Tag Archives: People

My Career Aspirations Growing Up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

I don’t give a fuck.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Emotional Interlude Dedicated to The Internet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Email: whatdorisdidblog@gmail.com
Twitter: @mzjaggah

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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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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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