choice was generally a no brainer for me, given my passion for books and reading growing up, but really, at the time of deciding this, all I really wanted to do was own my own library and be Belle from Beauty and the Beast, however, given my abundant intelligence from a young age, I guess deep down I knew that girls didn’t fall for hairy-wolf-men that were made that way by magical white witches, so I thought that entirely ruled out the Disney Princess option, thus librarian became my only real option. I changed my mind during my first year of comprehensive school when I realised that our librarian was a mean, cruel woman who wanted to keep us away from all of the books by not letting us in the library at all, which not only negates the idea of a library, but makes all librarians absolute wankers, if you ask me.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer – what? I did want to be Buffy. I liked the way she kicked and punched and I loved her snappy retorts to vampires and people in general. She was cool and confident, she was fierce and unstoppable and a vampire, one that filled my pre-teen heart with gooey feelings, fell in love with her! Then later on, a really bad vampire fell in love with her and become all soft and gooey too! It was very inspirational to, not only a hopeless romantic, but to someone who also grew up wanting to be the pink Power Ranger – at the time, even I knew a Power Ranger was inaccessible to a girl like me, but a vampire slayer? Totally realistic.

Singer/Songwriter or Britney Spears Impersonator – Stop judging me!! I am not at all ashamed that I went through a period of wanting to be Britney Spears. Did you see the video for Hit me Baby One More Time her loneliness was KILLING her and all she wanted was to play basketball. I may have misconstrued the point of the video, but regardless, she was a pretty amazing role model at the time. She kind of lost her shine a little bit during The Meltdown of 2007, but by this time I had already moved on to wanting to be both Beyonce and Marianne Faithful, so I really didn’t care. Anyway, at the time, I used to practice dancing and singing constantly, as well as doing my hair and make up to look like a little songstress. My parents were genuinely worried about me during this period and had a discussion with me that pretty much led them to crushing my dreams by telling me that I realistically couldn’t be a pop star/dancer. I’m not sure if it’s because they assumed it would be impossible for me to break into this world without compromising my virginity or because they didn’t think I was good enough. I should probably ask them.

Tennis Player – this was a constant one growing up, every time Wimbledon was plastered all over the television. When we lived in Holland we had this huge drive way and I would go into the garden and slam the ball against the wall, whilst making the best and not at all inappropriate for my age tennis noises. Admittedly, I did get quite good at slamming the ball off the wall and it did keep me fit throughout the summer, but I didn’t keep it up. Like all british teenagers once they get into comprehensive school and realise that doing anything leaves you open for incessant, cruel critique, so I gave up pretending to be a tennis player and put my racket down for good.

Lawyer – Admittedly, I might have only wanted to be a lawyer because I had seen too many episodes of Ally McBeal or potentially too many movies. But to me, I loved the idea of storming into a room and being like ‘OI, I have the evidence here that proves you’re all crooks! YOU HEAR ME, CROOKS!!’ or given the fact that I am really good at arguing and love giving self-righteous speeches whilst mounted steadfastly onto my high horse, that might have also been the reason that prompted me to want to be the voice of the law. Plus, again, I also really liked the clothes and shoe choices and the tap clap tap of court shoes as they bustled through full of law-like knowledge.

Fashion Designer – No, seriously. This was a genuine career desire of mine throughout school. I loved art and design and I wanted to take those as my options, go to college and take art, before applying to university to do fashion. I had it all planned out and I did have an abundance of talent in the old art department, so it made sense. An English teacher of mind found out and hauled my mother into school to beg her to force me to take more academic subjects, because my future lay with English and all the career choices that would leave me open to (all, Mrs Walker, ALL? I literally have done zero things with my degree other than starting this blog. I am foaming about it, in all honesty!) so they coerced me into taking French, Geography and History, which I aced, because I am brilliant, but didn’t really enjoy because all I wanted to do was draw and become the next Coco Chanel. But whatever, dreams are for rookies and kids, right?

Writer – In spite of all the fashion designer business, one thing did remain resolute: I was excellent at English literature and language and writing was another passion. I got a typewriter one year for Christmas when I was really small as well as a tiny desk and I would sit in the living room tapping away on the typewriter, even before I could write or form words. Then, as I learned, I would write stories and pass them onto my mam and dad, who would read them and tell me I was brilliant. So writing has always been something that I wanted to do and probably will remain with me until I’m an old lady, embittered with literary failure, making me become the type of old person who stabs knives through the footballs of local children who dare kick it near my property. I will also be the type of old lady who spits at the youths too, but that’s a story for a different time. Anyway, I’ve always written stories and still jot down ideas for short stories, novels, children’s literature, but have absolutely no motivation to do it, due to the fact that I am overwhelmingly terrified of being an even bigger failure than I am now, or being told that something I really want to do is something I’m not very good at. Just like fashion.

I think in this day and age a little despondency in one’s twenties regarding a career and professional future is pretty much resolute. I never wanted to be some phone monkey answering phones as a career… a stop gap, a way to pay the bills, maybe, but I wanted more and I think I always will be that type of person. So until then, I guess I remain a little bit like Frenchie, except with really shit hair.

 

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Funny Feminist – Tits Over Talent by Sarah Farrugia

unnamedThe past year I took up acting, as a career choice (along with YouTube and selling makeup and shamelessly plugging my own businesses). I’m about to act in my first speaking role in a short film, which I can’t wait for. Actually, scratch that, I can wait. Wait until I’ve hit the gym a few more times and got my ass looking perky and round. My first scene is a nude, or, well, I will be wearing underwear but they don’t leave much to the imagination.I have no issue appearing nude or semi-nude in a role where it feeds into the character, this one being quite like myself, a bit of an exhibitionist and a show off, but in looking for more work all I can seem to find are roles that require me to be only a set of tits.

I am paraphrasing a little here but most roles I find that are suited to my age and location have lovely little side notes such as:

  • May requite nudity
  • May require you to be groped/touched/kissed

Now, these roles are mostly volunteer roles, it’s not easy to find paid work this early on unless it’s something commercial. And like I said, I have no issue showing off my fabulous breasts or my small but lovely butt if it’s called for but these films are generally asking me not to play a character but a blow up doll. To add to the fun of it, you never know who you’ll end up working with until you get the role, so God knows who’s greasy or possibly eerily small hands will be twiddling your tits for free.

This kind of requirement is minimal for men. Out of all the roles I have looked through over the past few months I’d say more than two thirds require you to be groped or nude if you’re female, compared to less than a third for male.

I’m wondering – should I give myself a new standard for choosing roles? If the female part can be replaced with a blow up doll (with substandard fun bags) it’s probably not worth going for.

At least I know that if I am ever sick or too tired or depressed about the state of roles for young women, I can send said blow up doll in my place with a nametag.


Sarah Farrugia is an aspiring actress, avid book reader, cat lover and general amazing human I am lucky to call one of my best friends. I am excited to work with her on Funny Feminist and follow her throughout life and her career – you’ll definitely be seeing more of her here, but if you would like to follow her and be a part of her journey, you can do so here:

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