Tag Archives: Issues

This is a Tribute… Of Sorts.

In the past year, my life has changed completely and I’ve spent a lot of this week reflecting on how different my life is now to what it was twelve months ago. I know a lot of people say this, but then their lives haven’t changed at all… My life really has, in every aspect, changed.

Last year, I was the unhappiest I have ever been. I spent the majority of my year being bullied, belittled and treated like I wasn’t even human. I was living with someone I had spent half a decade with and, to be quite frank, we didn’t like each other. We were in a situation where we felt like we had been together for so long, that we should just ride it out, that one day it may get better. We were in an environment where people were with partners they didn’t get on with or like; that common interests weren’t necessary and that lads nights out with girls in short dresses all over the place was acceptable, whilst the women stayed at home; mutual happiness wasn’t important and male feelings/thoughts/opinions prevailed. My partner’s mother decided that she no longer liked me and began heinous and vicious rumours, she attacked my mother at the local Tesco and put so much pressure on my partner, that he would then treat me like shit because he felt so rubbish; he didn’t want to ‘do as mammy said’, but he wanted me to change who I was and just toe the line, allowing my life to be controlled by a vapid, evil woman who thinks that her children are simply bank accounts she can bleed dry so she can keep getting her hair extensions and botox. It led to me being isolated, treated viciously and becoming a shadow of my former self; in short, my partner thought he was better than me and thought so low of me that he genuinely thought I considered myself lucky to be with him. I didn’t leave because I’d invested so much time and money into the relationship and, to be frank, was treated so poorly that I really did think I was unattractive, horrible and undeserving of happiness. It was during this time that I actually thought out, planned and attempted to kill myself. The only reason I didn’t was because my sister randomly text me one day to tell me that she loved me. She is the reason I’m here and I guess, I owe my current happiness to her too.

Eventually, my ex simply didn’t come home one night and I realised that he never would. I’m not going to say that I wasn’t upset… I was. But, I’ve come to realise it wasn’t because I loved him and missed him, but because it kind of reiterated how much better than me he thought he was. That all the suffering I had faced at the hands of his vicious and vile mother was all for nothing; that had he left me when his mam told him too back in March last year, I would have never been in a position where I wanted to kill myself. I was angry, I was hurt and I was totally lost – I had no job, no money and was left in so much debt that only accumulated because he had left me with every single bill to pay, whilst he fled. I had been left in an enormous problem and it kind of just reiterated how little this person I had spent five years of my life with thought of me. It did affect me… but not for the reasons most people feel when they break up. I was relieved, but simply depressed at how terrible my life had become. I didn’t think it would get better.

Because I didn’t have a job, I spent every single day and night alone. If my dad didn’t come to pick me up on a Friday, I wouldn’t  see a single soul. It made me terribly agoraphobic and terrified of the outside world. I can’t really blame any friends for not wanting to see me during this time, because I really did isolate myself quite a bit, but it would have been nice even to just get an email or text off someone just inviting me somewhere, even if I didn’t go… Anyway, this lasted for months and months. I didn’t really start to feel happy again until this year and I can pinpoint the who, what and where, so to speak, of when I became happy again:

My girls:

I began blogging at the start of 2014 and decided to use Twitter as a means of marketing myself and communicate with pretty much anyone, so that I didn’t feel so alone. It worked and before long I had begun communicating with a few people and basically just, very slowly, making myself feel better through my passion – writing. Eventually, I got in touch with one of my Twitter followers, a fellow blogger and general awesome human, Rachel. We had some excellent back and forth, we call each other Eddie and Patsy (I am, naturally, Patsy!) and eventually exchanged numbers and became friends. She had a blogging event which was only my second time out of the house alone since summer 2013; I went completely alone and only knew Rachel, who was hosting the event and thus not really available to sit next to me and protect me from freaking out, so I had to face the event entirely alone and speak to humans I didn’t know. Luckily, the event was filled with wonderful women and I had a really lovely time. Not too long after that, I began tweeting with other women, who have since become my best friends, my support network and my favourite women. These girls are: Mungle, Sian, Em, Marie, Amy, Becky and Leona  and they have literally changed my life; they took the sadness and the loneliness away with every single hilarious tweet and later, Whatsapp messages. They were the first people I spoke to on a morning and every single one of them were there if I needed someone to talk to, so even when I spent every single day by myself, they were there for me and took the loneliness away. For the first time in many, many years, I had true friends. They are my best friends and I love them so, so much. I don’t think they know just how much they have helped me, but if they’re reading this, I guess now they do. They’re my women and I never want to lose them.

My Sister:

When my relationship was ending, she was embarking on a new relationship, so wasn’t really there for me as much as I would have liked and when we did see each other, I tried really hard not to be depressed and anxious as I was feeling so that she would come back and not think of me as this huge drag, making her new and happy relationship seem unimportant in comparison. She was happy and I was very pleased for her; so my feelings didn’t matter. Ironically, she became really depressed earlier in the year (yes, it runs in our family, we’re a BLAST) and, because I am her big sister and eternal protector from any sadness, I was there for her and we helped each other get through the day. We’d spend days lying in bed watching Friends or we’d go on long drives to the countryside listening to Disney songs and we eventually got ourselves into a routine where life didn’t seem as painful or as bad any more. We became closer as a result and even as I’m writing this, she’s sat on my sofa watching Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs and doing artwork. Just being around her makes my anxieties disappear and, although she will never know that she is the reason that I didn’t kill myself, I think she knows just how much I need her.

Brain:

I can pinpoint the exact moment when my life changed; when anxieties and sadness no longer mattered, when my general bitterness towards life and what happened to me dissipated and that was, quite literally, the moment I met Brain. I’ve never been the type of person to believe in things like love at first sight or anything as corny as that, but I was pretty besotted with him as soon as I met him. When I got home after my first day of work, I sent the girls a Whatsapp message about my first day and told them all about this human who I’d met. “He was wearing a Bob Dylan t-shirt… AND HE HAS A BEARD!!” we began chatting and realised we had everything in common and it became one of those ridiculously inappropriate crushes that school girls have: He actually gave me constant butterflies. Obviously, we eventually got together and now spend every day together; he is the love of my life. I say that with no concerns or doubts that he isn’t, it’s just one of those facts like when someone asks what day it is, you say Wednesday with no doubt in your mind. He’s my male human and I love him with all of my heart. He doesn’t treat me like he thinks he’s better than me, he doesn’t disappear for days on end or manipulate or treat me like my feelings and opinions don’t matter. He respects and adores me and being with him just feels natural and right. He has taken away every ounce of anxiety that I’ve had and when I feel down or anxious he doesn’t blame me or say it’s because I’m horrible; he hugs me and talks through every aspect of why I feel down and how we, as a team, can make it so I don’t feel bad any more. He makes me laugh and being around him is perfect; I feel like we’re meant to be and I know that sounds so stupid, but I do. He supports my writing, reads my blog and tells me how great he thinks I am every day… he’s my human, as I said. I love you, Brain, with my entire aortic pump.

My Home:

I moved three months ago to a new flat, devoid of any bad memories or feelings. I was able to start a complete fresh and forget about the shit times I had in my former home. Brain and I have created an amazing home where we both live (yes, after a few months we moved in together… It wasn’t a conscious decision, but as with everything about Brain, it just felt right to have him here all the time, so he resides here now too!) and we have become closer. It’s an amazing flat that I love so, so much. The walls are lined with things that are personal to us; Our main feature wall has two movie posters, Pillow Talk and An Affair to Remember that Brain bought me as a moving in present (back when he didn’t initially live here!) and a small, framed picture of our mutual love, Mr Bob Dylan. We have superhero merchandise littered around and photos of us and family. We have a small addiction to candles, so naturally they’re prevalent and book cases and movies, guitars and games consoles too. When people visit they fall in love because it really is a quirky home that no one, other than two people who have everything in common could create together. Brain’s sister called me his dream girl, because he can fill his home with enormous posters of Batman and I enthusiastically participate in fawning all over it, because I’m a total geek at heart too.

There are other things that make me blissfully happy, but I think these are the main factors. I am no longer sad, I no longer self-harm or think about killing myself. I’ve come a long way from the fat, unhappy, agoraphobic loner that I was literally this time last year. There are parts of my life that I am unhappy about and I do have moments where I just want to curl up and cry, but I guess everything pales in comparison when you have people in your life who make you feel important and who would miss you if you were no longer there. I spoke to my mother about this the other day and she said that I was a shadow of my former self, that her happy, confident and beautiful girl was back and that I was no longer filled with bitter or angry thoughts and that when bad things or things I didn’t like happened to me, I would brush it off with a comedic quip and just get on with it. It’s nice that people notice that I’ve changed and it’s even nicer knowing that there are very, very important people in my life who have made me this way. If you’re still reading, girls or Brain (my sister doesn’t read my blog): You guys are my everything, my happy place, the loves of my life. I love you all so much and I am so grateful that you are there for me, that you laugh when I tell shit jokes and that when I need you you’re there. I’ve never felt important before, but you all make me feel important and you make me feel happier about myself. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if you guys weren’t there anymore. Love you all forever, I promise. xx

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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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National Sibling Day

I didn’t realise it was National Sibling Day today. In fact, I didn’t know that it existed until today, but the internet informs me that it is, so I shall write a blog dedicated to my only, thus favourite sibling: My younger sister, who, for the sake of the blog will go by her nickname Ingrid.

From being tiny humans, my sister and I were always instilled with a mantra our mother taught us:

When you have a sister, you’re never lonely. When you have a sister, you always have a best friend.

us

My sister and I would roll our eyes and look at each other with a sense of disgust, presumably thinking, whatever, mother! When we grow up we’ll have our own lives and our own friends and only se each other on family holidays! What kind of saddo actually chooses her own family as her best friend anyway, mam? EH?! But, as she would countless times throughout our lives, our mother proved us right (let’s never speak of this to her). Even though we had our own friendship groups and gone off to do our own things in life, we’ve always gravitated towards each other and sought each other’s company when, to put it simply, no one else will do.

My sister and I are so similar, yet the complete polar opposite of one another at the same time, and, I think that’s what makes our friendship so solid. I’ve often looked at our relationship critically and thought to myself if that girl wasn’t related to me, I’d probably hate her and I know Ingrid feels the exact same way about me too. Yet, there is nothing about each other that we dislike. I suppose it’s a sibling thing, but I haven’t actually met another set of siblings as in love with one another as my sister and I are (platonically, might I add. There’s no Lannistering going on in this family… Well, at least none that include me, which would be typical. Bastards!) to ask them. Where as I am incredibly girly and I enjoy doing my hair and make up, going shopping and spending hours wandering around just looking at clothes I don’t even intend to buy, she absolutely hates it and would rather chop of her tits and fling them at me in a rage before running away sobbing, than spend five minutes in a shop without having a specific reason to be there. She is the opposite of girly; she’s more like a brother to be honest. Ingrid is also one of the most intelligent people I have ever had the privilege of knowing; she is one of those people who are just so knowledgeable about everything and so passionate about their chosen subjects. It really is awe inspiring, particularly to me, because as much as I love literature, cinema, music, comedy etc, I often feel pretty reluctant to have conversations about them because I never feel intelligent enough to be having a conversation pertaining to any of the aforementioned. Where as, Ingrid discusses her interests with no real academic knowledge, just information she’s picked up subconsciously from a book or the internet, or a documentary she watched one time about ten years ago. You’d think she’d studied it for years, the way she talks and I think it’s one of the most amazing qualities to have.

In the past two years, at least, my sister and I have gone through some really horrific times and we’ve suffered quite a bit from depression etc. My depression got quite bad last year and my sister was actually the only person in the world who supported me wholeheartedly and understood what I was going through. My parents thought I was being dramatic and my boyfriend at the time thought I was lying about it, that I was acting out and doing it because I liked to make him miserable; he made my depression all about himself and how it affected him rather than seeing I was at the lowest point in my life. I actually felt so low that I wrote my parents, my sister and my boyfriend each a note, explaining why I didn’t want to be alive any more and I told them all pretty much the same thing: That I loved them with all my heart. I put them in envelopes and left them next to my boyfriend’s Xbox controller, because I figured that’s where they’d best be seen and I left the house. I fully intended to kill myself because that year, I had been bullied and worn down so much by my boyfriend’s mother who decided she didn’t like me any more and I felt like nothing, I felt like existing was too much for me. I’d rationalised that me killing myself was actually the best thing for everyone; my parents and sister would have each other and my boyfriend wouldn’t have to break up with me to please his mother. Now, they seem like pretty stupid reasons to want to kill myself, but I don’t think anyone who goes through those thought processes ever has anything eloquent in mind other than: I want to die. As I was walking towards where I needed to be, I felt pretty numb and I wasn’t really thinking about anything, but at one point, I realised I still had my phone on me and I looked at it, to see a text I’d received before I left the house: I love you xxxxx from my sister. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around and walked home. Later on, I rationalised that I was being selfish to make my boyfriend go through the whole ‘telling my parents’ thing, but when it came down to it, had I not received that text message, I’d not be here writing about how amazing my sister is now. I know that with one hundred percent certainty. She saved my life.

Ingrid doesn’t know any of this and I don’t think she’d be able to handle knowing, which is why she doesn’t read my blog. But, the love I have for her extends far beyond any love I think I’ll ever feel for another person in my life; that girl is everything to me. Since then, we’ve gotten even closer and I have made her my priority in life. I’ve stopped seeing a lot of my friends, because even when they knew I’d broken up with my ex, they were still pretty nonchalant and behaved as though it was nothing and I realised that all the love and care I had for them, wasn’t really reciprocated and I don’t go out as often as I should, because I choose to see her when she’s free. We spend days lounging on  her bed, playing Skyrim or watching Friends and not even talking at all, but just being near her makes me happy. Since that day, I decided I was going to try and be a better person for her and be the sister she needs me to be. I mean, I’m the eldest sister and she needs me, even if she doesn’t know it. I’m her best friend too and to ever leave her would destroy her – I couldn’t do that to her.  She needs me just as much as I need her and I think that’s what our mam meant when she recited her mantra to us throughout the years. She didn’t mean having someone to go drinking with, or someone to hang out with when your friends weren’t free – she meant that when we felt like we couldn’t breathe or didn’t want to any more, that we just needed to look towards each other for guidance and we’d find our way back to feeling normal. My baby sister is my best friend and I have, quite literally, everything to be thankful for. I am so lucky to have her in my life. Love you, little legs.

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Okay, I died… Now What?

This week, I have re-immersed myself in the safety cocoon of family life. I have spent my evenings lounged on the sofa with my sister, dog and parents watching bad TV and sharing hilarious anecdotes about nothing, in the way that families do and spending my days in a distinct routine involving my dog and our playful walks in the nearby fields. It has been somewhat of a welcome relief from my mundane reality and an eagerly anticipated break from my tiresome living situation. I’ve always been ruthlessly independent and don’t really enjoy the company of others all too often, but spending a week with my family has been necessary, I think, to re-charge my batteries and give me some kind of perspective on my life: Being looked after and given cuddles, kisses and high fives on a daily basis actually does a lot for the self-esteem, and if you’re lucky enough to have a family as loving and excellent as mine – your self esteem will be in abundance too! (Cheesy McCheeserson has taken over the blog today).

I’ve also been given the opportunity to do a lot of reading and reflecting, which has, for the majority, resulted in some rather cathartic, free-flowing snotty tears cascading down my entire face, but it has given me some food for thought and some room for inspiration (hence the blog). Today, I read some of Caitlin Moran’s pieces, which she shared on her Twitter feed, including a letter she wrote to her daughter whilst alive, but pretending she wasn’t, just in case she did die. Some people might accuse her of being morbid, but it did actually inspire me to write something too. I don’t have a daughter, or any plans on becoming a mother in the foreseeable future, but I think, like pretty much every other twenty five year old in the UK this week, I have been pretty affected by Peaches Geldof’s sudden death and have been reflecting rather seriously on my life and what kind of legacy I’d leave behind if we were to die suddenly and unexpectedly. So, I am going to write a post-homous open letter to people who may or may not be affected by my death, should I pop off suddenly and unexpectedly too.

Dear anyone who happens to be reading this,

If you’re reading this, that means I’m dead now. I’m not sure why I’ve died; it might have been suddenly, or a long drawn-out disease or it might have been that last tequila shot that caused me to pass out and then choke on my own vomit, alone in my house, without even a pet to eat me after a few days of food deprivation. That actually sounds more likely, I’ve probably done that. So, here I am. I didn’t lead a very interesting life, or a very accomplished life in the grand scheme of things, but I have lived a life that I’ve enjoyed wholeheartedly and a life that I hope had an impact on the people I care about. I also hope that it had an impact on the people I didn’t care about. I hope you’re so pleased with my death that, if there is a God, he’s sat next to me, sharing a bottle of his son’s finest blood, looking at you thinking what a dickhead, you’re going to hell for what you’re thinking about her, you fuck. And then we’ll high five, because I think that God and I would get on really well.

Being young, I never really had the time to properly discuss and plan my funeral. My grandma had hers planned right after my granddad died, because she was convinced she only had five years left to live; he’s been dead for over a decade now and she’s still here, so maybe I should have planned mine and I’d be here too. Anyway, I did speak to a few people about songs that have moved me and everyone should know that my favourite flowers are daisies, so I hope that people took that on board and didn’t just think I was a rambling fool chatting about songs and flowers all the time. I know for a fact my sister knew that my one favourite songs ever is The World Spins Madly On by The Weepies and I know that my ex boyfriend knew that Lover You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley means more to me than anything else on the planet (although, I dunno why he’d be involved in the funeral at all, other than to maybe cry a single tear at the fact that the last thing he said/did to me was the most scathing and hurtful thing possible. Actually, I hope someone thinks to invite him so he can live a life of torment knowing that he’d been so nasty to poor, dead me.). I also love Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton, which I wanted my first dance at my wedding to be, but seen as I’m not going to be getting married, I hope someone thinks to play that too. In fact, I hope my funeral was just a bunch of people sitting round my body strapped to a rocket and they played a few songs and then shot me off to space as my parents threw daisies at my disappearing corpse. I also hope my dad stands up and tells jokes about me, too. I don’t really want anyone to cry, but I want them to regale one another in the stupid and clumsy things I did on a daily basis and remind each other than even though I’m dead, I can still be the happy go lucky fool that entertained them all.

I could go into detail about how much I love my family and how I want them to carry on without me, maybe buy a dog and name her Doris and spend their time strolling along the beach like I never did, living life to the full, like I also never did, but I think my family will know what to do. Same goes for my friends. When they all get together on the anniversary of my death I want them all to pour one out for ones homie and then get mortal on cheap red wine and have a sexy orgy, like we all never did when we never got together as a group. I think everyone who is worth mentioning will probably remember me fondly and know that I love them with all of my heart. I think this post-homous letter is purely for the people who didn’t know me and how amazing it would have been to actually be a part of my inner circle of beloved buffoons.

To all the handsome males I’ve fancied and been rejected by over the years, I hope you’re sad. I hope you write songs about how you regret friendzoning me and I hope you compare all your future lovers to the lover you never took and wonder out loud when drunk, I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d only just taken a chance on that lanky, dopey idiot I called a friend. And I will tell you: It would have been awesome. Who else is a self-proclaimed awesome ball who loves gaming, eating pizza, drinking beer and giving head and calls that an ideal Friday night? THIS MOI! And you missed out. For shame, dickheads! Instead you wasted your time on far more beautiful, skinny creatures when this chubby ball of awesome was just waiting around to die! Well, cry me a river, sonny jim, because now you’ll never know. No, I’m totally kidding, guys, I have no sour feelings towards you, the majority of you never knew I was besotted with you and those who did and rejected me anyway, well, you had good right – I’ve always been a bit of a dickhead and you’re right to assume I’d be a shit girlfriend, because I’m a pretty shit friend, really. Except I’m not a shit girlfriend, I’m actually the bomb (as my ideal Friday night suggests).

All joking aside, though, I have led the best life; I learned Dutch before the age of ten and played Korfbal for my local team and, was desired by PSV Eindhoven Korfbal team too. I went to university and studied English Literature and Film and although I didn’t get to learn to drive or travel the world or have children, I experienced everything exactly the way I wanted to experience it. I fell in love with someone who, for a very long time, made me the happiest girl in the world and was everything a girl could wish for from a first love: He was my best friend and everything else in between. I had a family and friend network who wrapped me up and supported me when I needed a helping hand and the same people were there for me when I wanted to drink too much and make poor, male-related decisions. Life is so precious and people often take it for granted wishing that they were thinner, or had bigger tits or that they haven’t done something that is expected of them, or that their life has come to a stand still for a while through no fault of their own and we let ourselves get so down about it too, but we shouldn’t. Life is a gift and we should all learn to just savour every moment, before it’s taken away from us suddenly. Like what happened to me. Because I’m dead now.

Thanks for everything, people in my life. I love you all more now than I did yesterday.

Doris xxx

Links to the music in my letter:

The Weepies – The World Spins Madly On – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWGfzu6yE2Q

Jeff Buckley – Lover You Should’ve Come Over – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXe1jpHPnUs

Eric Clapton – Wonderful Tonight – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xl7Hd2r0LOs

 

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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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International Woman’s Day!

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a celebration as much as the next person and believe that being a woman is something worth popping the champagne over. Being a woman from Newcastle, it’s more than likely we’ll celebrate a Monday afternoon with a few bottles of wine and special Monday Tequila; celebrations are a Geordie obligation, it’s in our blood. However, I just don’t feel that it’s all that necessary to have International Woman’s Day. It feels somewhat contradictory and concessionary to me – akin to black people only getting one month out of the twelve to celebrate their own history; it’s convoluted and seems something constructed by the patriarchy/white man in order to keep us feeling as though, ‘yeah, we’re really lucky, we should be SO appreciative to be able to celebrate our vaginas/skin colour, because there are some people out there who don’t get to celebrate ANYTHING AT ALL. Not even Christmas. Pour me another glass, I’m going to toast my vagina!’ I can’t make too much commentary on Black History Month because I am not black and other than that excellent Morgan Freeman interview, I have had no experience of a Black History Month in my life, not even during education, so I am not at liberty to discuss something I know nothing about *shuffles papers in a professional manner*. However, being a woman is something I know LOADS about, so rather than hanging out the bunting and congratulating myself on owning a vagina and knowing how it works and who is in charge of it, I am going to write this instead.

LOOK magazine recently featured two men in their recent debate article, who were discussing for and against the idea of a woman wearing a necklace that says ‘Feminist’.

Untitled 

Now, let that all wash over you for a moment; let it sink in and pick up the theme of what I’ve just said. Need help?

Men.
Discussing.
Feminism.

You get all that? Are we now on the same page? Can the outrage begin yet?! This is a woman’s magazine, which approached men and asked them their opinion and their FEELINGS on how they would behave if they saw a woman wearing that in a social setting. I was in a public place when I read this article, chortling I said ‘what the actual fuck?’ out loud, much to the chagrin of the elderly lady I sat next to. Now, because we were both WOMEN I felt that we had more than enough experience between the two of us to be able to discuss this appropriately. She was from a different generation to me and probably didn’t consider herself a feminist at all and I almost turned to her and asked “Do you think this is what Emily Davison had in mind when she flung herself in front of the king’s horse? Do you think she expected women in a position of power, women who could potentially make a huge difference and broadcast the importance of equal rights and being a woman to the masses, to turn to celebrity gossip and MEN for their debates? Do you think in her last moments she was considering the opinion of MEN as a horse trampled on her face? No, me either, Ethel. Have a wine gum.” It just seemed so bizarre to me that men were asked their opinions AT ALL. And their arguments were so rigid… The one who argued for the necklace was so floppy in his response. I am paraphrasing here, but it had something to do with ‘I find women who are proud of being women so sexy, howay over here and sit on my flabby face!’ and the other, who was arguing against the necklace told us to buy our own fucking drinks because he assumed we’d all be standing there, stony faced, just waiting to have a go at him for having a dick. I mean, let’s just keep in mind that a woman wearing a ‘Feminist’ necklace is probably more than capable of buying her own drinks, and, because she’s a believer in EQUALITY, will be more than likely to extend the offer to a man also, but I digress…

The truly tragic and annoying thing about this whole article is that young girls will read this magazine. They will have picked it up for the Jennifer Aniston cover and all the pictures of pretty clothes and celebrity gossip (and the fact that it was 99p and well within their price range as opposed to Grazia who this week had an article on gender mutilation… written by a woman and was more expensive!) Some of these young girls will have aspirations of looking like one of the painfully thin, airbrushed models and I have no doubt that they will be inspired by this article for all the wrong reasons; because of the buy your own fucking drinks attitude of the nay-sayer. When we are young, all of our programmes we watch and films we adore are all romance driven, regardless of how we even feel about sexual orientation or whatever. When I was young, Seth Cohen from The OC had the most disturbing effect on me and I loved him with all my geeky little heart. Same for when I was first introduced to Ryan Gosling and my ovaries exploded all over the place to cries of OH MY GOD WHAT IS THIS HEAVENLY FACE I HAVE DISCOVERED?! These young girls, like any other young girl before them, all want a boyfriend. And there’s nothing wrong with that; love and sex etc is a part of being young and being able to explore that is not something we should judge at all. However, their experiences of men are limited to the TV/Films they watch and, undoubtedly, the magazines they read. I grew up reading Cosmos sex tips and they were so confusing that I thought sex was some kind of Olympic game (also, I read a lot of feminist blogs which negated the whole idea of enjoyment and that it was purely a function WE SHOULDN’T DO and seemed to exist only to terrify me… Needless to say Ryan Gosling threw all of those ideals right out of the window for me. His Notebook beard looked far too comfortable to place my lady parts on for me to simply refrain from sex) and as much as I hate to say it, a lot of magazines, written by women, who celebrate being a woman also feed into the patriarchal idea of pleasing a man. So, my point is, these girls reading this will associate ‘Feminism’ with being a dirty word, like I used to until I discovered that being a feminist is more about being who you are as a woman and being proud of being yourself and owning a vagina you are entirely in control of (and loving men and believing we can not only be best friends, but equals in both life, work and love!); but women who don’t know what feminism is will read this and refrain from associating themselves with their fellow women, because they think that will stop them from finding a boyfriend.

I recently wrote about being disillusioned by the feminist movement because I was reading so many arguments about how men still try to assert dominance in the bedroom and how a lot of the women I followed on Twitter were desperate to make everything from equal pay rights to who should clean the house a feminist issue, intent on believing we are all VIOLENTLY OPPRESSED by the patriarchy without even knowing it… All the while there are huge wars and suffering throughout the world. Recently, someone I know came home to find her boyfriend had hung himself because he was having so many money issues… These are the types of issues feminists should be getting involved with, humanist issues, not specific female related issues such as ‘I cleaned the toilet last week WHY ARE YOU OPRESSING ME?!’. Anyway, read it if you want, I’m going back to this argument.

This is exactly why I think International Woman’s Day is something that shouldn’t be bellowed from the rooftops and trending on Twitter purely for one day of the year. Magazines and people who work in environments that allow them to be persuasive and empowering to young girls, should be pushing that being a woman is exclusive to them as individuals and only THEY should have an opinion on what being a woman is actually about. Because, otherwise, this thing we call the patriarchy prevails yet again and being a woman allows for ourselves to be open for scrutiny by men who think feminism is a dirty word and that we’re all Birkenstock wearing, hairy, frigid, stony faced cunts. Now, personally, I tend not to be affected by ‘the patriarchy’ and choose for it not to exist at all, nor am I the type of person who regularly preaches about feminist issues, but I seriously think the editor of LOOK dropped the ball on this one in a massive, massive way. Those who follow me on Twitter have seen some of the backlash that it has received already through my Re-Tweets.

I am damned proud of being a woman and I think everyone should be living in and growing up in an environment that being any type of woman (whether or not you’re wearing pink and screaming over Justin Bieber or watching sports and laughing at the sound your farts make, wafting them over to your Justin Bieber sister and shouting “SMELL THAT!” any type.) is something they should be proud of and they should be associating themselves with being a feminist. That’s what I believe. Like I said, I was recently disillusioned with feminism and I think this post has only reiterated that fact, because the likes of LOOK magazine who have the ability to make a difference, have taken a female issue and placed it in the hands of men, allowing them to take control and adjust the opinions of the reader, thus affecting the opinions of hundreds, if not thousands, of young girls who now associate a necklace that says ‘Feminism’ as something that won’t win them a boyfriend, because men say so. And surely that is the complete opposite of what International Woman’s Day is all about?

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Is the Avon Lady Really a Mother Fucker?

Traditionally, I am not the type of person to make resolutions of any kind. Sometimes I will make them when I’m really drunk and clutch the arm of whoever I’m with, lean in close and whisper “I’m going to be thin by summer!” and then scoff an entire kebab in one sitting, then cry about it, pointing to my stomach and grabbing handfuls screaming ‘WHY DID YOU LET ME EAT THAT?!’ to my friends/family/partners. I make bold statements like “I’m going to cook with only the most fresh and healthy of ingredients and visit the butchers and greengrocers on a weekend! And invest in a wicker basket and poodle skirt! OH MY GOD, maybe I should buy a BIKE?!” and promptly forget about them as soon as the wine wears off and the hangover kicks in. I think at this point, people who know me tend to just take everything I say with a pinch of salt and agree, knowing that if they prompted me to remember I’d sigh, roll my eyes and tell them I couldn’t be arsed.

This year, however, I decided that, not only would I make an important resolution, but that I’d stick to it also. Which mainly stemmed from spending New Year with my family because they wouldn’t mind when it turned midnight and I burst into tears brought on by wine and heartache, whilst Gary Barlow sang romantic and terrible songs in my ears and everyone around me hugged and kissed their loves, whilst I stood there screaming THERE’S NO ONE TO LOVE!! And stormed off to bed. My resolution was to treat myself better. Not in terms of buying fancier wine or ordering salad with my steak, but just treating myself like a better person and not being ashamed of my own mind, my attitude or my behaviour. Because, I figure if I project the features about myself that I really liked, then other people would follow suit and I’d be less of a socially awkward ball bag and more of a gloriously tall Amazonian goddess. Maybe. Probably not. So, I decided to start this blog and write about my life in a manner that hopefully made people laugh, because, despite my crippling social anxieties, I have always fancied myself as a bit of a funny fucker and enjoy sharing humour amongst my friends and family like a plague, forcing them to laugh until their tongues dry out, then demand more because I’m needy. Also, to be kinder and say ‘yes’ to more things that would introduce me to new people and experiences, which is coming on leaps and bounds, if my current dating repertoire is anything to go by (it’s not).

In January, I invited a lot of my friends out to see a band with me in Newcastle. I was really excited, because it was the first outing I’d actually gone on since I broke up with my ex that didn’t involve the local pub or my  mother’s house (again, let’s give a round of applause for social anxieties, folks!) and quite literally an hour before I was supposed to leave the house, when I was already dressed and brimming with excitement to be socialising with humans who weren’t forced to by familial duty, every single person I’d invited out with me bailed and told me that, actually, something we’d planned a while in advance wouldn’t be happening. I tend to over think things and I assumed that it was because the people I’d invited secretly hated me and I had a bit of a cry. Mostly because I’m a really loyal friend, but also because these were the same people who hadn’t bothered to ask me to hang out or ask me how my relationship was going (they didn’t know I was single at the time) and it just showed me that people I really cared about didn’t care all that much about me. Usually, I would have retreated under my duvet and cried about it for a few hours, before having a shower and drinking some misery tequila, but because I’d made a decision to say yes to more new things, I thought ‘fuck you guys, I’m going for a dance’ and that’s exactly what I did. I tend not to believe in karma all that often, because I’m intelligent and well read, but the events that unfolded that night, made me question everything I’d ever thought about my friends, and guessed they’d all gathered and made a voodoo doll of me and then stabbed it repeatedly in the ankle, because when I was getting ready to jump in a taxi home, I fell off a curb and fractured a tonne of bones. I just fell… right off the curb, like I’d forgotten it was there and in a really tragic and slow motion type fall. I could see my friend making ‘oooohhhhnooooooowhaaaatiiishaaaappppeeeniiiiiiing’ faces as I crashed in painful slow motion and smashed a load of bones in my once lovely foot. It still didn’t stop me from smiling, though, because I was so fucking proud of myself that I’d gone out by myself and didn’t have any form of panic attack and this is exactly what I told the paramedics.

Paramedic 1: Have you been drinking?
Me: NO! I am just SO happy!
Paramedic 2: But you’ve broken your foot, you’re probably going to need surgery.
Me: Will I need my shoes?
Paramedic 1: No, sweetheart, you’ll probably not be able to wear shoes for a long time. (To my friend): Are you sure she’s not drunk?
Friend: *Shrugs*
Me: I’ll just walk to the ambulance.
Paramedic 2: You can’t walk on that foot, I’ll get the chair.
Me: AND LIFT ME? ARE YOU INSANE? YOU’LL NEVER BE ABLE TO; I’LL BREAK YOUR BACK!
Paramedic 2: I’ll be alright, just scoot over.
Me: Do you even lift, bro?
Paramedic 2: Yes, I am used to lifting heavy things.
Me: WHAT ARE YOU IMPLYING?!
Paramedic 1: He’s just being cheeky. So have you had a good night?
Me: Oh yes, I was ditched by all my friends and I went to see a band and met this friend here, who is now looking after me because I have broken my foot. My granddad is in hospital too, can I go see him?
Paramedic 1: No. (To my friend): Does she ever stop talking?
My friend: No.
Me: You haven’t seen me in seven years, how the hell do you know?!

Turns out I didn’t need surgery and they gave me crutches and I had to stumble, shoeless, to another taxi, which I didn’t fall in. But I did smash my knees off the stone steps as I crawled into the house.

I’ve also taken more steps to tell people how I feel and be more forthcoming with my thoughts and feelings, which I found was, restricted a lot last year, due to personal problems etc. But now, I tend to approach people like I used to and be really confident in talking to them. As I was waiting for a bus the other day, there were a group of elderly women approached and were talking about a house that is for rent along from mine and one of the old ladies said ‘Well, I hope we get someone nice because there’s a young girl living in number 23 who never opens her blinds. They’re always closed, like she’s hiding something.’ And her friend replied, ‘I’ve seen them open once or twice. At Christmas she had the house decorated lovely.’ I liked this elderly lady the most, because obviously they were talking about me. ‘Well, I heard she was living with a bloke and he left, so there’s obviously something not right about her. Anyway, I wanted to see what she’s done with the place, have you seen inside?’ to which I eventually responded ‘I’m pretty sure she doesn’t open her blinds because she murdered her boyfriend and used his entrails to decorate the living room. I know this because I AM THAT GIRL.’ And then I laughed a maniacal laugh and grabbed a smoke bomb out of my bag and just disappeared. That last bit didn’t happen, but I did say that I’d murdered my ex. I’m sure they believed me and I’m glad. This way they won’t come round and attempt a friendship. I’m already friends with too many of the elderly. That same day, I also punched an old man in the side of the head trying to balance myself on the bus. I’ve never seen fear in the eyes of a kindly old gentleman before, but I honestly think that those cloudy eyes will haunt me for the rest of my life. I also once accidentally grabbed a girl’s face on the bus as well, not realising she was there because I thought it prudent to grab the entire bus seat for some reason that I honestly couldn’t even begin to defend.

My favourite has to be the interactions I have when listening to music. I will sometimes start singing in public; mostly accidentally, but also because I secretly think everyone lives in a musical without me because they know I’d hog the lime light and mess up all the dance moves. So sometimes I’ll belt out lyrics from a particularly emotive Heart song or thrust my fist into the air whilst shouting ‘WE WILL BE INVINCIBLE!’ a la Pat Benetar. My post man (which I found out lives three doors down from me) has seen me twerking and also strutting Beyonce style down my hallway in a floor length cream dress as though I was having an imaginary sassy wedding to no one. My neighbour has heard me singing along to Doris Day’s Dream a Little Dream of Me and came to see me to thank me for singing it, because it was his wife’s favourite (there were many tears spilled that day) and recently, the Avon lady knocked on the door at the same time as my sister was supposed to arrive to pick me up and I screamed DR DRE, MOTHERFUCKER! Right in her poor, terrified face. Now, I’m not sure if the Avon lady is a motherfucker and if you have been reading this in the hopes of finding out (maybe you’re from my area, or maybe you just really hate the Avon), then you will remain severely disappointed because I have no idea, I just thought it was a pertinent question to ask regardless. She handled my vocal accost with great aplomb and simply asked me if I’d filled out an order, to which I blurted out an extremely disjointed apology mixed with hysterical laughter and crossing my legs and bending down screaming OH MY GOD I THINK I MIGHT WEE!! Before I managed to calm myself down and tell her that I hadn’t.

A lot of people roll their eyes at me and think ‘What an idiot’, before making conscious decisions about never speaking to me again and I am almost one hundred per cent certain that any of these revelations about myself will end in some emotionally stable and handsome individual falling head over heels in love with me. But, frankly, I really don’t care. I think for the first time in many, many years I am finally incredibly happy and incredibly content with who I am. Gone are the days of me pretending to like something because the boy I fancy does, and trying to make friends by not being myself is definitely a thing of the past. I may end up spending a lot more time alone after this revelation, but at least I know that if/when I do end up alone, I’ll be doing so with excellent company: Me. I think 2014 is a year full of life lessons and me being comfortable in my own skin and in my own personality is a winner. Because on top of everything else, I’m also finding myself a lot more attractive and I find myself smiling at my own reflection for the first time … ever, maybe. General Anxiety Disorder is a horrific thing and I do have my moments of crippling self doubt and I will have panic attacks at leaving the house or seeing certain people, but for the most part, I am becoming more self assured and confident than I ever have been and I enjoy myself a lot more too, which really, is what life is all about. If you’re not enjoying it, then really, what’s the point?

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What’s With All the Dick Pics?

For those of you who know me well, or for those of you who don’t, but have been following my blog in the past few weeks (thank you, by the way!) it is no real secret that I am single after half a decade (how awful does that sound? I realised this recently and have startled myself into complete denial with that discovery) and am now somewhat tentatively taking my first unsure, unconfident steps back into the world of single men and the ‘dating game’ (which isn’t really a game at all, guys. A game should make you laugh and there should ultimately be a winner and possibly a trophy. It should not include anyone, under any circumstances making shit conversation and spending an entire evening bragging about themselves and their accomplishments whilst you sit there wishing your drink would automatically refill itself with arsenic so you could put yourself out of the misery of being in that horrific situation. Or, where you get so bored you imagine stabbing yourself in the ears so that you never have to listen to some jumped up narcissist in bad shoes speak ever again. And you’d get a free bus pass. It’s more like torture. Social torture. Dating torture) and it’s only very recently I realised that the concept of dating etc has changed completely and I am now a confused and floundering fish on land, hopelessly gasping for my life and flapping my body off the floor until my eyes get glassy and I drift off into a peaceful fish death, confident that my last moments of abject agony and asphyxiation were far more enjoyable than being a single woman in 2014.

I have always been a pretty modern, liberal woman and having grown up in an age where technology is insistently rampant and ever changing, I never thought I would become intimidated or terrified of being a smart phone owning single female. However, since becoming single, that is exactly what I am. I have been inundated with men who aren’t at all interested in me as a person or being my friend, but more interested in and persistent in showing me their dick. Or, if not showing me their dick, talking about it constantly in both its aesthetics, and its ability to make women everywhere squirt out their entire collective body fluids until they resemble a very old, very dried up sponge with flaky bits coming off and a distinct ‘stale’ odour emanating from their once fluid filled bodies. There isn’t even a preamble to this horrific revelation, no build up or warning at all, just a full on picture of their dick, invading my phone like a tyrannical war lord. When this first happened to me, it was through the app Snapchat, which I had previously only used to show my friends just how horrific I can make my face look by simply showing them my double chin or maybe a picture of overweight women with their thongs hanging out of their see through Primark leggings like string wrapped around piles and piles of flesh coloured wool. I had never even considered that my friends weren’t sending pictures back because they couldn’t find anything more horrific than my face and fat women in thongs, but because they were all too busy sharing ten second snippets of their fanny flaps and ball sacks. Who knew? Certainly not me! I was gob smacked and not just because this person had actually dressed his cock up to look like a human face (oh yeah, you read that correctly), but because I barely even knew this person in any other context than simple Facebook friends with many, many mutual friends. He was someone whose statuses I found really funny, not someone whose cock I wanted to see first thing on a morning wearing glasses with a playful ‘you like? ;)’ caption (FYI, no, I didn’t).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude. I think my previous posts and general cavalier attitude towards sex makes that abundantly clear, but I just don’t want to receive pictures of someone’s cock before I’ve even had my morning cup of tea. If someone were to do that in real life and thrust their cock at me for ten seconds screaming ‘LOOK AT MY COCK! DO YOU LIKE IT?!’ I could prosecute and have them arrested for being fucking creeps, so why is this now seemingly part of the process when chatting to men all of a sudden? I’m not sure if I’ve been in a relationship for too long, that I missed the cursory email society sent around saying that it was now obligatory for us to show off our intimate bits to the opposite sex before embarking on any form of polite conversation, but I’m pretty horrified. Or maybe it’s just the type of people I attract. Maybe I’m like emanating this lonely desperation and longing for some kind of cock catalogue so I can flick through it on a night time before strumming my clit until I’m practically humming the National Anthem in ecstasy. I’m not sure, but what I am sure of is that every male I have spoken to since breaking up with my ex has generally been uninterested in me in any way shape or form, other than in a sexual context. Even people who have added me on Twitter and sent me a ‘you’re hot’ message (Just out of curiosity, how are you supposed to reply to those and why do people send them? Surely a comedic quip and a dazzling of wit would be more appreciated? I mean, for me it definitely would be, because I just find my normal retort: ‘tepid, actually’ baffles them into thinking I must be thick, so they persist and tell me why they think a picture of my face equates to me being super hot and thin and smooth and fuckable) have immediately foregone any form of social graces and inundated me with terrible banter pertaining to my tits and how, because I’m single, I am of course gagging for cock (their cock to be precise) and I must want it in every possible orifice available. It’s not even subtle and there isn’t even any form of prelude through tantalising, flirty conversation or even a simple ‘what’s your favourite colour?’ type questions; it’s immediately sexual and as liberal and cavalier as my attitude tends to be… I just find it very off putting and infantile.

What happened, fellas? What happened to blossoming friendships and the uncertain potential involved with talking to a lady? Getting to know someone through staying up really late chatting passionately about books and films, instead of pushing your phallus right up to their faces, begging her to indulge your every fantasy with a sexting session? It just seems to me that no one seems to want to ‘court’ (old fashioned terminology, but it’s valid) any more – sex is put on the table almost immediately so that you’re pretty aware that the guy you’re talking to doesn’t find you interesting or funny and doesn’t care that you have a first class degree, you just have really nice tits and your face looks like it could do with a smattering of spunk (and yes, that line has been used on me before).

Of course, shit like this has been happening since the dawn of time and if Billy Crystal in When Harry met Sally is to be believed, men and women cannot be friends because the sex part ultimately gets in the way, but at least in those days there was at least the illusion of friendship, rather than Harry just whipping his dick out and asking Sally to suck him off. I mean, if you’re out in a club and you see an attractive person, then yeah, it’s understood that you are there to get off with them and have a bit of a feel, rather than standing in a corner having a passionate debate about this week’s episode of The Walking Dead. If you meet up in a club, it doesn’t really mean anything more than two people expressing their carnal desires whilst dancing to a terrible techno-y remix of a shit song. But, when you talk to someone over a social media platform, I just think that we should expect a sense of decorum; that it should be less blatantly sexual and more conversational, as though you’d sat down next to them in a coffee shop and asked them what they were reading or whatever. I don’t really want to open my messages from someone I’ve never met before telling me that he wants to bend me into awkward positions that might not actually be possible and fuck me until I am inside out and probably a bit broken. Call me old fashioned, I suppose!

I imagine that, ultimately, it’s because our phones are such massive parts of our lives now and regardless of where we are or what we’re doing, we are accessible twenty four hours a day. We’re constantly online and we can instantly message or chat to someone we find attractive and because we share our lives and opinions on the internet and are told to accept that this is ‘sociable’, it’s not really surprising to discover that some people will take it a little too seriously and use this as a method of meeting someone so they don’t have to go through the arduous process of meeting someone in real life. And, if they find you attractive, they can constantly see what you’re up to and who you’re with and because we can speak to them every day if we so choose, it’s easy to be duped into thinking that this is an escalated form of ‘dating’ or whatever and it’s also easy to be deluded into thinking that someone replying to your messages and liking your statuses means that your feelings of attraction are ‘reciprocated’ when really, they have no real clue as to who you are. I just feel, being newly single and all, people put too high a price on social media and it warps the whole experience into believing it’s something that it really isn’t.

I guess if there’s any knowledge I can impart onto any men who are reading this and have done or are considering sending a woman a picture of their dick: Just don’t do it, guys. We don’t really appreciate them as much as you think we do and we don’t want to pander to you in order to massage a fragile ego. Instead, maybe try to treat a girl online exactly the same way you would treat her if you met her in reality; you wouldn’t flap your dick around in her face in real life, so just don’t do it.

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I Don’t Know How to Tell You This: But I think I Lied About Being a Feminist.

I have always considered myself a feminist. I am a female and I have a vagina of which I am solely responsible; I control what goes in and what comes out, so to speak. I am unashamedly feminine, with slightly masculine undertones. I adore sexist jokes and Frankie Boyle is one of my heroes. I use the word ‘cunt’ on a daily basis and I like to paint my nails and drink cocktails with sexually suggestive names (slow, comfortable screw, anyone?) I talk about sex toys as though I were a toddler discussing the merits of Lego over Megabloks… I am unashamedly female and I thought for a long time that being female is exactly what made you a feminist, but when I look at Twitter feeds and certain blogs, I’m finding myself more and more disassociated with the whole movement and I’m not sure if that’s my fault or not.

Neither I or my sister were raised to believe that men and women were anything other than equals; we treated our parents with the same respect we expected from each other and our friend groups. We were given a well rounded, level introduction to life as a whole and given the best fundamental building blocks to develop ourselves into the women we are today (foul mouthed alcoholic (me) / beautiful, intelligent, game geek (sister)). I am proud of our up bringing and I am proud that my parents were pretty cavalier about letting us develop ourselves into the people we were going to be, with the best parenting and guidance imaginable. Truthfully, the only real lesson I got where the difference between men and women were concerned was when I discovered my dad had a “tail” and that my granddad didn’t have any teeth. But, I was never raised to believe that womankind was suffering in any way, because the women in my life weren’t suffering at all. That being said, I was very young when I made my own opinions up about life etc. When I was very young, we were taken to a bunch of churches as part of a school trip and when I arrived home I told my mother I didn’t believe in God. When she asked me why, I was wise beyond my years in saying “I just don’t believe in something that I can’t see with my own eyes” (but Santa and the Tooth Fairy were still definitely real to me. I mean… I had evidence whenever I lost a tooth or saw half eaten carrots). I had an equally decisive approach to relationships when I saw Grease for the first time and thought Sandy was foolish to change herself completely for a man (and also for taking up smoking. I was a child genius). I was pretty clued into myself and had a great understanding for who I was and what I wanted to be from a young age. I guess I could be described as a teeny tiny feminist, but it would be another decade before I’d even heard that word uttered.

I try not to come across as too forthcoming and preachy in my opinions about things; I often lace my points of view with poorly placed humour or a wine induced weep, but I think as a woman, it is my right to discuss my opinions on feminism without the fierce backlash of another feminist who doesn’t share my views or thinks I am doing the movement a disservice by airing my thoughts. It is vitally important that all women consider themselves feminists and that we are in charge of ourselves, however, I just feel as though some of the things that certain feminists do/write/say, exclude a lot of the every day women out there and remove them from the movement as though they’ve done something wrong. I studied some very feminist things at University during my final year with lecturers who were genuinely unashamed in their resentment towards women who didn’t agree 100% with their anti-male outbursts and were positively vitriolic towards the male students who were genuinely interested in feminism. I generally feel that, aside from learning about the Suffragettes during history lessons at GCSE, I haven’t been given the best education where feminism is concerned.

Feminism, in recent times, I feel, has become somewhat counterproductive. I honestly feel, when reading through certain blogs and Twitter feeds that feminism has become similar to a school playground, where we have factions of feminists spreading out and standing in corners, hurling abuse at the others. I just feel that because there are so many different feminist groups, almost everything in life is becoming this enormous feminist issue and I am completely unsure as to why. I mean, if everything honestly did become a ‘feminist’ issue, what would there be left to do? We’d just all be sat there, silently fuming until all the men died out and we were left, not speaking to each other until some clever bitch decided to take control of us all and declare herself as ruler of the world (and if that ever happens, I want to be that bitch).

Sex seems to be the main issue with a large group of feminists and I don’t feel it helps young women develop themselves appropriately into who they are sexually. When I was a kid, I was fucking terrified of sex because of all the feminist type things I read on the internet. I honestly feel that if I’d taken the advice of these blogs I would be some severe dominatrix type beating the living shit out of men: no penetration, no orgasm, nothing other than extreme violence. And from what I had learned from the girls at school was that sex was mint so, surely one of them had to be wrong?

Recently, for example, I read a blog which bemoaned Male Dominated BDSM Relationships and the author of the blog felt that this particular act of ‘deviancy’ was becoming a plague within heterosexual relationships, as though men were attempting to enforce masculine dominance within their relationship through sexual violence and the degrading of women in a sexual setting. It was very clear in it’s approach: “Men who control women are bullies”, it screamed, but I found it completely ignored the more real and genuine ideals of a BDSM relationship – which, if you’ve read into it, isn’t actually about belittling or degrading females at all, but more about two consenting adults drafting and signing a contract unto which they both agree they want to live their lives according to. Some women love to be dominated and there is nothing wrong with that, but this blog suggested that females who participate in this type of thing aren’t doing so out of free will, rather, they have been forced into it by an overbearing female hater. What I found particularly noteworthy about the blog as a whole, was that they did not even touch upon the topic of Female Dominated BDSM relationships at all. Being wildly interested in sex from a plethora of standpoints (even things that do not personally interest me at all), I spent a lot of my youth looking into fetishes and different type of sexual interests because I am incredibly nosey and I had a laptop in my bedroom, so no one could disturb me. Anyway, through my research, I eventually came across Femme Dommes and I found them incomparably fascinating. Again, not from a personal stand point, but because the things I was able to explore and read were absolutely phenomenal. Anyway, back to my point:

I was quite annoyed when I read the post, because I felt that if someone was going to write a hateful and broad generalisation of a sexual preference for a lot of people, then she should include the sexual movement as a whole. As far as I can see it, you can’t scream ‘EQUALITY!’ then ignore both sides of the BDSM coin, that isn’t fair. Surely if this woman was desperate for equality, she couldn’t sit there and say that tying a woman up in uncomfortable positions and shoving your cock up her arse without warning is bullying and incredibly sexist, but shoving a dildo up a man’s arse then stamping on his cock with stiletto heels is actually pretty okay – that is both not true and not fair. If we’re talking about equality, surely that should mean equality for ALL, not for SOME?

Personally, from reading into BDSM from both female and male dominant positions, I can say with all honesty that I would much rather be a dominated female, than a dominated man. If you haven’t looked into it before, honestly, do it! It’s absolutely fascinating and some of the things I have read and the manner in which these men talk about their mistresses is absolutely astounding; honestly, some of the best reads ever. I just think the idea of vanquishing someone’s masculinity is a far bigger deal than attempting to vanquish femininity. If someone told me I was a terrible woman, I would agree, because other than wearing skirts and doing my hair and make up, I tend not to be very womanly. Anal sex is not something I get all quivery and faint over, because I do not find it threatening whatsoever, but if I were a man and you rammed a dildo up my arsehole, I might feel vey weak and exposed in my masculinity, especially if it was coupled with ‘LOOK AT YOUR TINY COCK, LOOK AT IT, IT’S SO SMALL AND PUNY!!’ that could potentially ruin someone’s self esteem. If someone said that about my vagina, I would twirl and say ‘I KNOW, LOOK AT IT!’

There are so many sides of equality to be looked at and I might not be giving a very good representation of how a lot of women feel, but this is how I feel. I look at equality and think ‘how would I feel if someone treated me this way’ and then if I would be upset by it, I wouldn’t do it. It’s the same whether I’m talking about men and women, homosexuals, people of different race or religion and I genuinely feel that a lot of feminist groups are totally ignoring how everyone else feels, because they feel that their feelings and their opinions should be at the forefront of everyone’s minds. And I think as a result, the movement itself is becoming somewhat convoluted and stale. I think I am genuinely frustrated by feminism, because from what I have read, I haven’t found anyone who I can agree with, or any issues that aren’t being tackled by every other feminist out there. I just feel that there are so many more real issues that are affecting modern society as a whole – people as a whole and I feel quite sad when I read feminist outbursts because they don’t include the suffering of everyone at all, just the suffering of themselves or how they perceive women to be suffering. There are so many people out there who don’t have homes or jobs and are having to go to actual food banks to get food donated to them by people who shouldn’t have to be forking out for destitute people at all; instead of our government looking after us, we are simply a state of people looking after people and it isn’t even an obligation, it’s a choice. So that if a family of four are starving and one of them dies, that’s not on our government, that’s on us for not being charitable. We have a government who are intent on finding a benefit thief with every person signing for JSA and no one looking into tax fraud by politicians. We have people who have commited suicide over Bedroom Tax and people who have died because their houses have been too cold during the winter months… I just think that feminism isn’t as important as these issues; I find being a human and focusing on human issues is far more important than hating men or bemoaning sex or whatever other issue you can think of and this is why I feel utterly disillusioned when it comes to being a feminist. I am having a true ‘WHO AM I’ moment because I care more about my fellow man (as a whole) rather than caring about my fellow WO-man getting paid equally or not being dominated in the bedroom.

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