Tag Archives: Embarrassment

Twenty Something Midlife Crises:

If you’re reading this, then you may be a twenty something individual going through a little bit of a crisis. I understand. Crises are usually reserved for the middle aged and are thus appropriately glamorised because they had their shit together in their twenties and have therefore earned enough money in their lives to buy a new hairpiece, fill their faces with botox, buy a red sports car and develop a drug addiction, derived from having many dinners and sexual dalliances with high end prostitutes. Twenty somethings are not privileged enough, nor have they earned enough money prior to fly around in a sports car, paying people to have sex with them. (I should also point out that mid-life crises are not gender specific; women have them too, only they are far less glamorous and probably result in drinking wine in the afternoon and declaring themselves ‘cougars’ hitting up clubs with their other miserable friends in order to revitalise their youth in a manner which botox and sex with prostitutes wouldn’t be able to fulfil). Therefore, there is no readily prepared information on how to stop having a crisis in your twenties, get your shit together and stop lamenting over the fact that you’re in thousands of pounds worth of debt because of a degree you were encouraged to get to improve your quality of life/employment chances has resulted in unemployment and eating dried garlic bruschetta for lunch because you’re too cast adrift in your life to consider proper food consumption. I get it, so I’m here to help.

You see, I too have been, adrift and in crisis. One could argue that my current state of affairs is akin to feeling adrift and in crisis, but I would say that you are wrong, because the first stage of a crisis is denial that you are in a crisis. Much like a red sports car is such a good idea, because the ladies love a red sports car and no the media has not bastardised the red sports car to the extent that driving in one is synonymous with being an old creep looking to touch people young enough to be their daughters. You see, denial, it knows no boundaries. I am not denying that I am in a crisis, because I’m not – there is a checklist, which I have handily drafted for you all to highlight that you may be having a twenty something crisis, but I, most certainly, am not:

  1. You have a degree in some kind of artistic pursuit that filled you full of purpose during your formative years, but has since left you feeling empty in body, mind and pocket.
  2. You choose to pursue the talents bestowed on you by said degree by pursuing this as a hobby, which will accidentally, one day, flourish into a career.
  3. You have more wine glasses than you do any other type of glass in your flat.
  4. You take stands quite a lot and are often incensed by things such as the news, adverts and the inability to use your television due to your partner’s inability to explain how to use said device properly.
  5. You have too many dishes to clean on a daily basis.
  6. You have stood in front of a mirror and lamented over your girth, foaming at your reflection, but happy in your resolve that this must be your natural body shape and not a sign that you should stop eating ice cream.
  7. You don’t often wear a bra during the day, so that when people deliver packages to your door, you look like you’ve been breastfeeding two baby elephants simultaneously for the past half an hour.
  8. Or, if you’re male, don’t wear a shirt and the results are pretty much the same.
  9. Your mother often rings you to ask you if you’ve had any joy on becoming a proper adult, instead of the overgrown toddler you have essentially become, given your addiction to bottle shapes, afternoon naps and tears at not getting your own way.
  10. You write lists.

If you have checked positive for any of these, then I am very sorry, but you are probably going through a twenty something life crisis. Given, of course, that you are in your twenties. If you are younger than in your twenties, then don’t worry, your parents pay for shit and this is just childhood, enjoy it, get a tattoo. If you’re older than in your twenties and/or are married with children, then you should probably get your shit together, get off the internet and do something more worthwhile in your life. There is no room for you here.

The main problem, I think, with people who are going through twenty something life crises is that it’s not glamorised enough. Instead of being rich and having sex with people, we are poor and watching Netflix on loop every day watching actors have simulated sex with other actors. It’s all very drab. Plus, if you decide to inform someone that you feel you may be going through a little bit of a crisis, that you feel that your talents and life are dwindling away, that you’re at a point in your life where you see others with their shit together and it gives you feelings of intense anxiety to know that you are at the bottom of the gene pool in both terms of sexuality and employment. These people who you talk to are inherently selfish and will therefore laugh heartily until tiny tears are coming out of their eyelids, they will shake their heads, smile at you and tell you that you should pursue a life of comedy, or that you should write a fictional novel because the stories you come up with are crazy. If you don’t speak to someone selfish, then they will tell you how great you are and buoy your confidence up to a level where you feel stupid for ever feeling that you were in crisis, until they leave and you realise all they did was make you feel temporarily better and are probably worse than the people who didn’t support you and thought you were insane.

The truth is, twenty somethings worldwide are the first generation in life who are on the precipice of life but unable to jump over into that ship of self-sufficient adulthood and money in the bank that doesn’t need to be saved for bills or you’ll be kicked out of your house for not paying rent, because it’s just too far and you’re scared of the presumably shark infested waters that undoubtedly lie beneath. Our parents had their shit together, when they left school at sixteen, careers were pretty much handed to them, having been crafted throughout their school careers. My dad knew he was going to be an engineer and became an apprentice, my mam a hairdresser and did the same. I left school and I knew that I was going to spend a significant amount of time lying around looking at pictures of Ryan Gosling on the internet and reading books, before going shopping two days before college and buying clothes that made me look like a weed smoking hippy from the 1970s that wouldn’t make me any friends. We’re part of a generation that are in debt before we even decide what we’re doing in life, meaning we can’t pursue the things that we should do in our adult lives: mortgages, weddings, financial stability, babies, buying a car that we don’t have to lease, decorating and weekend DIY. Instead, we remain in an almost infantile state, attempting adulthood but failing miserably, working temporary, shit jobs whilst holding out for our degrees to finally pay off, developing addictions to things that remind us of childhood: which explains why EVERY male human you know has either an addiction to some kind of Japanese anime, playing army on his playstation or his xbox with his friends and that girls are weird and icky and why EVERY female you know has at some point in their lives bought a hat with animal ears on it and changed their Facebook status to Disney princess in training because they spent an entire evening drinking wine and singing along to Disney songs in their pyjamas, wishing that men were like Disney princes (not the parts where they kiss you without consent whilst you’re asleep, or kidnap you and refuse to let you see your family so he can force you to love him, though).

To me, it seems like the only thing we can really do at this point in our lives is develop the ability to time travel, go back in time and punch our childhoods right in the face. Tell them to not pursue academic excellence and instead settle for the mundane, because everyone you know who didn’t go to university is now in a proper career, has bought their first home and is married to someone they overlooked during childhood. Let them know that if they do pursue the arts they will end up fat, miserable and unemployed, the only joy in life being the fact that you have found your forever human, so at least that’s out the way and that if you’re asked to join companies under zero hour contracts or for barely minimum wage you should laugh in their faces and explain that they are what is wrong with the economy and spit on their shoes before storming out of their building, indignant and…well, unemployed.

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A List of Things That Scare Me:

  • Clowns

  • Pigeons

  • All Horror Movies Ever Made

  • Poodles

WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?

  • Eyes That Stare Too Intently

  • Loud Noises

  • Sheep

  • Spiders

  • Amanda Bynes

  • Living Dolls

Yep… This is a thing.

Happy Halloween everyone! Stay safe, be good and try not to get tricked. xx

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How Ryan Gosling Rescued My Sex Life:

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I’m seventeen and since my first time, I have had zero more times; I haven’t kissed another human and haven’t really had any crushes since then either. The ones I did have seem more like an attempt at paraphrasing another person in my peer group; agreeing that he was worthy of a crush after she enthusiastically revealed her unbidden, unrelenting passion for some dweeb who played guitar. I was at college and had made new friends, I had discovered writing about my passions and devoured William Blake and Jeffrey Chaucer like it all truly meant something to me. To this day, I cannot remember anything other than in The Bard’s Tale when the cuckold got his revenge by sticking a hot poker up someone’s arse, but at the time both that and Songs of Innocence and Experience resonated deep within me. I was very pretentious, but still also entirely unrealistic about everything life had to offer me… including literature, it seems.

I had received a laptop that Christmas and because I could use Google in the privacy of my own bedroom, I’d become quite the researcher. I’d come to terms with what had happened to me and since then, watched The Notebook religiously because I felt that Ryan Gosling wouldn’t let anything like that happen to me. I’d also discovered that rape happened to a lot of women and that everyone had their own ways of dealing with it and overcoming the feeling of worthlessness; I had simply chosen to bury it deep within my mind grapes and move on with life in my own way. I had discovered blogs and discovered a woman who wrote so casually about sex that it hardly seemed like the horror show I’d experienced, but something more, something pleasurable and freeing. I discovered dominatrices and the men they belittled, but who seemed to love it… I had my own sexual awakening through absorbing all of the knowledge that I was reading from the internet and putting it all into some kind of bizarre perspective; sex was okay and I should not spend my life refraining from it because I was afraid of what might happen. It was also during this time I discovered masturbating and pleasuring myself with my hands, which is something I’d never really thought of doing, but, upon having my first orgasm, realised it was something I’d been doing since I was very small in a game I used to play that caused my parents to shout at me and tell me to stop… Now I know why. I finally decided that sex wasn’t bad and that I should remove all bad thoughts from my mind and proceed with life like a true seventeen year old.

I had one crush at college. I had decided he looked like Chad Michael Murray and as someone who had never seen One Tree Hill but had seen A Cinderella Story, I decided that he was my romantic mecca and that eventually we would marry and I’d watch him play rugby on weekends. Nothing ever happened with this person, he spoke to me once and that was to thank me for opening a door and because I had truly entered my awkward phase and was still entirely uncertain what to do in situations that involved male humans, I simply turned and faced the wall behind me. That was the last time he spoke to me. I spoke to him once after at a college party. I was hammered and decided I was going to make my move. He was wearing a bowler hat and looked like a dick, but I couldn’t let one bad fashion choice ruin what could potentially be The Greatest Love of All. He was smoking a cigar and he tried to stub it out, but burned my hand instead and it was in that moment I decided that I wasn’t ready for a relationship where burning seemed an appropriate thing to do to a woman, accidentally or not.

It was back to the drawing board and, of course, Ryan Gosling helped me during this difficult time and my obsession grew. Realising that I couldn’t very well develop a non-existent relationship with a human very much out of my league and whom I would never have a chance with even if I did by some miracle end up a famous actress playing opposite him in a film that required the sensual removal of some nude stockings (what?!), who wouldn’t find me as attractive as I would him. Presumably because I’d be crying and drooling over his general magnificence/beard.  I used social media a lot to emphasise how ready I was for love by posting lyrics from angsty, indie bands and filling out online quizzes, taking particular care at how funny and girlfriend-material I was, even though I’d never been a girlfriend so I didn’t know. I didn’t manage to attract the attention of anyone at all, even though I happily Myspace friended everyone in the North East.

I did, however, hang out with a good friend of mine every Wednesday instead of going to English Language class (phonetics? No thank you!). He went to a nearby college and would pick me up so we could hang out at his house; we’d watch really old movies and occasionally share a joint, chatting a lot and then I’d leave, so I could get home in time to pretend I’d actually been at college learning all day and not sitting watching shit on tv and indulging in illegal activities with a very short human my mother didn’t much like. It was during one of these Wednesdays that I turned to my friend and said, quite simply:

“Would you like to have sex with me?”

Given that he knew what had happened to me and had known me rebuff every single one of his attempts at flirting since we met at the age of fifteen, he was undoubtedly shocked. But, at seventeen, I was quite adorable, my hips and breasts hadn’t quite exploded to the size they are now and wouldn’t for two years (puberty rather than obesity), but I had mousy brown hair and massive blue/green eyes and my glasses made me look geeky, but not so much that I became hideous. Naturally he said yes and I informed him that it was for research purposes only. We shook hands and made our way to his bedroom.

Sex was okay. It wasn’t great, it wasn’t horrible. I didn’t really enjoy having sex with this person, but would for a few weeks before dropping off the face of the earth in pursuit of someone else to explore my sexuality with. Foreplay was non-existent and I never came. Also once the condom got stuck inside of me and I had some kind of emotional breakdown that my skin would grow around the condom and eventually I would have to have it removed because the growth inside me got too big; I’d have to give birth to it and the doctor would frown and chastise me for being so careless with a condom. Anyway, it put me off condoms and this person quite grotesquely and that was that.

My sexual exploration also never really took off the ground as much as I would have liked it to and truth be told, I didn’t actually achieve orgasm with another human until I was twenty three, which seems really unfair, but also perhaps because my vagina eventually thought OH MY GOD, I am so sick of her prodding and poking, let’s just give her an orgasm and maybe she’ll stop! Which I can imagine her doing because she’s a bit of a bitch. I was using sex toys during this stint, which seemed to be the only way I could achieve orgasm for a very, very long time, which is probably why I hold them in such high esteem now.

In a way, Ryan Gosling did save my sex life and I think it’s probably because his beard is just too damn sexy to resist. The Notebook also acts as a kind of cathartic piece of cinema because it reminds me of being a young girl so desperate to fall in love and experience waking up with someone who looked at me as though I were the only girl in existence to evoke any form of passion in their heart, but then also that, after many, many, tearful afternoons of watching Gosling FINALLY get the woman that he wanted, that it was something that would eventually happen and as a result, I would have to stop fearing sex and embrace it.

I’m not trying to justify or defend what The Scumbag did, but in a way, it did shape who I am today and my sex life and how open I am about discussing it and how truly important I think it is, stems from that one horrible experience; it made me who I am today and even though it was a terrible experience, I have moved on from it and become the Doris we all know and love (and loathe) today!

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Why Ryan Gosling Ruined my Sex Life.

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When I was younger, recently emerging from the innocence of childhood into my perpetually moody, tempestuous adolescent phase, sex became a major focus in my life. Not in terms of enjoyment, or indeed, participation, especially not knowledge on the topic, but a kind of intrepid fascination; like, I imagine, people who spend their life dedicated to atheism, witnessing a miracle and changing their lives to repent their sinful ways to a deity who still may not exist; sex was something I was fascinated by and I believed, once I had sex, life would be put into perspective and everything would just make sense, you know?

Funnily enough, during my first tentative steps into adolescence, I didn’t even explore sex from my perspective, but became obsessed with talking about it. Nonchalantly, like it was something I was incredibly learned in. I didn’t say much other than ‘sex’, it would just pour out of my mouth and other youths would look at me in what I hoped was a certain admiration, like, ‘oh, look at her being so knowledgeable about something we know nothing about… Let’s worship her!’ In hindsight, I think everyone thought I was crackers, but I likened myself to those French girls in the movies, the ones with the really long cigarettes, in stripy tops with a floppy hat resting casually on my perfect hair. I always have red lips in my fantasies about young me being an adult before my time, which is presumably why I’m so obsessed with a red lip now. Anyway, it was something I knew nothing at all about, but I conveyed myself with a certain confidence, so that people would approach me to talk about their own sexual secrets. I became the Mother Theresa of my friend circles sex life.

One time, a friend approached me and told me that her boyfriend’s mother found a used condom on their kitchen floor and now hated her, thinking she was promiscuous. She was heartbroken about it, because he started ignoring her and sometimes, in front of groups of friends, would make derogatory comments about her vagina. I attempted to soothe her with my motherly tones, that only the tallest girl in school can convey (never someone boys fancy, always, always a mother like figure) and told her the following: Never let a man judge your vagina, it is yours alone to use as you please and his mother should be pleased you are both practicing safe sex! Her anger could eventually lead him to impregnate someone… Fear of condoms is a thing, Claire. I helped her move on from this awkward situation and eventually they got back together. I think she quoted my words of wisdom to him and decided to make me maid of honour at their wedding (no, of course it didn’t happen. You have sex at fourteen with a boy who makes it the entire student body’s knowledge, then of course you don’t get married!).

Internally, I was not as nonchalant about sex as I would like to be. Truthfully, I didn’t fully understand what a blow job was until I was seventeen. For this, I happily blame my father, who, when watching Highlander told me and my sister that a blow job was what you do to a car after you wash it, to make sure it dries properly. So, sitting drinking cocktails at a Wetherspoons in Durham one day, a friend tells me she gave someone a blowjob and, incredulously, I replied ‘LIAR, HE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A CAR!’ Anyway, I soon found out that a blow job was exactly the same as sucking someone’s cock, which also confused me because blow would imply that you actually blow onto someone’s penis, which, from what I’ve been told is rather painful. Never mind, back to the point: When it came to sex from my own perspective, I’m afraid I was more a rose coloured glasses kind of girl than the brazen, confident French girl I so desperately conveyed to others.

In truth, I spent a lot of my time fantasising about love, rather than about sex. I watched a lot of romantic films and instead of thinking about the act itself, I thought more about the type of person I would like to give my virginity to. In keeping with my tradition of obsession, the one man who really set alight to my loins and passions was Ryan Gosling. From the moment I saw his moody, beardy face, working away at some wood as he valiantly tried to restore the home he fell in love and lost his own virginity in, there was really nothing else I wanted in life, just Ryan Gosling (or a human with a beard, which kinda worked out well, all things considered!). I also never really thought about having sex… You know the bit in The Notebook (the director’s cut, not the regular release) and Gosling picks up McAdams and tosses her onto the bed and all the feathers from the pillows billow up into the air and float romantically back down onto the bed as he gently takes off her stockings? That bit. Also the bit afterwards where they snuggle and the next morning when he wakes her up with loads of rose petals leading to the room where she paints. That’s it. I didn’t think about (whispers) Penetration. In fact, that had never, in my entire fourteen years of existence crossed my mind. Seriously.

So, my first time was terrifying for a multitude of reasons. If you’ve read my blog previously, then you’ll realise that my first time was actually the result of being trapped in a room, forced onto a bed where someone forced a really disgusting looking appendage into my previously untouched lady parts. It was horrible, it was over pretty quickly and my hymen shouted nothing but abuse at me for days, but all in all it was over pretty quickly. I can’t really remember the events, I can only remember how awful I felt. How no one would believe me and that Ryan Gosling would never do that. I do remember vowing that I would never have sex again and that men were horrible and I should fear them. Which I did for a long time. I can safely say that sex didn’t really put my mind into perspective and that neither the act or my feelings on the matter made any form of sense… it was horrible, plain and simple.

I know that people tend not to have much luck during their first time, that unless you’re really lucky, that for the most part first time sex is horrendous and embarrassing, but for me, I’d never even thought about tearing hymens or bodies slapping together awkwardly and out of sync; I’d thought about the romance, about love and feeling so comfortable with someone that it simply happened in an idyllic, romantic setting. Even if it was just in a boring bed; it would feel like I was having sex under the stars and it would be beautiful. It was about choice for me, about being so besotted with someone that sex didn’t even matter, but I didn’t get that choice. I often think to myself now that if I had simply not been so talkative about sex, so helpful to my friends and less focused on Ryan Gosling and more on my own reality that it wouldn’t have happened. I’m not trying to blame myself here, not at all. I’d only first kissed a boy in that same year and it was horrendous and not at all what I was expecting. I’d only done it because I was being peer pressured; a year before hand a boy had tried to kiss me and I’d come over all medieval like and practically fainted at the idea of a boy touching my tongue with his own… I wasn’t ready. That’s the whole top and bottom of it and the only blame here is the blame I place on the scumbag who thought it was okay to rape a virgin. A really childish looking virgin too, I think I was wearing a bow! But, if I’d perhaps been more realistic about sex, or, even, if I hadn’t talked about sex like I was some demure, smoking French woman, I’d have not ended up in a situation where I was pinned down and raped because he thought I was begging for it. Truth be told, all I ever really wanted was someone to tuck my hair behind my ear, hold my face and kiss me like Gosling does. Fucking Gosling; maybe he’s to blame too.

It took me a long time to get over my first time and did, genuinely, refrain from sex for a very long time. If it hadn’t have been for one of my best friends, a Wednesday afternoon and a hand shake, I might not have had sex again, but that’s a story for a different time…

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Believe me, I Would Love to go Running, I Just Don’t Think My Tits Would Let Me.

About six months ago I decided to change my life completely; I decided to eat better in the house and not just shoving some pasta in a pan and making do because I’m too lazy to make something interesting and full of nutritional goodness. I decided that I would exercise and I bought a Slendertone (which is basically just a torture device for your abdominal muscles. In my experience it coaxes them out of hiding by coursing thousands of watts* worth of electricity through your body incessantly and cruelly and sometimes I exact my revenge by wearing it when I drink wine or eat pizza) and I also walk more places, like up and down the stairs numerous times until I lose the will to live and also, instead of waiting for someone to pick me up to go to Tesco, I wander there with the sole purpose of buying cleaning products and come home with two bottles of wine and a packet of those amazing Phileas Fogg crisps that were on offer for a pound for a while. Some of it has paid off rather dramatically and if you look at pictures of me six months ago (which I refuse to show you) compared to now (which can be widely seen on the internet in various places. Not those places) I have lost what I can accurately describe as a fuck tonne of weight and now look like a relatively shaggable twenty five year old woman again (when I wear clothes. And in the dark).

Anyway, today I was running for a bus and this is something that I hate doing for numerous reasons:

1. Bus drivers should be polite. At the end of the day, the bus was early and I was pretty much nearly there, so he should have thought ‘you know what, that lass is in a pencil skirt and her bag looks heavy, I’ll stop and let her on my relatively empty bus, because I’m a human and we should be good to one another.’ Also they’re fucking paid to pick us up and I was about FIVE paces from the bus stop anyway, the pedantic little fucker!

2. Last time I ran for that bus, one of my tits fell out my bra and half the Quayside saw my left tit smiling at everyone in the nearby vicinity and when I got on the bus and tried to secretly readjust my tit situation, an old man watched me whilst breathing heavily and adjusted his pant region with far too much vigour than was appropriate, I thought. Not because we were in a public place, but because I’m a firm believer that tits should come in pairs. Much similar to balls – I mean, look at Hitler, he only had one and everyone sings hateful songs about it, even now.

3. DO I LOOK LIKE I RUN? Seriously… a woman in a pencil skirt, tights, a coat and scarf draped over her arm with a heavy and rather giant tote bag in one hand, sweating like a pig because the sun is beating down on her and she’s wearing a thick business type blazer… Who can honestly expect that girl to run? Not even looking at the type of girl I am… the only place I am likely to run is to the fridge. Or anywhere that gives out free wine.

These thoughts extend far further than just public transport and inappropriate exertion-related clothing, because, generally, I have never really ran as a form of exercise, and with very good reason. I don’t mean to toot my own horn or anything (but am going to anyway, because often I feel that I need to brag about it, but then I complain about it, thus making me humble and adorable… Shut up) I don’t think my lady chesticles were really made for running. You know when you were younger and your parents would have guests round so they’d use the special dinner plates that no one else got to take advantage of because they were more for show than anything else? I think that’s what my tits are. They’re fabulous to look at and more than ample and comfortable to snuggle into, but running or any form of exercise and my tits revolt. ‘NO!’ they cry in unison. It’s the same when I try to force them into a shirt that requires buttons or a fitted dress; they practically turn green and whisper ‘you wouldn’t like us when we’re angry’ until I put them back into a comfy vest or a fancy top with ample boob room, they exhale happily and kiss the floaty fabric whenever it touches their collective cleavage. Believe me, I would like to be able to run, I think it would be a really freeing thing to do; something that would allow you to run away from your problems and run towards the things you’d like to do and it’s evidently a great form of exercise, but I just don’t think my tits would allow it.

I’m not sure if there are any other big breasted women out there who panic about their breasts in the same way I panic about mine. I sometimes feel that they hold me hostage and make my life a bit difficult. I have had women shout at me for owning breasts because they have caught their men staring, but not realising that when I wear a high necked top it makes me look about fifty stone, which is why I try to refrain (also: way to be a sister, sistah) from doing so. I have invested in a lot of floaty, summery scarves so that I can attempt to hide them, but they’re just something that I can’t escape. They are, for want of a better word, ridiculous. 

I expressed my desire to run to a friend, who assumed I was only using my tits as an excuse to not run, so I decided to give them a preview as to what I look like when I decide to take on any form of exercise. This was his reaction:

Fucking hell… If you ran towards me I wouldn’t know whether to batten down the hatches and prepare for waror write my own eulogy – Death by tits: Why this man died happy.

See. They’re a menace to society, my waistline and the mortality of formerly homosexual men.

 

 

 

 

*Not accurate at all. I’m a liar and bad at electricity.

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Why That One Guy on the Internet Can Go Fuck Himself.

The above is a working title for an introduction I intend to write for my future autobiography. The general title of the novel will be, as ever, The History of Dildos: The Story of a Perpetually Single Red Wine Addict. You might laugh right now, but just you watch. I will write it and people will FLOCK to the shops to buy it as soon as it opens and I will read one of the funnier chapters in a book shop and people will sigh and tell me that I am their hero. Just you watch. But, I am not at the stage yet where I can describe myself as being ‘perpetually single’. I don’t really believe any of my teenage relationships count as being anything other than a few months of awkwardness and ill-advised sexual experiences followed by intense shame and self loathing. Either way, even those were so few and far between that I think instead of ‘perpetually’, ‘constantly’ is more apt. Equally so, even though I am currently a single lady, I wasn’t single for the past five years, so I have been far more ‘couple’ than ‘single’ for all of my dating life, which, in my opinion began when I was nineteen and finally grew into the whole awkward, doe eyed idiot phase of my existence instead of just being totally disgusted by the fact that I wasn’t the girl all the bad guys wanted and developing hugely significant crushes solely on the more unattainable and beautiful men that I have known, feeling the bitter sting of rejection solely through omission, because I am the queen of friend-zoning myself purely by talking and existing. Anyway, none of this matters, nor does it bare any relevance to the topic of my blog. I was just letting you all know that I will eventually be in a position where I will use my blog to catapult me into an accidental dream career and people will be desperate to hear my words in an audio book read by me, in my Geordie accent, laughing at all the bits I think are brilliant, prompting you all to laugh along and think I am a comedic genius. I am also about thirty per cent confident that my tactics will work, so shut your face, Judgey Mcjudgerson. Ahem. Sorry, here’s the actual blog (and if you’ve just started reading here, as opposed to the beginning because I’ve emboldened it, don’t read the rest, it’s not meant for you):

I receive a lot of emails and correspondence from people who, to be quite honest, applaud me for my honesty when it comes to blogging and writing about my life. I do agree that it does take a certain level of confidence and an I don’t give a fuck attitude to be able to write about myself and the horrific things that I have done in the most public setting imaginable. Slightly less embarrassing than standing at Grey’s Monument in Newcastle with a microphone shouting “I once knocked myself out after a blow job because I was laughing too much!” And having passers-by look at me with sheer disgust; on the internet it is much easier, because I can’t see any of you and even if you do have something horrible to say, I will assume that you are jealous of my comedic prowess and move on, confident that I am a genius – it’s a win-win situation for me, you see? But, as with anyone else who counts themselves as a Lifestyle Blogger, you’ll agree that it does take some pretty enormous balls to be able to talk about yourself in a candid manner and, until a few months ago, I didn’t actually realise I had huge, metaphorical testicles, so it’s something I am enjoying exploring both enthusiastically and wholeheartedly.

I have also received a few emails from men, who have questioned my reasons for writing and suggested that my topics of discussion weren’t very womanly. I agree, of course, that they aren’t, unless you count all the Ryan Gosling references, in which case, men, you should all be aware that every single woman has very unladylike thoughts about him and you should just accept that as one of those facts of life. You know, like women do fake orgasms, but have never done that with you. That type of life fact. Anyway, today I received a rather scathing direct message on Twitter from a user who will remain anonymous (because I’m a lady and that’s the type of shit we do for people), basically, in about 280 characters told me that I was going to die alone and am not at all attractive, not only because my eyes are too big, but also because no man could ever want me to be his girlfriend because I swear too much and make too many references to things that men don’t find attractive in a woman. I didn’t respond, but fully intend on sending him a link to this post in order to be abundantly clear when I tell him:

I don’t give a fuck.

 

You see, pal, about five months ago I came home to find that the person I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with had moved out without telling me and cut off all communications with me so that I couldn’t even ask him why he threw five years down the drain and left me in thousands of pounds worth of debts I didn’t even know about. Since then, through my friends and family talking to me and bringing me out of the serious funk that he had left me in, I came to realise that for the past five years I have also been manipulated and controlled by him and his mother, who in turn, controlled him. On a daily basis, I was made to feel really small and that my literary pursuits weren’t good enough to be published, that my writing was shit and that instead of pursuing a career; I should be settling down and eating as many carbs as I could in order to house a baby. I was encouraged to quit my job and focus on a baby I didn’t even want, by both my boyfriend and his mother because that’s how their family behaved. For a while, I rebelled against it and did what the fuck I wanted any way and he left me in 2011. I changed myself entirely in order to win him back and became exactly what he wanted, and in doing so, lost myself, completely and became a dutiful girlfriend who put her dreams and life on hold to sit in the house every weekend and miss out on so many fun opportunities and distance myself from all of my friends, just to keep him happy. Don’t get me wrong I loved him so much, but now that I am not with him, I see that I sacrificed far too much for far too little in return, other than getting a TV and an iPad that he forgot to take with him when he left.

I’ve never been an overly confident person and for the majority of my life I allowed myself to be forced into so many different things because I didn’t know what it took to be accepted. All I ever wanted was to be loved my someone and when I met my boyfriend and realised that he actually fancied me, I didn’t believe it, because I always had people telling me that I was too tall, that I wasn’t skinny enough or that I wasn’t particularly pretty enough and that I shouldn’t try so hard to be funny or I shouldn’t talk so smart… I haven’t been myself for a long time and in these past five months I have had time to reflect on my relationship and how miserable, antagonistic, paranoid and down right nasty I became to people who had once thought of me as friends, I realise that everything I have done up until starting this blog hasn’t been ME. For the first time in half a decade I can safely say that I like myself. Actually, fuck that, I love myself and I don’t think that that’s a bad thing at all. Since starting this blog and communicating with people via social media, who blog too, new doors have been opened to me and has also made me feel happy and more like myself than I ever have and I wake up every day with a smile on my face. It doesn’t sound like a really great life, but to me, it’s the best. I’m not one of those people who are really hard to please, I honestly just like to smile – and because of this blog and the people who enjoy it I do and in doing so, have become a more confident girl to the girl I was last year (last year I couldn’t leave the house by myself and now I toddle off to different parts of the country to hang out with people who actually think I’m nice and funny).

If, as you suggest, all men want to be with a really beautiful woman with perky tits and a perfect body, who doesn’t really have opinions or a sense of humour, then you’re absolutely right in saying that I will die alone. And that’s okay, because, as you so politely implied: I will indeed spend a long time fucking myself; because GOD FORBID that someone want to have sex with a woman who actually likes herself. And that’s okay too, because I am excellent company and have a lot of sex toys. Oops. Sorry, will rephrase that for you: ‘Don’t indulge in self-love because it’s not very lady like’. Is that okay? Prick.

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Thanks for the Cock-Blocking, Parents!

When you’re a kid – especially when you’re a teenager – you always say to yourself that you’re never going to raise your children the way your parents raised you. Like when you begged to dye your hair bright pink and they said no because you’d look ridiculous: fuck you guys, my kids are going to have the BEST and most OUTLANDISH hair ever! Or when you were banned from going to parties because despite how many times you said you weren’t going to drink because it was entirely irresponsible and my liver hasn’t even properly formed yet, I don’t want to get cancer or anything, you guys! Look at how responsible I am! That kind of parental guidance that has you thinking about certain injustices way into your mid-twenties and makes you feel that their shitty (excellent) parenting led you to not experience things that you wanted to experience and, in the most idealistic and nonsensical way possible you blame your parents and their shitty (excellent) rules and boundaries that essentially, cock-blocked you throughout your teenaged years. Way to go, parents, thanks for loving me… Not!

All throughout Comprehensive School, I was madly in love with a boy (who shall remain nameless because I can’t think of a fake name that embodies just how cool this guy was. Like, even his name was cool) whose bright blue eyes and jet black hair made my heart flutter from the very first day I laid eyes on him, at the tender age of twelve. I wasn’t all that cool; I was too tall and my limbs seemed to grow at an alarming daily rate and I wore glasses that made twelve year old me look like I was constantly in wait to stand in for Daniel Radcliffe should he not be able to play Harry Potter any more, but I was pretty smitten with this guy from day one. And this love would continue until I was sixteen and then never saw him again because he wasn’t a super nerd like me. It was difficult to fancy someone who, to me, seemed entirely unobtainable. Like, even girls in my class would whisper when he walked by our tables and say things like “we’d never stand a chance with him, he’s so amazing!” and it made me feel a little bit like he was a celebrity and my adoration simply grew, despite not having a chance. As I said, I didn’t have much going for me in the looks department. And his on/off girlfriend (which always seemed a bit too adult for me at the age of twelve… Like what kind of problems could they really have?) was one of the cool girls.

The cool girls of my age actually looked like fully formed women; their tiny breasts were far larger than my non-existent ones and their school bags were like the kind of bags I take on nights out with me now. Their hair, usually blonde, were all worn in super thick high pony tails and their gym kits were always the en-vogue brand of the season. I was not that cool. I had no-brand PE trainers because my parents were smart and didn’t see the need to spend £50 on trainers that I was going to wear solely in the PE hall (I’m sure my dad’s argument would have been “you have expensive trainers for kicking about in, you don’t need expensive trainers for an hour of PE a week!” and my PE uniform was of the same vain. My parents’ financial responsibility and general logic was a burden to my desperate desire not to be the too tall Harry Potter look-a-like I was. My only saving grace was (and always has been) my sense of humour and my pretty excellent taste in music and I had that whole ‘lived in Holland for a while’ exoticness going on, which actually did grab my school-crush’s attention. Take that you big breasted bitches with your bouncy pony tails!

I should probably point out that he didn’t really know where Holland was and my music taste wasn’t really his kind of thing; he was way into that so called music that sounds like someone is performing an exorcism over a really loud and incessant beat and I was pretty heavily into the likes of The Rolling Stones, The Clash and I think at that point I was still pretty besotted with Good Charlotte and CKY, which prompted a lot of people to call me a GOTH, but I was always generally well liked because of my sense of humour and ability to use big words and throughout school, my crush and I bounced our sense of humour off one another and that was pretty much it as far as our romance went. In my head, he and I were going to get married, but in reality my parents’ shitty (and yes I’m still calling it shitty because THEY RUINED MY LOVE LIFE) parental skills stopped what could have been the Ben Affleck and J.LO relationship of 2001-2005. Thanks again, guys.

When we were thirteen, my best friend’s family were going away for the weekend and leaving her at home, under the illusion that she would have her best girl friends round for a weekend of film watching and general girly banter. Which of course, was the plan, however, she did also invite a bunch of boys round and managed to get her hands on a lot of booze (how did we ever manage this? I never had any money, but I was always drunk… Then again, I still am, I think it’s just a Geordie knack). I had never been to a party before, other than the parties we had when we were kids and I was guessing there would be no pin the tail on the donkey or, indeed, parental chaperones of any kind. However, with this lack of knowledge surrounding teenaged parties, I didn’t know what to expect and of course, like a total ding-bat, I told my parents the truth: That my friend was having a party because her parents were away for the weekend, there will be boys there, and can I go too? I was genuinely surprised by their resounding NO followed by a you must think I was born yesterday style lecture. What the fuck was their problem? It was a party not a satanic ritual followed by mass suicide. Anyway, I couldn’t go and I was pretty put out about the whole affair. I remember sitting on my bed all weekend receiving text messages from my best friend asking me where I was (I lied and said I was doing something way better, like sky diving or hanging out with my friend Mick Jagger) and weeping dramatically at the unknown, until they realised that I wasn’t coming and got on with their, what turned out to be, AMAZING party – a party people would actually talk about for years to comeSo, when Monday rolled around and I got to school, pushed slightly out of my friend group because I didn’t have the inside knowledge on the past weekend, I felt like a giant heap of steaming shit. That was, until my best friend grabbed me by the arm and said, “when he got to mine, he kept asking where you were, like literally all night!” and I swooned like I was in an old fashioned film and Etta James’ At Last began playing in my head (not really, but now when I think about how excited I was by this, I can totally imagine modern day me singing that song out loud and swinging round a lamppost). Monday was also the day we had music in the afternoons and music lessons were my absolute favourite because our music teacher could actually never be arsed to teach us and just sat us in front of keyboards, told us to learn a song with our headphones on and locked himself in his office, which meant that the majority of us didn’t play at all, but caused general mischief until our teacher came out and screamed at us. In hindsight, I probably should have paid more attention because I always wanted to learn how to play the piano, but at the same time, I also really wanted a first kiss and at the age of thirteen, that seemed way more important than musical talent (until at the age of fourteen, I discovered the boys who played guitar in the year above then I realised its importance). Anyway, I still remember this lesson as being the best lesson in the history of all lessons because he sat behind me and kept playing with my hair. I would turn round and we’d have a conversation, usually ending in fits of laughter and we’d just stare in each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity until one of us looked away, blushing. We seriously had the hots for each other.

The flirtation lasted, horrifically platonically, until we left school. Alas, it was never meant to be, because my parents obviously heard my ramblings of a teenager in love to everyone and anyone who would listen, and decided to put a stop to any of this boy behaviour before it grew wings and also out of control. But the reason I’m posting this blog post is because I saw him recently and he still made me blush and grin like an absolute maniac and I did exactly the same to him and it made me really angry that instead of having the most perfect first kiss with my most perfect and hilarious school crush, I kissed some ghoul human who shoved his tongue as far down my throat as he could get it, which, if you were watching, looked like he was the mama bird and I was the baby bird, which makes me feel a little sick. It also makes me wonder what if? And if I had gone to that party and let him touch my non-boobs and kiss me, would I have taken different routes in life? Instead of discovering those boys who played guitar and wanting to be the next Marianne Faithfull and kissing a boy who couldn’t even play guitar all that well (and he played bass guitar, which was always my least favourite) because he was there and I was fourteen and hadn’t had a proper kiss yet  and had drank a lot of Iron Bru flavoured WKD, if I’d gone to that party and kissed my school crush a year before and then began socialising with him outside of school with all of his strangely adult friends (they also took drugs, which was never my thing, but you know, Amy Winehouse was pretty well behaved before she met her crush) that my life would have turned out any differently. I can guarantee you I probably would be more tanned and a bit less chubby because when I saw him, I literally stopped breathing for about twenty seconds because dayum! He was a beauty and his arms were like the size of both my legs wrapped together in a neat little muscle bound parcel. I think I might have re-developed my school crush.

Any way, this is one of the many stories in my life where my parents have inadvertently ruined my life in the short term. I’m sure there are plenty more, but I was thinking about this today and got really angry about it, so there you have it. But there is a lesson to be learned, either for parents who have small children, or people who intend to procreate and not let your children make the same mistakes you did: Let them. My parents tried to shield me from the bad things in life as much as they could and whilst their parental guidance has always been for the benefit of me, it has also worked to my detriment too and saw me in situations that I should never have been forced into. Like, oh, let our daughter hang out with the game nerds and band geeks, they are pretty non-threatening because of all the Metallica songs they obsess over then when you’re locked in a room with the most predatory human ever, crying because he won’t let you out until you touch his cock and let him force himself onto you, then you think BAM my parenting could have been a bit better there and my fifteen year old daughter wouldn’t be terrified of being in rooms alone with men she doesn’t really know very well  ten years later. Not that that’s anyone’s fault other than the fuckwit who did that to me, but still, my school-crush would never have forced me to touch his man parts. So really, you should have let me go to that party when I was thirteen, mam and dad! GOD!

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This is My Life?

I have recently taken to reading biographies, mostly written by women I admire greatly and also by people who make me absolutely howl at the moon with laughter in public places. I do however, wonder why biographers always start at the very beginning – birth or childhood. I mean, we all know they were born and were tiny humans before they became relatively functioning adults, so why start there? I decided that when I write a biography (to which I have already committed the name: The History of Dildos: The Story of a Perpetually Single Wine Addict) I won’t start at the beginning. I would start half way through my life; with a story that bears absolutely no relevance in my life other than it was something insignificant that happened to me one Tuesday morning whilst I waited for a phone call. I like to imagine that the reader would grab their books/kindles a little tighter and think that my preamble must mean that the phone call is going to be life changing for me. The reader, of course, would be right to assume that the beginning of my life as I would come to know it would rest upon that one phone call – fiction has taught us to be endlessly optimistic dreamers – but it wouldn’t be. It would just be another story with no real meaning or moral because life is full of disappointing endings and we should just get used to it. Either way, I am still going to tell you how I would start my biography and hopefully with the knowledge that it doesn’t lead onto anything particularly interesting, you can exhale impatiently and just read it as it is meant to be read: As something really shit that happened to me one Tuesday morning as I waited for a phone call.

Chapter One: Tuesday Morning Murder Squad

For a few days now, the fog had rolled in with the dawn and engulfed our tiny, ugly town in mist so thick that it caused intense discussions between people who argued Stanley looked like Silent Hill and others who insisted it looked more like Brigadoon. Then there was me, who decided it was a horrific hybrid of the two and that we’d eventually see Pyramid Head dragging Gene Kelly’s bloody body through our streets, his dying wails of ‘Brigadoooon, Brigadoooon!’ would echo through the streets and we’d all stand at our windows, peeking from behind the curtains, clutching our chests melodramatically and weeping for the loss of one of the greats. I say this, because, if there was ever a situation where Silent Hill and Brigadoon met, it would definitely mean that Gene Kelly had never really died and had also stayed youthful and handsome as he was in every film he ever made. Come to think of it, did Gene Kelly die? He might still be alive, in which case all he’d need is a bit of cosmetic surgery and he’d definitely be up for the film I’m creating in my head: Silent Hill VS. Brigadoon: Our Fog is Better than Your Fog, which will undoubtedly be a Box Office Hit.

However, this Tuesday morning, the fog had lifted and with it, so did all the negative thoughts pressing on the simple minds of Stanley’s inhabitants. They all woke up feeling invigorated and productive, and in some cases, people woke up and didn’t want to beat their partners or dodge their taxes. The lifting of the fog had changed our town forever (it hadn’t, it was still the exact same shit hole that it was before, I’m just being dramatic). I woke up late because I’d stayed up all night unable to sleep because I’d watched American Horror Story and tried to distract myself into sleep by watching Kate and Leopold but was far too upset by Meg Ryan’s face in order to enjoy it properly (and her hair, what was up with her hair?!), so didn’t manage to fall asleep until after that. By this time, the sun was fully up and I’d missed two important phone calls. I knew from my voicemail that one of them would call me back in the afternoon, so I decided to hop in the shower and refresh myself for a day of writing/phone call taking/Twitter complaining.

When I got out of the shower, which is in the en-suite pretty much directly opposite my bed, I heard a loud bang, which sounded like someone had just entered my house. Considering I live alone and the only person who has a spare key is my sister (because she was here one day and I couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed to lock her out, I gave her a key, should an emergency similar to this ever arise), I was instantly terrified. I was also sitting naked in the middle of my bed, which in hindsight, would probably be far more terrifying to any potential burglar (on a Tuesday morning) than he/she would be to me, but I didn’t think that until just now; at the time, I was imagining the police finding my lifeless, naked, bloody body and one of the younger, rookie type policemen remarking on my tummy rolls and wobbly thighs and saying “Well, even pigs are fuckable to farmers!” and ho-hoing with laughter as the lead officer shakes his head, suppressing a chortle with a forced grimace. He would also make a mental note to tell that joke to his family later, around the dinner table, where they would all laugh heartily and then say a prayer for me and beg God forgiveness for laughing over my chubby, dead body. I could still hear shuffling around my house and part of me wondered if it was actually Pyramid Head, upon finding out about the film I was creating in my head (I don’t know if he’s psychic, I never played the Silent Hill games and when I watched the last film, I spent the majority shouting “LOOK, IT’S JON SNOW! HE KNOWS NOTHING! NOTHING!” (I watched it drunk okay?!)) and came to have a discussion about which direction his character would take, but either way, the thought terrified me, so, after sitting for another few minutes, poised awkwardly – and still naked – I decided to get up and grab some essentials: Clothes, bra, socks and also my weapon of choice, a stair spindle which fell out of my stair case when I decided to play football with my yoga ball (what?).

And this is how I ended up locking myself in my en-suite dressed in tracksuit bottoms, a Marvel Heroes t-shirt sitting on the toilet seat with a stair spindle in one hand and a bottle of spray-able bleach in the other, head tilted to one side as I listened to the noises my house was making, convincing myself that whoever was in my house had heard me slam the bathroom door shut, lock it and then slam the toilet seat down so I could use it as a chair and was running up the stairs with automatic weapons and a team. My mind was reeling, I’d convinced myself that it would be exactly like Law Abiding Citizen and I would be arse raped whilst my imaginary husband (who, for all intents and purposes would look like Gerard Butler) watched, unable to do anything to save me because he was tied up. And also imaginary. If you’re still reading this, you’re probably wondering what would prompt me to want to live alone given the fact that I was locked in my en-suite, terrified of being murdered on a Tuesday morning and I could tell you that I had no choice in the matter, but I could also tell you that I did, because I could have had a house mate, or simply gotten involved with seven different men and asked them to come over on allocated nights every week so that I was never alone on a morning should the Tuesday morning murder squad be in town, but I didn’t want to get a reputation, so that’s why I live alone.

I don’t really know how long I was in the bathroom for, but I was texting my sister who was convinced that my texting had something to do with it being April Fools’ Day, wasn’t taking me very seriously at all. Instead of replying to my texts with increasing nonchalance, she should have really bolted out the house, got in her car and brought a SWAT team to save me from almost certain doom. Because, what’s worse than being found naked and wobbly by judgmental policemen? Being found sat on my toilet seat surrounded by bits of my stair case and bleach, that’s what.

For those of you who know me – and I guess for those who don’t, but think you do – I am not the most patient of human beings and eventually, began to tire of this game of cat and mouse I was playing with gangsters who’d mistaken me for someone who owed them money and were lining up outside my bedroom, Tommy Guns in hand, waiting to hear me move so they could shoot the shit out of my walls. I decided that if John McLane was in this situation, he wouldn’t be sitting in a bathroom with bits of broken furniture; he’d be out there, constructing weapons out of tampons and ripping open his feet on bits of broken glass. And I did an online quiz once that said if I were an 80s Action Hero, I’d totally be him, so I decided to take my fate into my own hands and the super villains and their henchman at the other side of my door didn’t actually scare me. Super powers be damned! I also realised that I hadn’t taken any snacks into the bathroom and was pretty hungry and that if Jean Claude van Damme in The Expendables was going to kick a knife into my pretty chest, I should at least have a stomach full of ill advised snacks first. It’s only fair.

I stood up, gripped my stair spindle and bleach bottle tighter and unlocked the door. I tentatively pushed the door handle and tried to open the door. It wouldn’t work. My heart began to pound as I realised that the Russian spies, sent to murder me because of a case of mistaken identity (no, I’m not the beautiful double agent you thought I was!), had locked me in and were rigging my house to explode by turning all of my gas hobs on in the kitchen. It would look like suicide, especially because I’d locked myself in the bathroom! I’d forever be known as a coward; my parents would spit on my casket as I was lowered into the ground and people would only visit my Facebook page to leave abuse and inform newcomers that I had also murdered my entire street because I lived on a terrace. I’d be a national pariah. I then noticed that I hadn’t unlocked the door all the way and chastised myself for being so dramatic and pushed open the door. I immediately swung my weapon (stair spindle) out in front of me and screamed ‘FUCK OFF, YOU!’ to the air as I practised all my non-professional karate moves. I even kicked the air. Opening my eyes, I realised that the room was empty and my heart dropped because I knew then that The Grudge wouldn’t just hang out, waiting for me in an obvious place. I was going to have to search for it. Shit. I did eventually search the entire house and despite kicking open all of my bedroom doors rather aggressively, lest Voldemort be waiting to wand kill me from behind the door (because my kicks are that aggressive that the door would have knocked him out cold) I was completely alone. I was finally able to breathe properly and eat something.

If there was a clause in my biographer’s agreement (not sure if that’s a thing) that stated that a moral was necessary for the ending of every chapter, the moral for this story would be either not to live alone if you have a propensity for dramatics and also, don’t watch romantic comedies instead of sleeping, especially if they’re not very good.

So yes, that would definitely be the introduction to my biography and from there, it would become further removed from reality until it was a full on sci-fi comedy with romantic alien interludes and you’d finish it and genuinely not know if you’d just read a pretty accurate biography full of far fetched metaphors, or the ramblings of a mad woman. Then you’d Google me and realise that I’d died long ago in a murder suicide pact with my elderly lover and you’d discover that you hadn’t read anything it all – instead you were in a coma because you’d been there when they electrocuted me (because I lied about the suicide, I only killed my elderly lover for his money) and I had rigged the entire building to be electrocuted and only you survived, haunted by my life’s non-existent achievements. Sleep well. (Insert laugh from the end of the Thriller video here).

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If you Fancy me and You Know it, be a Fucking Weirdo!

As a blogger, and a woman, I feel it is my duty to share with fellow women/anyone who appreciates a good laugh at the expense of an anonymous stranger, a few of the chat up lines I have received via social media. As someone who has always loved social media, being single and in my  mid-twenties is probably not the most opportune time to be re-joining the internet and socialising with men via text/internet. Because they’re, for the most part, fucking mental. Here are a couple of chat up lines I’ve received. If you want to contribute your own to the comment section afterwards, feel free, I’m super excited.

This first one contains Game of Thrones spoilers so if you’re, like me, not into spoilers at all AVOID IT! JUST DON’T LOOK!!

“If I were your brother, I would definitely Lannister you.”

This might be my favourite chat up line of all time and if it wasn’t intensely creepy, I dare say it would have worked. But, who, upon discovering that a girl really liked Game of Thrones then decides to use incest as a legitimate method of flirting with someone. If he were to say I would totally imprison you, murder your dad and then force you to marry my midget uncle I would be ALL OVER it and we’d probably now be married and I’d be pregnant and eating horse hearts, but no, he mentioned incest and now the relationship is dead before it even had a chance to blossom. What a dick.

“I know you’re going through a tough time, but I would love to help jigsaw your heart back together.”

Legitimately did not know what to respond to this one, so I blocked him from both Facebook, Twitter and my phone until he got the hint. Harsh? Maybe, but using lines that cheesy and vomit inducing is not at all good for anyone’s health and I genuinely believe that, given the opportunity, he would have stalked me to the point of murder. And I also have reason to believe he’s the type of person to have a wank over a profile photo, which, if I didn’t know about it, I probably wouldn’t care, but I also imagine he would send me a photo of the aftermath; my printed out face all wet and spunky, ripped a part where the mouth was in a distinctively cock shaped hole of horror.

“Your face could use a smattering of spunk.”

Because of all the health benefits, I imagine.

“You have a really innocent, but really filthy face. Like a naughty child, but not weird.”

Let me just point out to any fellas trying to woo a female with compliments on her face: Eyes, smile, even nose; totally go for it, women love to hear shit like ‘you have really nice eyes’ or ‘your smile could legitimately light up any room, do you want to do science experiments and see if we can harness energy from your STUNNING FACE?’ they might work… Telling a twenty five year old woman she looks like a child, but you still want to have sex with her? All the alarm bells going off, you dirty potential paedophile, you!

“I would love to stay in bed with you all day and watch Disney movies.”

I think sometimes men use these generic, stock chat up lines on women because they’re either too lazy to try or think all women are the same and therefore require exactly the same amount of flattery, wooing and chat up lines before she readily agrees to sit on their faces, but word to the wise, fellas, we aren’t. Not even close. And my idea of having a man in my bed all day definitely does not involve Woody and Buzz in the Toy Story sense of the word. Maybe see the above and realise that any references to childhood when trying to fuck a woman is weird and should be avoided at all costs.

“I can just imagine you riding on my massive cock, your enormous tits bouncing everywhere!”

Not so much a chat up line (although, are any of them, really?) as highly inappropriate. He also once told me that he thought I was really unintelligent and looked a bit easy because I am so clumsy and shy (Oh yes, I know this person, as in: I have met him. And some of his ex girlfriends. He knows some of my best friends very well and still thought saying shit like this was okay). If I wasn’t foaming at the fanny then, I must be now. Also, my tits don’t bounce everywhere. Seriously, if I could also give a tip to any man out there who wants to try and sound sexy through a good old fashioned sexting session (which, for the most part, I have no issue with whatsoever): Don’t be anatomically bizarre. Tits generally stay in the one place and bounce, but not like a lasso or those wacky inflatable arm fellows from Family Guy. And whilst we’re at it, I’m far too pedantic to be sucking someone off whilst hanging upside down, back to front, inside out with my hands all over my fanny. Honestly, learn to write, dick heads.

“If I were Ryan Gosling, you’d definitely be Rachel McAdams.”

 I just can’t even begin to emphasise the sheer amount of cheesiness involved in this… Girls love Ryan Gosling and for the most part, they really love The Notebook. But who does this actually work on? Certainly not a twenty five year old university graduate, that’s for sure. My skin is far too pale and my brain far too large to be duped by this generic chat up line. Seriously, stick to the girls who go to clubs purely so they can get fingered in a dirty corner. I, in the mean time, will be else where, showering in the glory of my own self respect.

There are so many more, but I actually had to stop. I was becoming sad and upset by the sheer amount of shit chat up lines I have received. They are amazingly bad and also highly entertaining, so I suppose I should be grateful that these folk are making me laugh, but I’m also pretty put off by men in general at this point: I am now tarring you all with the same brush. Guilty of being a mindless fucker until proven otherwise.

Please share yours with me, especially if you’re a fella, I would LOVE to know if women indulge in the same amount of ridiculousness as some men. Thanks!

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I Kissed a Boy! And I Liked It!

I must reiterate, before I begin, that I have actually kissed boys before. Or men, rather, now I’m in my mid-twenties I should probably refer to them as men, lest people get confused and think I’m a pervert. I have also kissed women (not girls) and sometimes I will kiss my dog right on his mouth because we are best friends and that’s not weird at all. What I mean, however, is that I have actually gone out of my way to approach a boy (man) and put my mouth on his mouth. First! Without accidentally head butting him or totally misreading signals and have him laugh in my face (that’s happened). Admittedly, he was drunk, but fuck you guys, this is my moment! Hoorah!

Under the influence of a very heady mixture of merlot, gin and pinot grigio, I recently kissed a very tall, very muscly armed male with an excellent sense of style and generally nice stubble. I know this is probably the most uninteresting thing you have read in your entire lives, but for me – after kissing only one person for the past five years – kissing someone new is a HUGE deal, so you can all fuck off with your eye rolling and judging. Equally, in my twenty five years of existing, I have never been the type of girl who goes to clubs and kisses boys. Mostly because I very rarely go to clubs, but also because when I look around, I tend not to be looking at all the handsome men, but at all the girls who are far better looking than I am and assume that the males would much prefer to kiss them, so I just continue with tequila shots and dancing, thus alienating anyone who comes my way. I am also terrified of rejection – which is a weird thing to say considering at some point in their lives, everyone has dealt with rejection and handled it rather well, but I tend to avoid my feelings after having told two people in my life that I quite fancied them and had them both reject me and as much as I am not bothered about it now, it still makes me think ‘aah, but I was so embarrassed by those two insignificant moments in my life’s history LET’S NOT RELIVE IT, EH?!’ and again, reach for more tequila. However, I am pretty pleased that I ignored those feelings and simply went for it, because now I am really quite proud of myself. I’m like a Cheshire cat, or like a hostage negotiator, after a long day of negotiating over hostages, going home and having his lovely wife pour him a scotch and then regaling the children in the tale of how no one died on daddy’s watch during the big terrorist attack of the day because he is AWESOME at his job – it was that monumental.

Afterwards, I did the really mature and not at all trampy thing of just smiling at him and walking away, which seems utterly ridiculous, but I was actually that proud of myself that I felt I needed to do some kind of lap around the club, asking people to cheer at me and shouting LOOK WHAT I DID! Because I have never actually been that confident before, nor as bold or relatively enticing with my (terrible) dance moves and my pouty lips and ‘come fuck me’ eyes (I have those WHO KNEW?!) AND IT WORKED! The one thing that I have taken away from this experience (other than a lovely, cheeky kiss) is that I have regained my love for my single self. When I broke up with my ex, I was all over the place and I doubted everything from the way my face looked in the mornings to my choice of snack (usually cucumber, which could be offensive, I mean he did really hate vegetables); I had no faith in myself and lost even more of my spark than I had already lost in the past few years. Anyway, it made me remember just how much I love to flirt and how much I love first kisses, they might actually be my favourite kind. Although, I suppose ‘drunken smooch’ is a sub-category thereof and isn’t actually as fun as looking up into someone’s eyes, insides filled with butterflies, a small smile tracing your lips as you both lean in, full of hope and awesome expectations of WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN NEXT. Even so, it was a pretty good kiss, even if the sub-category isn’t the best kind.

I had also stopped believing in myself from a physical aspect. I mean, I’ve never been a big believer in people who tell me I look good or that I’m attractive; I’m always filled with self doubt that the people telling me this are liars and that eventually a camera crew will jump out and shout ‘WE TOLD YOU! HA HA HA WHAT A FUCKING IDIOT!’ Like in every teen movie I’ve ever watched.  When I’ve been told that people fancy me or that people think I’m sexy, I usually laugh in their faces or stop speaking to them until I am able to breathe without the aid of someone shouting ‘breathe, pet, just breathe, come on! You can do it!’ Like the runt of some puppy litter. Don’t get me wrong, I do think I’m pretty; my features are relatively symmetrical and not too goofy and I have pretty massive blue-ish eyes, which is nice, but I am, categorically, not the type of girl people would want to cross rooms to kiss or bend over the kitchen sink because I look fuckable in a pair of yellow marigolds.

I think of myself as a modern Doris Day, except I swear more and have a filthy sense of humour (which she would never have, she was the first feminist of Hollywood, after all!). In fact, not even Doris Day because she was really self assured and I’m not. I’m not sexy in the traditional sense of the word at all; I snort when I laugh and sometimes drinks come out of my nose when I hear something really funny and sometimes I smash glasses off the front of my teeth because I have absolutely no sense of self awareness and I wear glasses because without them I can’t see my hand in front of my face (and they have to be THINNED OUT because I am so blind that without doing so, they would be actually milk bottle lenses. It’s horrific and not at all sexy). I am either too approachable that people think we’re going to be best friends or stand offish because my resting face makes me look cruel. I’m not beautiful, by any means and I am not confident enough in my own skin to ooze sex appeal: I’m dependable and reliable, like a hazy eyed, elderly Labrador with legs that buckle when she tries to get up because she’s just that ancient, but when she manages, she’ll waddle over to you and put her head on your knee and look at you with massive eyes and say ‘hiya pet, do you fancy a cuppa, or maybe just a stroke of my head?’ You know, someone you adore, but don’t want to put your dick in. That kind of adoration.

So yeah, if I can take anything from this experience it’s that I enjoy kissing and I definitely enjoy being single again because I’m building all my old confidence back up. I think the next obstacles I am going to have to tackle are going to be ‘how to kiss a boy you actually like when sober’ and also ‘talking to and communicating with attractive people without your tongue swelling up, forcing you to run away and cry alone in a toilet cubicle’. I think it’s all just one day at a time type of stuff and until then, I’m quite happy living off the elation of my random smooch-a-thon for, you know, the rest of my life. Or until the next time. Whatever.

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