Tag Archives: female

Chloe Hamilton, Zoella and The Independent Debacle.

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Of course, everyone is entitled to their own opinions, but I think Chloe Hamilton’s recent piss poor attempt at journalism has taken freedom of speech a little too far and her article attacking Zoella has become a vile, inappropriate woman’s issue that we cannot ignore; it has bled into our social media platforms and enraged bloggers everywhere. This is something I’m betting she didn’t consider when she took a stab at ‘journalism’. Producing what can only be described as horrendously hypocritical, contradictory, nasty and half-baked, Hamilton has singlehandedly reinforced exactly what Zoella is about and proven to everyone else, if not herself, that she is entirely wrong in the process. You see, Chloe dear, there is no community greater or stronger than the blogging community – you’ve attacked Zoe and in a way, you’ve attacked the rest of us. All of us have been inspired by a blogger before us and for the majority of beauty and fashion bloggers, you can bet your bottom dollar that these women were inspired by Zoella. So, way to go, Chloe Hamilton, you’re officially a fucking moron.

If you haven’t read The Independent article, you can do here, although doing so only perpetuates Hamilton’s infamy, something which she seems to be relishing in, if her Twitter page is anything to go by. For someone to make such a huge deal about Zoella allegedly having her ‘own brand’ of feminism, whilst being so openly critical of someone as well as being publically proud that her full on girl bashing has prompted so much vitriol from bloggers/women around the country, for me, completely negates the ethos of both feminism and womanhood. Honestly, Chloe, what were you thinking?

In a world where a man killed his girlfriend in malice and only has to serve a few months in prison, or where a footballer can rape a girl on camera and go back to his life like he did nothing wrong… Surely attacking a successful young woman for creating an empire from within the cocoon of her childhood bedroom is the last thing on your mind? Surely over at The Independent, there is a lot more to write about than how big someone’s eyes are or how her name makes you feel sick? How is this journalism? Chloe, you harp on about promoting feminism in an accessible way for young girls, totally forgetting that there are enormous factions of young girls and women out there who enjoy wearing make-up, who enjoy looking at Zoella and want to have hair like hers; emulation is a form of flattery, a young girl’s natural response to wanting to be closer to someone that she admires: There is nothing wrong with that. That does not make you the ‘wrong’ kind of woman.

I am a feminist. I believe in women’s rights and I believe in equal pay. I have recently been the subject of sexism within the work place and subsequently quit my job as a result. I am a feminist and I stand up for the things I believe in with every inch of my soul. In my spare time I like to read essays by feminists, romantic novels, murder mysteries. I like to watch romantic comedies and weep profusely at the moment where they finally get together and you just know they’re going to be together forever. I like super heroes and often wear Batman tights to the office. I love make up and spending hours pampering my skin with soaps and lotions that smell divine. I love doing my nails for hours on end and I love applying make-up, then washing it off again so I can apply some more with different products. I’m a bit of a tom boy and I am extremely girly: I am a feminist.

There is nothing wrong with the way Zoella conducts herself, the way she promotes body confidence to young women, she is doing nothing at all wrong other than rubbing Chloe Hamilton up the wrong way for being successful with endless opportunities for having the bright spark idea of setting her webcam up in her house and uploading videos to the internet about clothes and make up. She’s a fucking genius, if you ask me and it seems to me that Chloe Hamilton is just a little bit pissed off that she hasn’t had the bright spark idea of using her own ‘creativity’ and doing something that could cast her into the stratosphere of fame simply by being herself. Instead, she has to rely on poorly written, vitriolic and hateful words about a woman’s appearance and how she feels women should behave, further falling into the topic that women don’t deserve equal rights because they can’t support another woman’s success. That feminism is stupid, because we spend all of our time attacking other women’s appearances. That raping a woman is okay, because that woman will ignore it and write about how another girl has big eyes and a sickly sweet voice. Chloe Hamilton, you are the worst thing to happen to feminism and if you have a tiny shred of humanity in you, I would be deeply, deeply ashamed of your terrible, childish and nasty words against a fellow female. For shame, little girl, you are epitome of why there are so many groups of men who think feminism is a joke… thank you.

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My Vagina is a Mood Ring.

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You know those people who categorise people into two sections: Those who follow their heads and those who follow their hearts? I don’t believe in it. My head is far too fucked up from all of my anxieties and general bizarre self-esteem issues to be a reputable decision maker and all my heart does is flutter about thanks to my bearded male human / Ryan Gosling / Shoes, so if I were to rely on them for anything, I’d get nothing done. The rest of my body is hopeless as they are all crippled with lack of confidence and tend to only thing about meal times with any resemblance of vigour. No, the only rational part of my body is my vagina. She’s the part of the body that says things like ‘look here, see? We’re gonna do this thing and we’re gonna be great at it, see? I’m taking the wheel head, shut up heart! I’m the boss now, see?’ because I think she might be a 50s American gangster and a bit of a control freak.

She makes all of my serious decisions for me. Like, do I want to have sex today? Should I eat mackerel for lunch? Is it wrong to want to drink prosecco at midday on a Wednesday? My vagina has said yes to all but one of these answers, which means she is a genius and I should refer to her more for serious life decisions as well as smaller, less important daily decisions. I simply can’t trust my head to make these decisions. If I asked my head if I wanted to have sex today she would stand me, naked in front of the mirror, noting my rolls and scars, the fact that my legs don’t have a thigh gap and almost vomit at the sight of how pasty white I am and decide that no, no I don’t want to. I should take a duvet and fashion a mu-mu out of it and hide myself forever. If I ask my heart if I want to have sex, she will probably say yes, in all fairness, so she’s an unreliable example. But she would probably take the side of my head and think ‘what if the beard thinks you look disgusting with all your rolls and paleness?’ and I’d be back sewing a mu-mu with faux-fur lining for the winter.

Do any of you feel that your vagina is the one who makes all of your decisions? The one who guides you towards positive and healthy life choices? Mine doesn’t tend to do the healthy life choice thing very much as she is pretty focused on sex and wine, but at the same time, sex is exercise and wine is grapes, thus fruit, so really she’s a fucking genius. I think we need to take more time out of our lives to thank our vaginas from keeping us entirely from going insane thanks to our supposed leaders in thinking; brains and aortic pumps. So, I’d like to take a moment to raise my glass and say cheers to my vagina for being an awesome, bitchy control freak. Thanks lassy 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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I Don’t Want to Rip Your Cock Off and Feed It to You. I Promise.

As a woman, I find it hard not to get involved in discussions about feminism. I wrote earlier in the year that I felt a little disillusioned by feminism, as I was quite confused about how it applied to me. Other than being a woman and believing my body was my own and that I was the only person who could make a decision about who could have access to my vagina, I felt like I really didn’t embody any true characteristics of feminism. I was never taught about feminism at school other than about suffragettes and women starving themselves in the name of equality. I don’t think I could ever starve myself, I love food. If I could be in a relationship with food, I would totally be in a relationship with food. If I could choose my boyfriend to be not made of human parts and made entirely of feta cheese, I would totally do it and I would eat him. I could never starve myself in the name of anything at all, not even being a woman. Feminism and the majority of topics I read surrounding feminism didn’t really seem like something I could be a part of, even if I really wanted to be.

However, I decided not to give up on something I believed in, even if I didn’t believe in it in the traditional way, so I persisted. I bought books, I Googled FEMINIST and I started following genius women on Twitter who write and talk about feminism frankly, openly and for the most part hilariously. And, to my surprise, there are SO many of them and none of them are man-haters. In fact, the ones I’ve met and who have become my very best friends love men and for the majority, have a man shaped human of their own who they love dearly. In these past few months, I have been educated on feminism far more than I ever was by books or articles online or even my own education. I don’t think about feminism as being part of something that is trying to actively change something, I think about feminism as a part of my personality, another characteristic, similar to my sense of humour or the fact that I cry at everything, I am also a feminist. I don’t that’s something to be ashamed of, or something to be judged on by other people. But, I think the reason people do judge, is because they simply don’t understand it.

Remember, people: Feminism is just a word. It’s a word just like fuck, or cunt. It causes outrage when said in the wrong context, or in relation to the latter said any time. They’re all just words, but none can really cause you any harm. If I shout GO FUCK YOURSELF! I am actually not threatening that someone should actually take time out of their day to go and masturbate. If I call my best friend a ‘daft cunt’, I don’t actually mean that he embodies the exact characteristics of a silly vagina (what is a silly vagina, you ask? I’m not sure, but I will endeavour to write a short story about a vagina with dreams of becoming a stand-up comedian and I will call it: Daft Cunt: One Vagina’s Dreams of Making it Big! Because it has double meanings. I know, right, I’m a genius, I should be famous.). And it’s the same when I call myself a feminist. I am not actually an angry, Birkenstock wearing razor dodger; I’m just Doris, I like wine and dancing and sitting on my arse, I don’t want to rip your cock off and feed it to you. I promise.

I think that’s just it, though; people don’t understand feminism. We aren’t really taught about it and it’s not something we teach in schools even today. When horrible things happen to women like domestic abuse or rape, they either aren’t reported, or covered on the news – I hate to say it, ladies, but it does just make us look like we’re pulling half bits of information out of our arses and plying them together; if the news aren’t going to report these things, of course it makes us look like we’re exaggerating or lying, even.

A few years ago, I remember sitting down to watch the six o clock news and I watched a segment on this man who was walking down a lonely path somewhere and he ended up being gang raped by a bunch of other men. The news report was talking about how his life was ruined, how he was now suffering depression and that his attackers hadn’t been caught. Some of the men I know took to social media to talk about it and their reactions were vitriolic. “Fucking DISGUSTING that, people like that should be fucking shot! My arsehole is clenched at the very fucking thought!” it was a huge topic that pissed men off and men discussed it, because it was something that applied to them, something they could understand; they empathised and imagined how they would feel if they were raped. Then, a few weeks ago, I was listening to the local news and I heard that an eighteen year old girl was raped in a crowded club here in Newcastle; an abundance of people inside, customers, staff bouncers… and it was barely covered. I wouldn’t have heard about it unless I was listening to the local news, which normally I never do. It wasn’t featured on the main news and I haven’t heard about it at all since. There were no cries for people to be shot from men on the internet; there were no exclamations of disgust at all… It was forgotten about.

This is what I’m talking about when it comes to feminism. I don’t really care about things like equal pay or anything like that. I care about people respecting other people’s bodies. That girl’s life was ruined too, she felt degraded, she is probably on medication for depression too – why was she not featured on the nationwide news, but the man who was raped was? What makes what happened to him more important than what happened to that young girl? Both were violated in the most abhorrent manner and were treated abominably, and I’m not trying to suggest that one is more important than the other, but both should have been given equal news coverage. Why wasn’t it? Because so many women have been raped by men or will be raped by men, it’s now old hat, doesn’t make good news so we don’t need to hear about it? It should ALL be featured on the news; we shouldn’t be teaching our daughters and nieces or any women how to not get raped, but we should be teaching everyone by any means necessary that everyone should respect one another. We are more than happy to pay for adverts and charities like Stoptober and review education on sexual health or alcohol etc, but why does no one mention in schools that people will get raped and teach both boys and girls to respect each other’s bodies from a very, very young age?

When I was little, both my parents, particularly my mother, were extremely worried about paedophiles and were terrified that my sister and I were going to get kidnapped. I remember a conversation with her where she said ‘if anyone asks you to get in their car so they can offer you sweets or show you some puppies, you run in the opposite direction, do you hear me?!’ and I remember thinking OH MY GOD, mam, you are SUCH a bitch, why do you want to RUIN MY LIFE?! THEY ARE TWO OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! (not really, I was like four, what is wrong with you?) and she told me that if anyone tried to touch me there I wasn’t to let them under any circumstances, which is probably why I was so confused about sex for so long, but never mind… I was taught from a young age that no one should touch me without my permission and that puppies and sweets were going to kill me. I wasn’t taught not to wear skirts and not to be confident in my body or anything like that – I was taught that I was the only person who had any say over my body. And as much as I am so grateful of my parents for teaching me this, that’s simply not enough, it’s not enough to teach people to respect themselves and that they’re the deciders, because what happens if someone chooses to disrespect you?

I was sexually assaulted when I was fifteen. An older boy locked me in a room, pinned me down and forced himself onto me and that is how I lost my virginity. I didn’t tell anyone for so many years and I choose to put it at the back of my mind because I was ashamed back then and I am still ashamed. Except now, I’m more ashamed that I didn’t kick him in his fucking teeth and say something. At the time, though, a fifteen year old girl being told that if I told anyone, no one would believe me because his dad is so high up in the police… It’s sickening and it has affected me in so many ways and made me scared of sex for years and years because I thought that because that something terrible that happened to me, meant that there was something wrong with me. This happens to so many women much more often than any of us know, because there are so many people manipulated into keeping quiet… And don’t get me wrong, I am more than abundantly aware that rape, sexual assault of any kind and domestic violence happens to men too, by members of both opposite and the same sex, but it just irks me that when people stand up for victims of sexual abuse on social media platforms, or even in real life, they’re given abuse and marked as a man hater, by men and sadly, women, because they don’t understand…Or they don’t care.

So, when I claim to be a proud feminist, this is why; because I feel like people who are against feminism are advocating rape and saying that it was my fault that I was assaulted and that when I’ve been groped in public or told to ‘cheer up and smile’ when I was suffering from depression so bad that I wanted to kill myself, or when I’ve been called a ‘fat bitch’ for turning down someone’s sexual advances, that I deserve that kind of abuse. Of course I don’t and no one else does either, no one should have to put up with that. No one should ever be assaulted or touched inappropriately whether they be a woman or a man; things like this are feminist issues, but it all ties in with a greater cause too: humanity’s issues – feminism is just another branch of something we are all a part of, and that’s something that people forget; we’re all people and we all need to be in it together in order for something to change.

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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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I’m in the Business of Making Friends.

“Do it! You’ll enjoy it!”
“I don’t think so… I’m not really that kind of girl.”
“Oh, come on! What have you got to lose?”
“Nothing, I just…”
“Come on! I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
“… Okay, I guess… But don’t tell my parents, I’d die of shame.”

And that was how I was forced into prostitution.

No, that’s a complete lie, but it is how I was encouraged to download the app Tinder at the behest of a friend who enthused about it and said I would find it a bit of a lark. I did have my apprehensions because I have never had any desire to join on-line dating sites or anything like that, mostly because of my tendency to attract absolute weirdos; you know the type that dwell in the darkest, most bizarre areas of the internet and eventually crawl out when they see my giant eyes having a bit of a nose around. The whole ‘oh look, she’s weird and quite chubby; SHE WILL LOVE MY INCEST BANTER!’ (Never okay, guys), but also because I’m a lot more interesting on the internet and I always imagine when I meet people they look at me and visibly deflate in enthusiasm, especially when I trip over or walk into a door and they become horrifically disappointed in me for having absolutely no social skills whatsoever. Also because I’m terrified of being captured and forced into a sex ring a la Taken. My dad is not Liam Neeson, he’d probably just tell them to keep me.

I assumed Tinder would be different after reading the description. It’s a totally anonymous application, where if you reject someone it doesn’t come up with ‘this person rejected your face… let’s exact revenge!’ equally, if you click the like button on someone’s face and they don’t like you back, you’re none the wiser. The rejection part was generally the big pull for me, it allows me to reject humans without even having to speak to them, from the comfort of my bed when I have my hair scraped back and no make up on – it’s strangely empowering to a chubby, weird looking, presumably drunk girl like me. That does sound decidedly harsh, but I can only imagine that there are more than plenty of people who see my giant face appear on their screens and click the massive cross button that stamps my image with a big old ‘NOPE’ and I’m fine with that, because there is a definite sense of joy to be felt when clicking that big old button on images of men with their insanely honed abdominals threatening me with fitness, pants hanging ridiculously low on their beyond tanned and slender hips – I imagine these are the types of people who see me in real life and shudder with absolute disgust, not interested in knowing how hilarious and brilliant at everything I am, so it does feel quite empowering to be able to think ‘I don’t fancy you types of people at all, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!’ and rejecting them happily. Although, part of me does want them to know that I find them horrendous, which is why I’m putting that on here – you’re all very unattractive, muscles are horrible, STOP OFFENDING ME WITH THEM!

I do have to admit that it’s not as hilarious as I thought I was going to be, because no interaction between the people you reject is actually not as fun as having someone valiantly try to chat you up for you to reject with a humorous anecdote in your comedy satchel for when you want to tell someone about your exploration into online photo appreciation, I guess. I’m quite annoyed by the whole thing if I’m being honest, because when I decided to take it seriously and started clicking the like button (I don’t swipe like everyone else, because I sometimes get my left and right mixed up and I’d smash my phone, screaming bloody murder if I ever rejected someone super interesting) I didn’t realise that people had, obviously, also been clicking buttons on my face and it came up with ‘It’s a match! Talk to this person!’ which is horrific and scary. I didn’t, because I’m a terrible person, but some of them do also chat to you and I’ve found that everyone I’ve spoken to has been really funny and interesting. Damn it all! I didn’t expect that. I’ve spoken to writers, avid readers, one particularly awesome Rolling Stone enthusiast and Chef, comic book nerds and people who have left me messages beginning with quotes from Goodfellas and they’ve all been able to hold pretty hilarious conversations. It has been refreshing, but also really bloody annoying, because my friend promised me I’d get some weirdos to interact with and I’ve only really had one, who I didn’t really interact with as much as I should have because I was drunk.

This guy looked normal and we did have a lot of mutual interests and a lot of his photos had him smiling with friends and wearing a dorky Christmas jumper and he had a really nice smile, with a kind face around it, so he didn’t look like he was going to be creep 101, in my defence. He’d already liked my face and then sent me a message, which was really normal, we said hello and asked one another how we were and what we did for a living etc and then, pretty much right after I told him I had a new job, he then asked me for my number so I could send him some nudes? What? Eh? No thanks, pal! I suppose that’s part of the deal when you download apps like this, but I didn’t expect full on perversion from a lanky dork in a shitty Christmas jumper. I told him no, because I’m a classy kinda gal and I’m also not a fan of giving my number to internet folk and he got really arsey about it.

“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Why, what’s wrong with you? Are you fat?”
“Excuse me? Because I don’t want to send nude pictures of myself to an absolute stranger, it must be because I’m fat? Not at all because I have self respect, high standards and decent morals?”
“Other girls do it”
“Well, you must not speak to many intelligent, self assured women, then.”
“You’re not intelligent.”
“You fucking what?”
“You can’t be, you’re on Tinder looking for a lad”
“Actually, I’m on Tinder so I can write about it on my blog. Took a screenshot of your picture as well, pal, so you’ll be on my blog by the end of the weekend… Enjoy!”

And I sent him a link. I didn’t screen shot his face, nor would I ever be so cruel to someone, but I did instil the fear of God into him for a little while, at least.

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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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Help! I dream sexed a lady and now I think I might be gay?

I have always fancied males. I was about five when I saw my first penis, because I blackmailed a local boy into showing me his boy parts as a condition of being allowed to play with me and in the same year, I also got wrong off a teacher in nursery school for running into the boy’s toilets to kiss a boy, but then backed out of the situation because I realised that if I kissed him, I would get his voice and he would get mine and I’d not be able to play Mary in our school’s nativity play any more and I really couldn’t have that on my conscience. Jesus would be so disappointed. Since then, my enjoyment of the male form has changed somewhat, I don’t ask people to see their male parts and I tend not to back out of kissing people unless they have bad breath or weird teeth. And, I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to know that I am not attracted to little boys and have also never stepped foot into a male restroom since that first time (unless, of course, you count the times I was forced in my youth when it was hilarious to throw girls into male restrooms and shout “AH, SHE’SA MAN, A MAN! WHERE’S YOUR COCK? EH? WHERE IS IT?!” and point in a dramatic and exaggerated manner so that everyone knows that yes, I am the man lady my friend is talking about). I have only ever had male boyfriends and have only kissed one or two girls when drunk on either spin the bottle dares or that one time I kissed a married ladybecause she put her tongue in my mouth and then told all the males at the party I was an excellent kisser (which I so am).

I have never found women attractive in the sense that I would like to have sex with them. Of course, I do find women attractive, because women are actually beautiful, marvellous creatures with their weird affinity for hair extensions, fake eyelashes and in some cases, padded bras (which actually makes me wonder, what are you going to do when you meet someone and he discovers you are, essentially, a mannequin? What happens there? Do you do some kind of big, Stars in Your Eyes reveal after a well timed steak and a blow job? What happens if he doesn’t like you any more? Is he a sexist pig for being attracted to you solely for the looks you lied about?) and when I’m out and about I do often spend a lot more time looking at women than at men because I don’t find men’s clothes all that nice, and I often spend time wondering how I could achieve that whole I woke up like dis look instead of looking like Medusa. I am also often a wing-woman for my lovely male friends in their Pursuit of Pussy (a term I came up with, because, I think I might be a bit of a misogynist. They, on the other hand frown at me and tell me not to wing-woman them any more.) But, in general, I do tend to find myself getting gooey and tongue tied over men, rather than women and I can safely say in my twenty five years of existence I’ve never thought yes I would like to have sex with that woman right there (because I imagine that’s exactly how men and lesbians do it… Right?).

However (and we all know there was going to be a massive, elongated, exclamatory ‘however’ in there somewhere, didn’t we?), these past few nights I have been having the most strange and realistic dreams, that would technically suggest that the idea of having sex with a woman has crossed my mind, even if I have never articulated this to anyone, or even subconsciously thought it to myself ever in my life. Now, let me set the scene of my dream before I go into the whole ‘what does it mean’ segment of the blog. I should warn you all that it could, technically, be the beginning of a very bad porn film, so if we have any pornographic writers in our midst, keep the fuck away from my dreams! I am, effectively, copywriting them, should I ever want to make a porn film. I mean, I can’t see myself ever wanting to make porn, but you never know what the future may bring. Maybe that’s why I am so lost and cast adrift in my career right now: Maybe I am destined to be a porn writer and this will be my big break and I can start a company called I’m coming for you, porn! Because my porn company will be a hilarious play on words and everything will have a whole Carry On! Theme throughout. I have given this far too much thought, let’s move onto the dream:

I was walking through a massive expanse of land; full of rolling hills, in different shades of lush green, contrasted beautifully against the sunset, which cast a warm pink glow over the whole land. I think I owned it, because I was looking around it with a sense of immense pride and I felt quite peaceful and at ease with everything. I was dressed in an extravagant red gown with really long medieval sleeves and I was carrying a ray gun, because there had been a series of murders on the land lately due to giant insects that kept hopping onto people and squishing them. So, naturally, I carried a gun, lest there be any threats on my life. Eventually, I got to what appeared to be an orchard (so dream me is a borderline alcoholic too), which was also a really long and winding road, with rows of neat and well kempt trees as far as the eye could see. I made a call on my mobile phone and asked for them to send Ana, who then immediately appeared from a gap in the trees, where some stairs had grown. She walked over to me, smiling, wearing a long pink gown with no sleeves and her long blonde hair was tied up, with tendrils framing her face. She had enormous blue eyes and a red, heart shaped, pouty mouth. I remember being really pleased to see her, which is weird, cos I usually don’t fancy blondes unless you count Ryan Gosling, but he could also have blue hair and a penis with a scorpion attached to it and I’d still want to have sex with him. Anyway, when she got to me I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her slowly and rather sexily (way sexier than I’ve kissed anyone in real life in a while) and then, the rest is really too filthy to write and I can’t be bothered to rehash the really sexy parts, just in case there is any secret perverts or porn writers reading this; if you’re looking for some cheap thrills, go the fuck else where you little creeps! But, I will kiss and tell because Ana thought I was really excellent with my dextrous hands and talented tongue and I am going to show off how great at lesbian sex I am through bragging, rather than actual descriptors. Overall, I am very pleased with how dream me performed. Good on you, Doris pet.

When I woke up, it was one of those things where I’d forgotten about it altogether and did a little stretch thinking wow, I feel really well rested, I loved that sleep! Then remembered I’d gone down on a sexy blonde in an orchard and got a little confused. I panicked thinking that maybe I was a lesbian and what did that mean? What would my mother say? My dad has often vocalised his support for any of his female family members being lesbians, so long as we only invite the really sexy ones round and not the butch ones that threaten his masculinity, so I knew I’d have his support. Would I have to adopt children or would we just have a fight and see who got to be the pregnant one artificially inseminated by a robot? It was all too confusing for the first thoughts of the day, if I’m honest. So, I decided to go for a walk with the dog and then consult the internet/dream books when I got home. And yes, the blog title is lifted from my google search. Anyway, this is the general result from all my searching:

If you are not a lesbian in your waking life, but dream that you are a lesbian, then it signifies a union with aspects of yourself. It is symbolic of self-love, self-acceptance, and passion. You are comfortable with your sexuality and femininity. (Via Dreammoods)

I’m not going to say that I wasn’t disappointed that I wouldn’t be changing the lives of lesbians everywhere with my evident superior sex skills (seriously, Ana was totally loving it), because I figured that if I was going to dedicate 2014 to trying new things, why not perform cunnilingus on a series of willing ladies? I mean, other than the fact that I don’t want to and am much more preferential to being on the receiving end, providing the cunnilinguist also has a penis, but whatever, I still maintain that I rocked dream Ana’s world and would genuinely be the greatest lesbian lover known to (wo)man. What I did like about the explanation is that it is actually pretty accurate to how I’ve been feeling. If anyone did actually read my blog earlier, I stated that I was actually the happiest I’ve ever felt within myself, and that through blogging and having an outlet and simply being alone has given me the opportunity to grow into someone who I actually really like, then my dream makes a lot of sense. I’m not sure why it was shown to me through fingering a really fit dream woman, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy being a dream lesbian for a while. Dream women have proven to be far more responsive and appreciative of my sexy efforts than real men, which makes me want to sleep more, that’s for sure.

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Emotional Interlude Dedicated to The Internet.

Following my recent blog post – and my rather serious revelations of what happened in 2013 – I received a lot of e-mails from people who read my blog, who were both concerned and empathetic towards my situation. I had reems of e-mails of people sharing their stories of sadness, depression, suicidal thoughts/attempts etc. I have responded to each and every one of them via e-mail and have opened lines of communications for anyone who is feeling that low to contact me whenever they need to get something off their chest etc. But, I just wanted to reiterate that here in case some of you thought I was just being polite: Seriously, get in touch. And also, thank you so much – you have no idea how much it means to me to have people actually take time out of their day and e-mail me, just to see how I’m feeling now.

A lot of people criticise me for writing so unashamedly and candidly about the events of last year (which I like to call the shower of shit that was hurled at me from a very great height by someone who I should have poisoned ages ago because it seems so much more light-hearted than the reality, I suppose), people who I know haven’t bothered reading my blog and those who have, have rolled their eyes and been pretty judgemental about the whole blog writing process. I suppose some people just don’t get it or think that I do it for attention or something; casting aspersions that suggest I’m hard work or a pretty shitty person for being so candid about my life’s experiences. However, when I receive e-mails from complete strangers who’ve actually showed a lot more compassion for me than my own friends, it kind of puts the whole experience into perspective to me. If I had friends who said ‘come round mine, we’ll lie on the sofa and watch shit films and cry for a few hours’ when I first broke up with my ex, would I need to write about it online in order for me to gain closure? Not a lot of my friends know how low I’ve felt and I know that there are friends of mine who’ve read the blog and not a single one of them have said ‘I’m sorry you went through that’. I get that they might not give a shit, but at the same time, I’ve had a lot more compassion from strangers who want to be my friend and meet up for drinks etc – what does that say about my actual pals? And this is the exact same reason I blog: I don’t want to be friends with people who don’t appreciate my passion and who don’t want to be my friend even when I’m at my lowest. You internet strangers have actually been a lot friendlier than my life-long friends.

I’m not trying to be immature or selfish towards any of my real life friends, by the way. I get that people have their own shit to deal with and I am in no way trying to suggest that mine is more important or that they should have dropped everything to be with me. My best friend lives in Whitehaven and he had no choice but to not see me until a few weeks ago and I know that other friends of mine have busy lives and relationships, but from my perspective: I always send them messages etc just to see how they are. A friend of mine broke up with a lad she’d been seeing for 2 month and there I was, comforting her and making her feel better, when she didn’t even realise I had broken up with my ex. I’m not sure if I’m just being sensitive or that I’ve just removed myself from my friends over the past five years until they simply don’t give a shit. They don’t realise that none of that was down to my choice: I’d see all of my friends as often as possible if it were up to me, but still… I suppose it is my fault, but never mind.

However, I will say that starting this blog has actually helped me become a more confident person and I do feel, generally, a lot more comfortable in my skin than I ever have before. Being so candid about calling the Avon lady a mother fucker, or sharing some of the incredibly awful chat up lines I’ve received or even telling people that I suffer from General Anxiety Disorder and last year I was bullied to the point of self harm/suicide by my boyfriend’s mother has been so cathartic to me and it has helped me gain closure and move on from it. Do I need to share it with the internet? No, I suppose not, but at the same time I don’t force anyone to read it. The way I see it is: Blogging takes an immense amount of confidence and courage and being able to be yourself takes every single shred of strength, because you know that people are going to judge you and think you’re either seeking attention or just a dick.

Blogging is a learning curve for me. I have made so many mistakes over the past five years and I have lost so much of what made me me by trying so hard to be the girl that someone else wanted me to be and I have suffered so much and so unnecessarily for that that I am more determined now than ever to become Doris in a way that I’ve never been able to do before. I am so intelligent and silly and I think I’m hilarious even if no one else does and this is my outlet for that. And, recently in particular, I’ve been put in touch with so many lovely people who blog in the UK as well as closer to home in the North East/Newcastle area and I can’t wait to attend events with them and widen my social circle with people who love to blog/write. Blogging is my favourite thing in life at the moment and it has helped me over come the worst period of my life, and, I think, that it is also helping me become a better person in so many ways.

So, yet another serious post, but I will finish by saying: Thank you so much for your kind words, internet friends, I like you all a great deal and am enveloping you all in a massive bear hug in my mind right now. My poor attempts at comedy will continue soon enough, but until then, just keep sending lovely e-mails and know that I am happy to lend one of my massive ears for you to chat to.

If you want to get in contact my deets are here and on the ‘about’ bit of my blog. Lots of love, internet.

Email: whatdorisdidblog@gmail.com
Twitter: @mzjaggah

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