Tag Archives: Males

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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Thanks for the Cock-Blocking, Parents!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your face could use a smattering of spunk.”

Because of all the health benefits, I imagine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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“From Now on, I am Going to Live my Life According to Martin Scorsese Films.”

I often say things when I’m drunk and make a mental note to remember them, delving further into my mind grapes in order to make sense of the shit that comes out of my mouth after one too many glasses of merlot. In my mind’s eye, I am incredibly prophetic and I use my wine glass as a mouth piece, as a part of me in order to emphasise my point; I often imagine that I am like Catherine Zeta Jones in High Fidelity during the scene where John Cusak still thinks she is incredibly important and not at all empty and vapid, when really I am more like Tina Fey in 30 Rock sitting about in a slanky eating night cheese (which is so something every single girl living alone should do).

When I discussed this with my friend, who informed me I was also discussing Jack Nicholson in depth, I realised I was talking about The Departed and assumed it must be the quote that I always close my eyes and smile at when I hear it:

I don’t want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me.

It’s one of those quotes where I like to interpret it to the point where it makes absolutely no sense in the movie, but has been warped into making perfect sense in my reality, therefore incredibly important and relevant to my blog post. However, I think this does, in some pointlessly convoluted way, actually make sense, which is both surprising and strangely healthy for me. Since breaking up with my ex, I have had a lot of people tell me that I am better off or, that they mean well, but what they’re about to say will offend me to my very core, causing my eyes to prickle with tears as I smile and tell them that no, actually, it’s totally fine, tell me exactly what’s on your mind and why the man I thought I was going to marry was ruining the very essence of me, it’s totally fine… what, these aren’t tears, it’s raining on my face. Some of it is really harsh, but I think it’s just my pride trying to defend and justify five years of simply existing, rather than living. And here is how I think that it is totally relatable and relevant to my Frank Costello quote. Here we go:

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my relationship. I liked waking up every day next to the same face and smiling, leaning over to kiss the person I love on his sleepy mouth, not at all embarrassed or disgusted by the mingling of our vile morning breaths. I loved our life together and I loved our house; the bickering over whose turn it was to get the drinks in, or how to cook a chilli:

“I’m a chef, Doris; I do this for a job, go sit down and drink your wine!”
“BUT YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!!”
“I am not doing it wrong, I’m just not doing it the way you do it!”
“Have you even PUT any red wine in it? Or any CHOCOLATE?!”
“No, because you’re drinking it all and already ate all the chocolate! Sit down and shut up!”

Turns out he knows how to make a mean chilli, but fuck it, I am high maintenance. I also loved even just having someone to hold my hand or a arm nook to curl into when I was crying hysterically over something pointless on the TV, or something I’d read on the internet. However, since breaking up with him I realised that we had hit a plateau; that our relationship was stuck because neither of us were willing to mould ourselves into the relationship expected of us – we lived very close to our families and his family in particular were in their early twenties and had children and engagements etc. We had become a product of our environment and I, in particular, felt pressured by that and felt that I shouldn’t be looking for a career that would allow me to save money to travel and live a life I’ve always dreamed of… I felt pressured into believing that my dreams and desires were entirely selfish; that I should be nesting and creating a home for the eventual pitter patter of tiny feet. Looking back, I know that he was incredibly uninterested in committing to me beyond living with me, even tidying up and respecting his home was a challenge and sometimes he wouldn’t even come home at all because he needed his ‘space’, which really isn’t all that hard to find in a three bedroom terrace with two bathrooms and a pool room (as in the lounge game, not the swimming)… I now realise by ‘space’ he meant ‘being single for a while’. Not necessarily cheating, but not having to think about anyone but himself. Which is fine, I guess, but you don’t move the fuck in with someone and then wander off pretending to be single for a night whilst she sits at home and cries, wondering how the fuck she became this person she hated.

Since becoming single, I’ve realised that I am now in the latter stages of that quote: that I am now making my environment a product of me. Not in the exact sense as Costello was talking about, but I think in my own wine-induced way, that’s also exactly what Costello was talking about. Probably. Again, I don’t want anyone to read this and think that I am chuffed to be rid of my ex boyfriend, that he was this weight on my existence forcing me downwards until I was a miserable middle aged twenty-something woman with resentments towards everyone around me. I loved him. I really did and I still look back and think ‘jeez, if only we hadn’t done this, or not let people influence us…’ the reasons are endless, because a relationship ending, regardless of how toxic you realise it was, is sad. And it is sad and I am still pretty sad about it, but I’m also glad it ended for the aforementioned reasons. I wasn’t ready to throw my life away for The Stanley Dream; pregnant by my early twenties, unemployed living off benefits, feeding my kids cheap, processed foods because it is far cheaper than buying organic (not that I buy organic, but still). I always had a grand ambition and I studied so hard to be the type of person that I wanted to be and only now, after five years of being head over heels (to the point of fault) in love with someone, unable to see their own faults, it’s only now that I am able to see that our relationship was a mistake. The whole thing. And that is because I am overly romantic and believed that love conquered all; that none of my dreams mattered because I had found someone who loved me in spite of all my flaws (like drinking too much or wandering into traffic).

It has only been a few months, but since then I have become an entirely different person. My parents tell me that I have become the old me, but with slightly better morals and more experience, thus more wise. Like an owl or Patrick Stewart in Star Trek Next Generation. I am also a hell of a lot happier… Like, even when I wake up alone and spend the day alone, drink wine alone and then fall asleep alone: I am SO happy doing that too. I have become a more rounded human being right down from losing over two stone in weight and starting this blog. I am also trying to establish myself in a proper career (not like in a call centre role where essentially, I am working for peanuts whilst a giant corporation hands out bonuses to arsehole board members with double chins and mistresses… a proper career) and have become a generally nicer person. I even do nice things for charity now. I know! And no, before you roll your eyes and pass me off as one of those people who took a #nomakeupselfie and didn’t even donate money, I do volunteer work for an old people charity, so shut your stupid judgmental faces and praise me like you should. My entire outlook on life is entirely different and my morals are back on track and being treated with the respect they deserve; I no longer let people walk all over me like I don’t matter and I no longer let people treat me like I don’t mean anything. I am very important and I am very nice and my environment, at least, is very much a product of me, which I think is the ultimate goal for anyone.

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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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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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