Wednesday, 31 December 2014

Being A Sentimental Fuck (Bear With)

It's the last day of 2014 and it's a bit weird. I feel like so much has happened this year but it's all gone by in a blur. So I thought I'd get all sentimental and look back at all the shit that's gone down.

In list form (bloody love lists):

  • 1 blog started
  • 1 flat acquired
  • 2 cardboard men purchased and standing in aforementioned flat's kitchen
  • 4 men (debatable) slept with
  • 1 boyfriend had
  • 1 boyfriend lost
  • 3 trips abroad
  • 3 different hair colours worn
  • 1 university year over
  • 1 university year started
  • 1 job lost
  • 1 job gained

There's actually a few things I'd like to look at in a bit more depth (my blog, my rules).

This whole year has been a year of trying to find myself. I know, I'm as grossed out by that as you probably are. It's very Eat Pray Love of me and for that I apologise. But I started this blog with the intention of sorting some things out in my mind. I thought that, if I put them down into words (which is what I do best), then I could clear out a bit of space in my head. And you know what? It's really helped. 

It's helped me be truthful about how I feel about the men flitting about my year:

I had the rose coloured glasses snatched off my face by TGI in May. And I'm quite proud to say that, after a minor fallback in September, I have not seen him since nor have I had the desire to see him. He was good for me at the time and I don't mind that what happened... Happened. And despite everything, he is a genuinely decent guy at heart. I just hope he starts to show that sooner rather than later.

Around the same time, I started an actual relationship with Troy. I had a legitimate boyfriend for about 2 months... And I realised that I wasn't cut out for it at the moment. At least not with a man I had zero sexual attraction for. But bless him, he remained sweet to me until the very end. Even after I was a world class dick to him. Troy is a lovely, lovely man and I really hope he finds someone who will appreciate that a whole lot more than I did. That was not a good moment - realising just how much of a manipulative arsewank I was. 

Sidebar: Isn't 'arsewank' the greatest? My gorgeous girlyfriends and I think we made it up last night. I feel we should be knighted or something for our contribution to humankind.

Then, we reach LB. Are you tired of hearing about him yet? To be quite honest, I'm a little bit tired of writing about him. He broke my heart when I never wanted anything to do with him. I suppose sometimes you just can't control who your heart decides to fall for. As gross as that sounds, I do kinda get what they talk about in the books and the films. Heartbreak - in my case, coming from something unrequited - is shit. But in a way, I'm pleased it happened. Just like I'm pleased TGI happened and, to a lesser extent, Troy. It showed me that I actually could feel something for someone. Something I had, quite honestly, dismissed as gross and stupid. But hey, here's to a 2015 with (little to) no mention of LB.

And finally, someone that I am not pleased happened. My 'fairytale' with Tall Australian/South African. Let's just move on from that. Quite frankly, my lower body does not want to remember that.

But you all know about that. You've read about my man dilemmas and have been very helpful and kind about it. I mean, fuck, I never thought I'd have even one reader! So - only because I'm feeling all sentimental - I want to say thank you. Thank you for listening and being there for me - even from computers from miles and miles away - because the comments you leave really cheer me up. They honestly do.

So here's to 2015. Happy New Year you gorgeous fucks xoxo

Saturday, 20 December 2014

Merry Christmas, Fuckers

A very short post today as have a train to catch in 2 hours and have neither packed nor cleaned the flat. Aberdeen's done something to me, you know. I never used to be like this. I used to be all set and ready to go, days in advance (ish). Well I'm now embracing the haphazard/headless chicken aspect of my life.

Anyway anyway anyway, must dash (dahling). I'll not be posting again until into the New Year as not taking my laptop with me when I go home for Christmas. I shall love you and leave you till then.


Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Jackhammering And Otters

Oh Tall Australian, you had such potential. It's such a shame you turned into a weird-ass motherfucker.

I may be slightly late in writing this as have been very busy and important not doing anything. Oh, breaking my bed. Yes I was very busy breaking my bed. Not in that way, dirty sods. No, I sat on it. And it broke. I feel that something is telling me to lose weight... I am currently sleeping on a mattress on the floor which is rather comfy but I know it can't last. I'll revert into my 80 year old tendencies and my back will hurt every time I get up in the morning. I'll start walking about with one hand in the small of my back and yell at small children if they cross my path. Basically I've bought another bed to avoid said scenario.

But on the subject of beds - Tall Australian.

So I got rather drunk last Friday night... Not horribly drunk to have no idea what I was doing but drunk enough to not realise what bad choices were. Or realising and being too drunk to care. Anyway, I went round to Tall Australians. Or rather, I texted him and he came and drove me to his. That was a bit weird. I mean, it was past midnight and he was already in bed. He actually got out of bed and got dressed to come and take drunk me from my house back to his. It was weird.

Anyway, I slept with him (obviously because I am always a drunk slut) and that was also weird. Not to be too graphic but you know those big pneumatic drills that men in hi-vis neon jackets use on roads...? I felt like I was the road.

I wish I was exaggerating. But this is pretty much an accurate depiction. 

Now this is not referring to size. Rather... Strength. It was bloody exhausting getting - for want of a better word - jackhammered. And he woke me up for a second time. I'm sorry gentlemen but that is not on. Not. On. I need my beauty sleep - which you should be very respectful of considering you've got to wake up next to my face.

So yes, after the drilling episode (it's how I imagine a blow up sex doll feels) I decided to end it. Not just the drilling. He was also just weird. I can't quite put my finger on it but something about him was off. So despite the shit tonne of stars, I'm going with my gut instinct instead.

On to more fun things - I successfully managed to text flirt yesterday. I don't know how you lot on Tinder and the likes manage it. I am not really a flirty person. Well, I can do eye flirting and like, teasing kind of flirting in person. But over text? Nah. But somehow I vaguely managed to text flirt with Slains Dinosaur. About my broken bed. Naturally.

Also I got drunk last night - as per usual - and ended up messaging LB at 3am. I know, I know, save your judgey judgeyness for later. But it wasn't a message of undying love or anything weird. No, it was about otters. And it turned out that he was online and more than happy to discuss otters and the otter kingdom in general. I think it's quite rare to be able to message someone like LB completely out of the blue about otters and get this message as part of the conversation:

I'll try my best, you are kinda enemy no1 though, right beside that guy who breaks otter dams

Anyway, I'm being good and just leaving it at that. Really. Because I never wanted all this to get as complex as it did and am damn sure it won't again. Ha. Damn sure. Like a dam. Otters. Right? Right?!

Comical genius right here.

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

My First Date

I very much feel like a Primary School 8 year old writing about her first trip to the zoo or something. But yes, this was technically My First Date.

I obviously spent ages getting ready. This was Tall Australian, of course. He picked me up in his car - a cute banged up old thing he'd gotten for £600 a few months before - and we drove to the beach. I'd like to take this opportunity to say that a weird turn on of mine is a man driving. I don't know whether it's the manly hands on the steering wheel or the control of the car... I don't know. But I go for it.

So we got to the beach and it's rather bloody chilly but the moon's out doing its thing and there's stars and shit (!!!) and the boats are being boats and stuff and we walked along and talked. Then we went back to his car, talked some more as we drove to a pub near the beach and went and got a drink and talked even more.

And it wasn't awkward. It was maybe slightly nervous at times but never awkward. We'd bantered (hate that word with a vengeance) over text and apparently that had surprised him. Obviously in the shop I try to remain as professional (ha) as possible but even in normal everyday life, I'd never seen myself as someone who could banter. It's usually me being sarcastic and constantly raising an eyebrow but maybe that's a thing? Either way, it felt like we had similar personalities which is always a plus.

But here come the points that got me:

1. He's 32.

As Sophie said, I just can't seem to get over that age. Oldest guy I've ever made out with was 32. Thought I'd beaten my record when I made out with a randomer on the street one drunken Saturday night but he was also 32. I get competitive, sometimes I want to beat my personal best.. Anyway, I asked him how old he was (not completely out of the blue, I do have some tact) and he asked me to guess. Which threw me a bit - that's usually my line. So I guessed 30 which seemed a safe bet. Then he asked how old I was. I repeated his question and he said he thought I was 21/22. So yes, I lied and told him I was 20. Hey, only 11 months away. A teeny white lie. And I mean, it's not like we're going to get married or something, it's highly unlikely he'll find out.

2. He smokes.

This came as a surprise. I don't honestly know many smokers and I suppose now, you don't really see them in pubs any more so you don't notice when someone smokes. But although he tried to counter the fact by saying it wasn't like he was a chain smoker or anything - only had about 5 or 6 a day - it still seemed like a lot to me. But then again, I am an innocent non smoker so what do I know. it doesn't really change much but I think I'd have a different opinion if I kissed him. Kissing smokers is most definitely not my favourite thing.

3. He's done so much shit in his life.

So yes, he's South African which is cool in its own right because... Well, it's not the UK. But he lived in Australia for a year and worked on a cattle ranch, he lived in London for 7 years and spent all his time off travelling about to go surfing on the coasts of Italy and Spain and snowboarding in the Alps. He lived on a boat in Bali for a while and has been to Indonesia 3 times.... Basically, to a homebody like me, it sounded like a crazy adventure. I mean, it's not just sitting at home, drinking tea and watching your life tick by, is it? And so I felt myself trying to compete (my bloody competitiveness...) by conjuring up vague stories about when I went to Marrakesh when I was 10 and when I canoed across Scotland when I was 14 and how I used to go on road trips with my dad in his home-made campervan... I felt like I had done fuck all - and do fuck all currently. He asked me about my hobbies and all I could come up with was a vague mumble about having done drama back in Oban. I felt ridiculous. 

4. He reminds me slightly of my dad.

Not in a weird, creepy way. Not in his mannerisms or looks or anything. But I think in his need for travel. And exercise. And sort of his outlook on life. Only a tiny bit. But enough that it was noticeable. I'm not weirded out by this - I think it's quite nice actually because I was recently thinking about how I shouldn't have taken it all for granted - all the road trips we did around Europe. I realise how lucky I was and although I was a stroppy teenager at the time, I should've embraced it a bit more. Unfortunately I may be too stubborn to ever tell my dad this. Don't blame me, I inherited it from him. It also reminded me of my dad constantly telling me whenever I would complain about having to go canoeing or walk up a hill, that one day I was going to get a boyfriend who was into all this stuff and I would willingly do it with him. Obviously this boyfriend will not be Tall Australian but you get the idea. What's weird is that now; it makes sense.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that he made me look at myself in a new way, a different way. I know there's the 13 year age gap so obviously he's had more time than me to do shit. But I feel a bit like I shouldn't be just sitting on my sofa with a glass of wine, typing this up into a corner of the internet that only a few people read. I feel that I should be out experiencing the world and sat in the desert, writing this out on a faded notepad to type it up into a corner of the internet once I got home. But how do I go about this? I'm at university with a part time job. The two pretty much take up my whole life. I also most definitely feel I should be doing more exercise. In a way, he made me feel bad about myself. Not intentionally, of course, but it was like, I couldn't believe I was sitting with this man who had done so much and just lived his life to the fullest whenever he could. 

According to him, what first attracted him was my height. He is 6'4". Again, I'm doing well with the never-being-with-a-guy-shorter-than-me thing. Aren't I a shallow fuck. The next thing was the fact I didn't have an Aberdonian accent. Or look like one the Aberdonian girls who were out looking for a rich oil man to ensnare. He still seems interested - I guess he liked the casualness of the date and that I could (shudder) banter. All I can say is that there was definite prolonged eye contact - in a non creepy way - that, if I wasn't slightly jittery, could certainly be explored further...

To finish this post like a good English lit student:

In conclusion, it was a slightly weird (see points 1-4) date and I returned home rather confused but I feel there is a limited future in this. I can definitely see a Second Date coming close. After that, I'll leave it to the stars.

A Prostitute Mrs Weasley

I have my date with Tall Australian tonight. In approximately 4 hours and 45 minutes. Holy fuck I am getting more and more nervous.

It's raining at the moment which is kinda shit cos we were planning on going for a walk on the beach before going for a drink but no doubt it'll be crazy windy at the beach too so don't think that'll be a hot look for me - 'windswept and interesting' as my mother would say. 'Mascara running everywhere and high possibility of snot mixing with rain on face' is what I'd say. Aren't I a catch?

We'll be walking into town though which is only 10 minutes away from my flat. I always think walking is a good thing to do. You can't really have awkward silences on a walk. Can you? I don't think so because you can be like, 'oh look at all the Christmas lights' or 'doesn't the tree look cool' or 'there's a homeless man fighting with a seagull' and therefore the silence is filled. It's definitely not as awkward as sitting opposite each other at a table with nothing to say.

I'm hoping it goes well - if just to complete this fairytale string of events. I can't see a future in this, mainly because I'm worried he'll find out how old I am and decide he's way too mature for me (a la LB). However, unlike LB, this could be legitimate as I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be about 30. I hate being a teenager. It all sounds very different when you can say 'I'm twenty'. Having a '-teen' at the end of your age immediately downgrades you into youth territory. I refuse to be a youth.

We hardly know each other, Tall Australian and I, so I doubt they'll be too many silences. He sounds interesting anyway. South African (intriguing - what's he doing here? Does he have a South African wife hidden in a cupboard?), in the oil industry (score - possibility of becoming a rich oil man. Also might explain why he's here) but not in it for the money - instead in it for the travel (also score), a surfer (hot), used to take night walks on the beach when he lived closer....

Speaking of nightly beach walks, I went there last night and - not to try and read too much into this or anything - but there were a fuck tonne of stars. And the moon was bloody gorgeous - one of those times where there are hardly any waves so the light of the moon spills onto the water and makes it look like you could just walk onto it and into the distance. Is there a name for that? Moon road?

I must go and shave my legs now. They have been happily hidden away for Winter but now is the time to get them all nice and smoothy smooth again. I know they most definitely won't be getting out of my jeans but it's always nice to know that you have smoothy smooth girly legs. You know, makes you feel less like a yeti.

I've calmed myself down by writing this. Something about writing your thoughts down has the effect of getting them all out your brain so you can come back to them at a later date. Hopefully this means all my nerves will be down on paper and I will be carefree and happy on this date tonight. Fingers crossed.

I'm arranging a Skype call with Tiny Friend when she gets in from work as we need to discuss hair/make up/clothes and I need her to use all her imagination to 'smell' my various perfume choices from 100 miles away and over the internet. I am such a perfume whore. To be fair, only 6 of them are full size, the other 12 are minis or sample sprays... And I've decided I don't want to wear one that I would've worn for LB or TGI - one that screams 'TAKE ME NOW, I AM A SEXUAL BEING, CAN YOU NOT SMELL MY SEXUALITY, I'VE GOT NICE PANTS ON AND EVERYTHING' because that's not the vibe I want to give off. I think I've narrowed it down to 3. They give off more of a safe, comforting vibe - one's floral and the other two are vanilla. So I'll smell more like a potential housewife than stripper. Not to exaggerate or anything.

Right, I need to stop rambling and tend to my legs. Sophie will be back from her exam soon so she can help with the hair/make up/clothes/perfume situation. Because I can assure you that, left to my own devices, I would end up looking like some kind of prostitute Mrs Weasley.

On that note... Sorry.

Sunday, 7 December 2014

Foreshadowed The Fuck Outta That

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to refer you back to my previous post and more importantly, the ending of said previous post:

'Maybe I'll just try and jump Tall Australian at work on Sunday? Don't knock it till you try...

You never know, he might turn round and be all...'

WELL. Considering it is Sunday today, you can be rest assured that I did not jump him. I haven't even gone to work yet (running late as per usual, ever the professional).

But on Saturday. Oh yes, on Saturday...

I'd just come back from my lunch break - oh! Whilst on said lunch break, I was on the phone to my mother trying to organise the Christmas holibobs when this old dude caught my eye with his wife. I was like, can I help you...? Turns out he was the Indonesian puppet man. And bless him, he was just telling me that they'd got them home safe and were thanking me for the time and effort I put into helping them. It was really sweet actually. Also this is the 4th time I've been recognised out of work on the street. Not on the street like in a prostitute way. I still have my job, I'm not getting that desperate.

Anyway. I'd just come back from my lunch break and was back behind the till when Alice, my co-worker, came up to me all cray cray excited about something. I was like, bitch what? And this is how our conversation went:

Well while you were away for lunch, this South African man came into the shop and was asking for you. He asked your name and I told him you were on your lunch break but could I help him with something. And he said he'd come in because he wanted to ask you out for a drink so could he give me his number to give to you.

....  You're kidding right. 

No! He was tall and -


Yeah and so I asked if he was Australian... Turns out he's South African and -


And then she handed me a piece of paper with a name and number on it.

So basically...


And I texted him that night while I was getting ready to go out to Bombskare with Sophie. I said:

'I must have pretty incredible shop assistant skills to get your number whilst on my lunch break and not even in the shop...'

AND HE SAID(!!!!):

'You obviously do!! I finally worked up the courage to get it to you!! Only took twenty trips buying random shit.'


Thursday, 4 December 2014

Ink 'n' Shit 'n' Short Posts

I know it always seems rather shallow and close minded of me to have the majority of my posts discussing the male species... But in reality, the rest of my life is so cocking boring. Like, all the time. Sometimes you just need a bit of male drama to spice things up a bit. It's times like these when I start considering new tattoos.

I got both of my tattoos this year. One very spontaneously and the second actually planned. And after the first one, I felt incredible. It was like I was a new woman with my recently dyed bright red hair - I soon contracted tonsillitis and the redness only emphasised how deathly pale I looked so I phased into ginger and now auburn (so Winter 2014 dahling) - and I went everywhere with my top hanging off my shoulder trying to ever so nonchalantly show it off.

It was then, utterly coincidently, that I met LB. Then TGI happened. Then Troy happened. Then TGI once more. Then the beginning of LB. Then I got the second one on my 19th birthday.

And this one felt different. It felt as if it had always been there - I wasn't constantly rolling up my sleeves to show it off or waving my wrist in people's faces. It felt natural and like it was meant to be. Augustine (volunteer at work, remember) once said that he thought my tattoos were really cool. Cool has never been an adjective used to describe me so I take to repeating it at every possible moment.

But now I'm thinking; so much happened after the first tattoo. And nothing appears to have occurred after the second - apart from the obvious getting my heart slightly bashed about by an arsehole future lawyer. Then again, this may just be another 'stars and shit' moment. It is, of course, rather idiotic to place such trust in astrological situations or fresh ink stabbed into your skin.

Ughhhhhh. I need to DO something. Not just sit around slowly gaining weight and losing money due to a ridiculous amount of Domino's ordering that has taken place the past few weeks. I feel this should be the time that I get super fit and hot and flaunt my new found fitness and hotness in front of LB. But that feels like it'll take a lot of effort. And I've got to get through half the works of Shakespeare for my exam next week.

Maybe I'll just try and jump Tall Australian at work on Sunday? Don't knock it till you try...

You never know, he might turn round and be all...

(You know I can't help it.)

Sunday, 30 November 2014

'I'm Up Early On Sundays...'

Ah, Tall Australian. Now the only man left in my life. How much it doth pain me that we can only see each other a mere 10 minutes a week. You brighten my Sundays and it's as if you just don't care that I am all kinds of crazy busy haggling two Indonesian puppets whilst there's a queue of epic proportions waiting at the till for me. No, you just wait for the crowds to part so you can set eyes on my stressed out face.

I swear to God, those bloody Indonesian puppets were nearly the end of me.

So, I have control of the shop on Sundays. I have the keys and do the banking and all that shit. But it also means I am in charge. It means that customers ask me things and I am the highest member of staff in the store and am therefore required to know things. I do not know many things. I make a hell of a lot of things up. Especially when I am too lazy/busy/stressed/tired/hungover to think otherwise.

Like with the Indonesian puppets. This is an Indonesian puppet. (Say Indonesian puppet one more time, Nancy...):

Basically, we had two of these puppets sitting on the top shelf by the till. They hadn't been there last week and since I'd called in sick yesterday with a 'stomach bug' (read: sad and hungover having cried over LB in the rain at the beach like a pathetic troll) I had no idea about prices. They had a card in front of them saying they were £60. But of course, the grand question here is: £60 for both or £60 each?? 

This is literally what my life is coming to. Pricing Indonesian puppets.

Anyway, a man asked me to get one down for him. Like the obedient shop assistant that I am, I went up the stepladder and lifted it down. Apparently the base was not attached. So as I was up a stepladder in a very crowded shop, holding this bloody puppet by its waist, the base came sailing down and crashed into the CD player.

Ever the professional, I did not swear. So fucking proud of that, you have no idea. I told the customer that if it was damaged, I'd give him money off. It was not damaged. Nor was the other one I took down. Yet lo and behold, as I went behind the counter, he asked me if it was £60 for both or £60 apiece. As this was happening, more and more people were coming into the shop, minding their own business and swanning about as if the most stressful thing in the entire world wasn't about to happen before their very eyes.

I told Mr Man that I had no idea but would have thought they would be £60 each. But, ever the dutiful and awesome sales assistant, I said I could phone my manager and asked. So I did. I had to run downstairs to the phone and call my assistant manager on her mobile - thus leaving the shop floor devoid of shop assistants and only two volunteers there. These volunteers, although being utterly fabulous in every single way, do not work the till. So I knew there would be a huge till queue forming. And having confirmed with the assistant manager that even though it was supposed to be £60 each, we probably wouldn't sell them for that so should sell them for £60 each.

So I went back upstairs to be greeted by the heaving masses and that bloody till queue and told Mr Man the deal. He then decided to haggle with me. Yes, we are a charity shop (not telling you which one cos it said in my contract I'm not allowed to write anything bad about them and I probably already have somewhere and I presume they have eyes everywhere and am not willing to risk that. Kidding, I actually work for MI5) but even charity shops have pricing guidelines and rules and shit. 

I was getting so pissed off. I'd already had to strip down to a vest top as I was getting way too hot - therefore exposing my other tattoo which is tiny and not obvious at all but people, especially older ones, get very judgeypants so I try to avoid it when I'm at work. Anyway so I was obviously looking very stressed and worried and not impressed with any of the goings on. Eventually I agreed that, yes he could have them for £50 just so he would get out. As much as I do not like admitting defeat, I knew it would go on for ages. 

So he bought his bloody puppets and fannyed about with wrapping them and shit then left all jolly-like as if nothing had happened and he'd just gone into a shop and bought something and not left the poor assistant DISTRAUGHT.

Anyway, Tall Australian had evidently come in during this debacle so once I'd cleared my queue and re-shirted, he came up to the counter and was all like, gday.

I'm so tired after writing that rant about the Indonesian cocking puppets that I can't even remember what I was going to say about Tall Australian. Except I'm pretty sure he's going to propose to me in the next few weeks. I'll keep you posted.

Even Augustine (one of the volunteers) noticed that Tall Australian was being all flirtypants. He found it highly amusing so I yelled at him and threw a soft toy elephant at his head. Always the professional.

Oh! I also nearly killed a child today and felt so bad I gave his Dad £1 off the jeans he was buying. I'm just a decent human being, I really am.

Those fucking puppets. I swear to God.

Thursday, 27 November 2014

Bitches Be Procrastinating


Why on Earth did I think it a good idea to go to university and therefore be required to write multiple essays? Pretty sure that's the dumbest thing I've ever done. And I've done some pretty stupid things. See: all my other posts ever.

It's ridiculous, I shouldn't be complaining at all - especially since this essay is a mere 1500 words. That's hardly anything. I don't want to think about the exam where I'll have 2 hours to write 2 essays. I've spent a good 5 hours on this already. And that was just fucking about reading the play and finding critical essays to quote.


Everything in my life at this current moment in time - barring how ridiculously festive my kitchen is - is boring. Okay, seriously, the kitchen though? Looks incrediballs. I'm straining my eyes as I type just so I don't have to have the main ceiling light on and can instead bask in the magical glory of the fairy lights I hung up the other day. Our Weaselbum (Ron Weasley to you) has his Santa hat and tinsel scarf on whilst Bondydong Cabbagepatch (Benedict Cumberbatch to those as yet unenlightened to the never-ending joy of B.C nicknames) is just a big tinsel ball with an extremely handsome head.

See for yourselves:

This is my beloved Princess Sparkle (please tell me someone gets the O.C. reference) with her trusty tequila sombrero. What, you're telling me that other people have stars or angels on top of their Christmas trees? Amateurs.
Also note creepy Channing in the background. Not seen are his carefully crafted devil horns that I made from a Post-It note for Halloween. God, I'm artistic.

Denzel is the newest addition to our humble abode. When the Christmas/Birthday Tree isn't there (we put it up on our birthdays and put presents underneath. Well, the birthday fairy does. Birthday Trees are a thing. I refuse to believe otherwise. When it's Christmastime, we put baubles and Princess Sparkle on it. Because logic) there was just a big space. So I found Denzel at work and decided he must be mine. Because why wouldn't you? He's marvellous.

This wall is shit. It's too big, you can't make it look good. But yes, there's Weaselbum looking magnificent as always. He's a bit like the Mona Lisa because his eyes follow you wherever you stand. It's only creepy if you think about it too much.

And here we have Bendydick Crumplesnatch. Guarding my empty wine bottles. Which I keep on the windowsill to remind me which wine is the good wine and therefore which wine to keep an eye out for in Morrisons should it ever fall under £6 again. RIP that awesome week when all the fancy wine was crazy cheap. I don't remember much of that week.
Also, above Buttercup Cumberbum is our chalkboard. Which some hilarious person cleverly named The Cumberboard. Seriously, why more people don't want to live with me, I have no idea.

My pride and joy which I skipped an English class to put up. No regrets. Our kitchen is bloody beautiful and looks like fairyland. IT LOOKS LIKE FAIRYLAND AND NO ONE CAN TELL ME OTHERWISE. My flatmates don't realise how lucky they are to live with me. You wait, when we move out, they'll be sitting in their new flats just sadly staring at all the empty space that could have been filled by fairy lights and cardboard men. Cardboard men. What's not to love?

If you say anything about the washing up, I will be so mad. I have an essay to write godammit, I can't do everything.

Okay, I think I have successfully procrastinated enough. Really I just wanted to show everyone my decorations because no one else seems to appreciate them. I'm starting to believe there is no one in this world as festive as me. 

And if you dare say anything about how it's not even December and therefore I shouldn't be decorating, you can take a long stick and shove it where the sun don't shine. Unless you're into that, in which case I shall think of another more suitable punishment. I believe that decorating is allowed from the 25th of November and so we'll hear no more about it. Right, bugger off you kinky fucks. I have an essay to complete.

Oh! One last thing - I recently (2 hours ago) rediscovered my love of Riverdance and this may or may not be the reason I have done fuck all in the past while (2 hours)...

You are so welcome for this. 
Michael Flately 4 Lyf.

Friday, 21 November 2014

Part Deux - Slightly Drunk And Way Too Emotional

So he left. And I cried. I wailed like a baby and could not stop. Once I'd calmed down enough to stop wailing (but still crying) I made myself a drink and decided to go to the beach once I'd finished it. You know I bloody love the beach. So I told Sophie and her boyfriend where I was going and set off.

And as soon as I was out the house, I texted LB.

Because I had thought of something. I had a proposition for him. I thought maybe, we could just forget about the feelings and just be casual fuck buddies. Right? Makes sense, right? (Now is not the time to tell me that makes no sense at all). Because I am slightly drunk. As the title so rightly says. Don't worry, am trying very very hard to spellcheck errything. Bloody hate misspelled words.

Okay so he replied to this text being all intrigued and shit. So I decided to go round there. I mean, I texted him first to say I was coming round. I don't just turn up a people's doors.

But here's the part I am most ashamed of.

Troy lives a street away from me. Would that be a block away in USA terms? I've never understood that. Can someone enlighten me? So he lives a street away. On the way to the beach. So I, for some reason, thought that phoning him on the way to the beach would be an excellent idea. He said he was around so I stopped off at his,

Long story short: I kissed him. And he didn't kiss back.

Because he is a decent human being. He knows not to take advantage of someone - especially when they are drunk and considering he still likes me... And he didn't kiss me back. And I felt so embarrassed. So embarrassed.

EDIT: This post has taken me 3 days to write. So much has been going on over the past few days. So much. It is now Friday morning, I am no longer drunk.

So yes, I kissed Troy. And then I left to go to LB's.

I got round there and asked him straight out what the deal was. He said that, again, he liked me enough for a relationship but would be gone by June. I assured him I didn't want relationships because they are scarypants so he was perfectly safe there. Then we had crazy hot sex and I left the next morning. And I mean crazy hot. Bloody hell.

And I was fine with it. Despite the fact I had told him to leave - a fact he was very impressed with - and then immediately went round to his which basically almost put me back to square one. But I was totally fine with it. I had gotten all the feelings part out the way and we were just going to continue having occasional crazy hot sex.

Then I had a pregnancy scare.

Chyeah. That's a thing. That happened.

Just to clear things up now - I am not pregnant. Nor do I intend to be for quite some time. But when you're a girl, you know when something's not right. I had been so over-emotional the past few weeks and my skin was going crazy and I'd been eating everything in existence. Things that don't normally happen were happening. So yes, I freaked out. And I got drunk. Obviously.

And I happened to text LB. Telling him I might be pregnant. I know, I know. Possibly one of the most idiotic things I could have done. But I have no idea how to tell you how I was feeling then. I felt lost. So, so lost and confused about everything that was happening in my life. Not just men (as much as this blog likes to make it look the opposite, I do actually have other things going on in my life that don't have penises) but everything.

So yes, I told him. And he freaked out. And I got mad at him. I got mad at him for freaking out because of course he would - the self absorbed fuck. So I told him that even if I was pregnant. he'd get off scot free because I would give him the chance to fuck off and have nothing to do with it. He could carry on doing his lawyerly thing and fucking about with many other girls and he wouldn't need to worry. So for once, would he be a decent man and think about how I'm feeling.

God, I am the worst when drunk.

He understandably got even madder. And came round. I wouldn't let him in the house because I was being a strong independent woman so we had a huge argument outside. I cried. I didn't (and still don't) understand what he wanted from me. He didn't have a clear point to make other than I had made him feel like shit. Poor, delicate flower. Then we went inside to bed. I was so emotionally and physically exhausted by then that he could have suggested we move to China and I would have agreed as long as there was a bed waiting for me at the other end.

And all night, he held me. He has never done that before. Ever. We have slept together (sleeping) a lot. And not once have I woken up in the night or in the morning to his arms around me. And it's not like he's just moving in the night. We never went to sleep in each other's arms. Perfect guy, huh?

But despite that, I woke up feeling that none of this was right. I kicked him out at midday. I kicked him out nearly 2 hours ago. I've blocked his number. I think I've sworn off men.

Because my friends were right. He was unhealthy for me. I had lost all sense of who I was since being with him. And, as I told him when we were arguing, I was so not in love with him. I had just put him up on a pedestal and I hadn't wanted to let him go because he was Lawyer Boy. And he had wanted me.

When he left today, it was very TGI-esque. He got dressed and I tried to just shut my eyes and go back to sleep. And he turned at the door and said 'bye'. I didn't reply. So he walked out.

'Bye'. That was it.

I'm glad. I'm glad this ended after such a short time. I mean, only 2 months isn't that bad. And now I can just do other stuff right? Other stuff...

God, I am exhausted. So, so exhausted. I want to just curl up and sleep forever. I have no emotions right now. I don't want to cry or shout. I just want to sleep.

So there we go. I wouldn't expect regular posts any time soon. I mean, I have to find another man to write about, obviously.

Now tell me, what do you think? Of this whole thing? This whole, turbulent thing? What should have I done differently (everything)?

It's a really good thing I don't have his jumper any more. It means he won't forget me all too quickly until he washes it. And I think that's fair. I think that's very fair.

Wednesday, 19 November 2014

I Can't Even Think Of An Appropriate Title

Holy fuck.

The past 24 hours have been an emotional bloody rollercoaster, let me tell you.

I'm going to make this as brief as I can because I am exhausted. I am exhausted from stressing, from crying and from amazing sex. Let us begin.

So I picked up an essay after class yesterday and it had such a terrible mark on it that I cancelled my study date to go home and cry over wine. Wine Time is usually 5pm. Yesterday, it was 3:30pm. No judging. It was needed. Especially since I had been texting LB on my walk back home about the possibilities of my becoming a stripper instead of studying at uni. And once I'd gotten home, I asked him to say something nice to make me feel better. He replied with;

'You are a very pretty girl with a seriously impressive drinking problem?'

I genuinely collapsed on the floor and wailed. The mix of the sudden compliment, the bad mark and the stress of worrying why I was actually at university just got to me. And I cried so hard. Whilst sober. That is such a rare occurrence, I shocked myself and my flatmate when she got home. I am not pretty whilst crying. At all. It's quite horrifying.

Anyway, Sophie and I devised a cunning plan. I would get LB round to collect his jumper. Sophie would open the door looking scary and punk and I would be in my room looking crazy fuckable. I would get him to read the gas meter (it's in a corner of my room where I am pretty sure all the world's spiders reside at some point in their lives) and then I would throw him out with his jumper and yell at him about how I deserved better.

And it nearly worked. Soph looked scary, I looked hot, the gas meter was read and then the issue arose. I didn't bank on him staying. I thought he would leave. He didn't. So I went into the kitchen where Soph and her boyfriend were and panicked. She told me to just tell him that he shouldn't dick me about any more and to get out. So I went back into my room and told him. I told him that I wasn't going to do this any more, that I deserved better and if he was never ever going to be a dick to me again, he could stay. But if he was going to fuck me about, he should leave.

He looked at me and said that, by my standards, he was probably going to be a dick to me again even if he didn't mean to. So I just looked back and said; 'Well you know where the door is' and left to go into the kitchen. Seriously, it was like something out of a film.

I went into the kitchen and stood at the door while tears starting filling my eyes. Two minutes later, I heard our door go and then the front door shut. And I broke down completely. He'd gone.

To be continued..

Saturday, 15 November 2014

Ya Hunky Funk

EDIT:  I scheduled this post yesterday morning. I didn't realise I would write another post that same day. I think most of this still makes sense. Sorry not sorry. 

So I was going to write this post yesterday but, having had experience in writing whilst very hungover (hello last year's French exam), I decided to wait until I was in a sunshinier mood. Which, to an extent I am. I say to an extent because I have been awake for approximately 18 minutes after having a very stressful dream about not being able to close the shop because customers kept coming in and I couldn't get them out. There were croissants involved and I had to deduce where a soft toy elephant came from despite telling the customer over and over that we were a charity shop and I had no fucking clue. I'm getting tense just thinking about it. Although it definitely wasn't as bad as the dream I had where I discovered that my diary was actually a 2006 diary. I woke up sweating.

ANYHOODLE, I was hungover yesterday. Because Flatmate Number 1 (hereafter named FN1 because I am an original fuck) and I went out for girly drinks. Which we'd never done before so it was rather lovely. It's so nice not to get all super dressed up to go out because you're aiming to go out on the pull - also one of da clubs here doesn't let you in if you're wearing jeans. Bitch please, this is Aberdeen, you're not going to get any Chelsea types here.

Can you tell I'm in an odd mood? I'm in an odd mood.

I was round at Troy's house last night for pizza and Lord of the Rings part 2 and I'm scared he's not gotten over me. There were too many long, lingering glances when I was trying to get him to change the disc or pass me the pizza box. I definitely do not think I was encouraging it - I have been one to be a dick and encourage a boy's feelings for me* and this was most definitely not one of those times.

*Sidebar: I was/am a manipulative bumhole.

Anyway, Troy aside, FN1 and I were at the bar in the castle (it's so cool, all gothic-y and shit. We were there for Halloween and it was fabby) and had just walked out of the toilets (concealed behind a fake bookcase) when we noticed a hunky looking blonde looking our way. I have never used the word 'hunky' until FN1 and I were in our English tutorial writing notes to each other like mature students. There's a rugby player in our class called Adam and he is bloody gorgeous. One of FN1's notes to me was something along the lines of 'yaaass roll up those sleeves ya hunky fuck' which made me snort laugh so uncontrollably, I got a major death stare (*salutes* Major Death Stare) from the professor.

We find it even funnier now since I was saying how much of a hunky fuck he was when we were back home and, as per usual, fucked it up so ended up saying 'hunky funk'. It's funny. Come on. Funny. Hunky funk. Instead of fuck. Funny. I'm funny,

Right so Blonde Hunk at the bar. We went to get drinks and - prepare yourselves for this - I winked at him across the bar. WINKED!! I have never done such a thing in my life!! My preferred method to getting guys when I'm out is to get horrifically drunk, wear a short dress and throw myself at them before they even have time to say 'I'm gay'.

No comment.

Yes, so Blonde Hunk. After being a brazen wench, FN1 and I went to sit down. And we lost him. So after I took some hilarious snapchats on her phone whilst she went to pee (thinking back on it, the one of my boobs with '#topflatmate' written above was not my best idea) we went to the vodka bar down the road. As we sat there unashamedly not drinking vodka, he walked past us and sat down at one of the booths. Naturally we decided to move from the bar with our many drinks and sit down next to them.

Oh! Oh! I forgot to say, he saw us leaving the castle bar when he was outside smoking (bleeuurrgh) and asked us where we were going. I told him that we were going to Revolution cos one of the bartenders fancied Sophie (dropping the FN1 now, it was too robotic. Also she knows I write this, I'm sure she'll give zero fucks if I use her actual name. It just sounds less fun and MI5. Oh well). And he turned and said, 'who fancies you then' and I was all, 'I don't know, you'll have to tell me' and flounced off and it was awesome. Even if I do say so myself. Thank you, myself.

So, back to the vodka bar. We were sitting next to them and I had my back turned and was chatting to Sophie. Then he took my hand. And, there's no easy way to say this but we were, as Soph said: hand fucking. NOT WHAT YOU THINK YOU DIRTY MINDED SODS. More like playing with each other's hands. You know? And I was being super cool by still not looking at him and having a nonchalant but actually very frantic conversation with Soph about whether or not I wanted to sleep with him. I mean, I didn't. For one thing, he smoked (bleeeeeeuuuurrggghhhhh) and also I just kinda wasn't feeling it. But I would have done. I was considering it. Not only was he hunky hot but I felt it would show LB that I could get another guy and I wasn't hung up on him. LB wasn't there, by the way. This was all in my head.

Anyway, Soph convinced me that was a dumb fucking idea and we should leave. So I agreed and got up to put my coat on. She said she was going to tell him what a dick he was and I was like, fine but let me do something first. So, being the awesome fuck I am, I leant over and kissed him. Then walked off as Sophie berated him for being an arse and told him I'd only kissed him because I was vulnerable. She's the bestest.

Then we drank some more and I do not remember the rest of the night. As per usual.

I am also rather annoyed I didn't sleep with him because, from what I can recall, he was quite the hunk.

So I have successfully made a very insignificant event into a full blog post. Well done me, Thank you, me. I think I just wanted to show that I could have. I could have slept with him and therefore shown that I'm not hung up on LB and his stupid frustratingness. He's so bloody annoying and arrogant and full of himself and gives zero fucks about me.

Hey ho. I'm going to shower and listen to Joni Mitchell as I clean the flat. Sometimes I shock myself how like my mother I am becoming. But Joni Mitchell always calms you down. It's proven fact. She also makes you reconsider your entire life so I would prepare yourselves.

Was this the longest and most boring post ever? Probably. Not even sorry. My blog, my rules.

Unrelated and unnecessary Harry Potter in my posts is my new favourite thing. Even better than pugs.

Friday, 14 November 2014

There Are No Stars

Two posts in one day? What madness is this?

Do you believe in signs?

Signs from the universe?

I do. Rarely. But I do. And tonight, I got a sign.

I've told you before that I love the beach here and the wide expanse of the ocean. I go there to think about stuff and it's where most of my great realisations occur. Of which there are many. And one of the times I was at the beach a couple of months ago, I texted LB asking if he wanted to come. I then used my excellent persuasive skills to tell him that 'there's stars and shit' which would of course further his desire to come to the beach. I have done this every time I've gone to the beach since then.

I wrote an obviously hilarious post about it here. It also turned out to be the first time we had sex. Ah, how time flies when you're having your heart wrenched about by a bastard law student.

I texted him the same thing on Bonfire Night. Practically the entire city had turned up to watch the fireworks from the beach. Bloody love fireworks. And Bonfire Night in particular. I remember last year when I was still living at halls and everyone was all bundled up in scarves and winter coats (because Aberdeen is as sodding cold as a snowman's arse) and we all walked down together. And as we walked down to the beach, everyone else was going too - families and friends and couples - all as cosied up as we were. It brought a lump to my throat. Because I am a soppy cow. It was the same this year. I think Bonfire Night is fast becoming my favourite day of the year. When we got to the beach this year, I saw LB. He didn't see me so I texted him saying 'there's stars and shit'. Because I am hilarious. He replied saying he was here. I was like, for once. And then as the fireworks began, I got a text from him saying; 'there's fireworks and shit'. Is it just me overthinking it or was I right to get ridiculously happy from that text? God, fireworks make me cry.

Anyway. Earlier this evening, I had gotten crazy mad at him. Not physically at him or over the phone at him - he has no idea I'm mad. No, I got mad at him by getting mad at myself. Basically, I went on his Facebook page and saw he'd changed his cover photo at the start of the month. He'd changed it to a table and chairs laid out in what looked very much like a date set up for two. There was even wine glasses and a bottle.

This got me mad. I started thinking wildly that maybe he was actually dating someone right now. I mean, sharing a man when it's only sex is fine by me. Sharing a man when it's dating is not. I would hate to be the girl he might  be dating and finding out that he's also been having sex with me and who knows how many others. Whether this is true or not, I have no idea. I'm mad. Shut up.

So I did what I usually do when mad. I went to the beach. Loud music on the way there, mainly this:

And this:

And then headphones out as soon as I catch sight of the waves. Because tonight, they were doing proper good wave things. It was all thunder-y and awesome. So I stood and watched the waves for a while. And as I did so, I looked up to the sky as usual.

It was cloudy and a heavy mist was starting to spread across the water and surround the lamp posts behind me. As I sat there, there was a huge rumbling noise - I guess a chorus of the waves, an aeroplane and the massive oil boat moving from the harbour. And I sat there in the wind with the mist and the rumbling and realised:

There are no stars.

On a night when I was so unbelievably angry at Sean and had gone to my favourite place, that very favourite place was telling me something. It was telling me that there was no point. That there were no stars left here. There were - there definitely had been stars a few weeks ago, but now there was nothing. No stars.

Having already deleted him as a friend on Facebook before I left (and forcefully thrown his jumper across my room), I deleted his conversation thread from my texts but then I wavered at deleting his number.

I started thinking to myself, what if he texts me asking if I was going out or if I was around? Then I wouldn't know who it was. What if that's my chance and I miss it?

I put my headphones back in on my way home to be greeted with this:

So you'll understand why I still haven't deleted his number. I'm not as angry any more. I know exactly how much pain each day will add on. And I know that the signs were right. Maybe not now, but at some point in the very near future, he will turn to me and end this. Whatever 'this' is. I just hope to hell it's not because he's started seeing someone. Not someone else. Just someone. Someone luckier than me?

His jumper is still crumpled up in the corner of my room.

Undesirable No. 1

I have a confession.

I feel like shit.

Not just because I am desperately trying to stave off a cold and am popping paracetamol and vitamin C tablets like there's no tomorrow. No, I feel like shit appearance wise. Namely my face. Yeah my face sucks balls right now. Not literally. Ish.

I think I have had clear skin about twice this year. Each time lasting about a week. Then the dreaded blemishes start appearing. And I have tried everything. I've been on antibiotics, I've bought The Body Shop out of tea tree oil, I've bought La Roche Posay's super-acne-fighting-skin-saving-pixie-dust-making trio of products, I've tried crazy expensive products (sample size obvs, I am a reasonably poor student) and fuck all has worked. Fuck. All.

And it pisses me off. I don't usually wear that much make up but say on a night out, I'll shove a bunch of the stuff on. The lighting in da clubs is not the most flattering to say the least. But foundation and concealer will stick to the spots and make them even more obvious and dried out. And frankly, it just looks disgusting. 

And when you have clear skin, you feel so much more attractive. You don't really think about it when you have spot-less skin as you'll be fixating on something else wrong with you - we all do it. But once that clear skin is a distant memory, you'll wonder why you never woke up every day like, fuck yeah my face is as smooth as a baby's arse. 

Really, I feel like this:

(Any excuse for Harry Potter. Not even sorry).

Because yes, I like to look nice. Not just for myself but for other people. And sometimes, if I'm having a bad day, I appreciate a double take from a person on the street. I feel this is a tricky subject to approach but I'm just going to bosh on. My blog, my rules.

I am 6ft tall. I get looks. Usually from my face to my feet to make sure I'm not wearing heels. And I like these looks (that come from both men and women I hasten to add). Anybody would. But I hate them when I have a horrible blemished face. My self esteem (which is low at the best of times) just plummets. 

And when I do go out of a night with intentions to snare some unwitting male, I don't want to be worrying about my face scaring them off. I'd rather be worried about my dress riding up or falling off my, albeit very low, heels. Does this make sense? I don't think this makes sense.

At work on Sunday, I went without foundation or concealer and just played up my eyes to try and distract from my skin. One of my regular customers asked if there was something wrong with my face and had I been in a fight? It wasn't Tall Australian thankfully. He's a gentleman. 

Basically, what I'm saying is I just spent £50 on all natural skincare in a last ditch attempt to clean up my face. Although I did just come across this blog post from The Beauty Gypsy which I think sounds like a very scientific method and therefore must work and I should most definitely try it. Ahem:

Why sex is good for your skin. And hair. AND it’s all backed by science!

Anyway, I shall keep my spotty chin up and of course keep you updated on the progress of my skin. I know you're all dying to be kept in the loop. And you know you'll be informed if  The Beauty Gypsy's method works. If you have any tips, I would love to hear them. I am slowly going insane every time another blemish appears. Now let's go find me a Lawyer Boy...

Wednesday, 12 November 2014

Fairly Odd Bumblefuckery

I have some very sad news.

The tall, handsome Australian who comes into the shop on a Sunday has a wife.

I think.

Have I mentioned Tall Australian before? I don't think I have. He's about 35 (age is but a number), always comes to look at the books (men who unashamedly read are my favourite) and we were going to be together forever and ever (planning a June wedding). But obviously now we're not.

In other news, I have none.


I had not heard from LB in 3 days until I texted him last night. And I was being so good at being cool and aloof for those 3 days. I don't get it though. Aren't people supposed to text each other every day? This was news to me. I'd asked one of the girls in my Lain class (aren't a pretentious intellectual twat) what I should do because he hadn't texted me in 3 days and she was like, Nancy that's nothing, that's fine.

And she should know. She's married. She is the first of my friends to be married. She's 21. It very much scares me. Not that I have a problem with people getting married young, that doesn't phase me at all. No it just scares me that they are mature enough to do so. I mean, you have to be pretty mature to make such a commitment to one person for the rest of your life?

I asked her if it scared her that she'd only ever be with this one person as the thought terrifies me. Instead, she said she was excited. Excited to spend all this time with him. They've been married for about a year and a half and had dated since she was 17.  I have immense respect for her. I can really see she just unashamedly loves him - and is in love with him. She also has a Harry Potter tattoo which is why I spoke to her in the first place.

I think that's what I'm a bit worried about - being in love with someone. When I dated Troy, I loved him. I knew I loved him as soon as I broke up with him. But it was the love that was just like deeply caring for someone. I don't want to say I loved him like a brother or anything, mainly because I have no siblings and anyone I know with brothers detest them, but I loved him.

I was round at his the other night because he had pizza and we were going to watch Lord of the Rings because to his utter dismay I have never seen it. And honestly, I could definitely be in a relationship with him again. I haven't told any of my friends this because they'd immediately be all, NOOOOOOOOO YOU DON'T NOOOOOOO etc. But I'm not saying I want to be with him again - not at all. Just that we work well together. He once said we're a bit like Cosmo and Wanda which insulted me for a bit because I always thought Wanda was a bit of a dick to Cosmo who was fucking awesome. But to be fair, it was a pretty damn good comparison.

If you idea who I am talking about, please take this time to educate yourself you uncultured swine:

Anyway, as I've said before somewhere probably, the reason I broke up with Troy was because I wasn't attracted to him. I couldn't sleep with him. I feel slightly weird writing that straight after Fairly Odd Parents videos.

Which brings us back to LB - I am attracted to him. But doubt I could be in a relationship with him - not that it's going in that direction in the slightest - because he's an arse. But an arse I appear to have fallen for slightly. Does that mean there's a possibility that I could in the future, be in love with him? Hm. Let's hope not.

Not even going to ask what I should do here as I am well aware I am just sitting in limbo with him. Ho hum. 

Please tell me some of you remember Fairly Odd Parents? It's not just me right? I'm not old yet?

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

Back To Reality Please Thank You

He's going to fuck me over.

I know it and I'm wavering.

Let's go back to my overjoyed last post.

So for Halloween, I always go slutty. I can't help it. I forget to think of a costume until a few days before and by then I have no money so I have to work with what I've got in my wardrobe and a super quick eBay order. One day I'll have planned ahead enough to go as something hilarious,

This year, I was a ringmaster - heeled boots, short shorts and black vest top already owned. Top hat and red jacket super quick eBay purchases. Cane from Flatmate's box of kinky shit. Nailed it.

Flatmate Number 1 and I went out on an impromptu bar crawl along Belmont Street and got wonderfully drunker than we meant to. We ended up at her favourite pub with all her scary-but-lovely punk friends. I had been texting LB all night (mainly about how hot I looked. I have no shame) and he eventually came to pick me up from the pub. I've phrased that wrongly. It sounded like I forced him to come get me - this was of his own accord!

So we walked back to his and the rest of the night is a bit of a blur. All I do remember is making him add me on Facebook so I could stalk his photos (he warned me that they were all just photos of him and various girls and holy fuck they were. It was ridiculous. Tiny Hippie Friend and I had a Skype stalking session last night) and also him telling me that yes, he like liked me.

I shall repeat: Him telling me that yes, he like liked me.

Cue excited last post.

Now there was no way I could misread(hear) that. Especially since he added 'but there's no point as I'm only here for another 9 months or so.' Which sounds like he was debating being in a Thing with me but realising it couldn't go long term. Right? RIGHT? Please tell me I'm not going insane. That definitely sounds like that. RIGHT??

Anyway, after a horrific walk of shame  stride of pride home (I was wearing his jumper so I didn't look like an absolute whore walking home but still managed to cheer people up with the knowledge that they weren't me. Talking to you woman in hairdressers who just stood at the window with a cup of coffee watching and laughing), I had to go to work.

The next day, he came round.

I'd asked him - being of 6'7" height - to come and take down my fairy lights because I couldn't reach. I mean, I technically could reach considering I was the one to put them up but it was a bit of a stretch... Anyway he got them down in 2 minutes whereas it would've taken me at least 20.

And he stayed till morning. And we talked. Whilst being sober. A bit of an unusual experience for me but there you go, first time for everything.

And I've realised that he is a bit of a dick.

And will therefore fuck me over.

Because despite the whole 'like liking' incident, I am very much certain that there will be another girl that he has given that impression to. And another on top of that. Not literally on top. Unless he was in some sort of threesome and told them both at the same time. Which is poor taste if you ask me.

He said his friend had described him as 'a posh cunt but a nice guy' and I can see that. He is extremely arrogant. He knows exactly what he's doing. He is well aware of the effect he has.

And there was a point when I could have genuinely stopped this. If I had asked him to leave at that moment, I could have been done with all of this. Yes, I would have been a bit miserable for a few days and 'what iffed' for a while but I would eventually have been done with him and moved on.

But of course I didn't do that.

I would like to point out that I didn't do that knowing full well what the consequences would be. This 'thing' would continue for a while longer - maybe until the end of the year - and all of a sudden he'd have a girlfriend or he'd just stop talking to me or he would do something that would leave me heartbroken and feeling like a first class twat.

So why did I do this? Is it because I didn't learn from TGI? Is it because I am seeing him through rose coloured glasses? Am I being a compete idiot again?


TGI was a different type of dick. He didn't pretend. He didn't pretend that our 'thing' was anything special, that I was anything special. He didn't give me any bullshit and it was my fault that I got too reliant on him.

LB is the worst kind of dick. He will make you feel special and like you are the only one. He will make you feel this whilst practically admitting to your face that you are not the only one and in fact he will probably be going home to fuck his flatmate or one of the many other girls in his Facebook pictures.

Am I being a compete idiot again? Yes. But an idiot who is the worst kind of idiot. And idiot who knows exactly what she's getting into and how it will end. A self destructive idiot. But I'm glad I've realised this. It won't make it any easier or any less painful when the time comes but hopefully I can put on a brave face on the outside so he won't know he's hurt me.

I realise how unbelievably ridiculous this sounds. You're preparing yourself for the inevitable end and heartbreak? Why even bother?

That's what I don't know. I don't know why I'm bothering.

Does anyone know? Has this happened before to anyone? Is the overwhelming majority in the favour that I should stop this right now and get my head on straight?

I genuinely do need your help.

Saturday, 1 November 2014



Tuesday, 28 October 2014

So, Friday

I'm just going to put this bluntly at the very beginning of this post instead of leaving it to the end as I usually do:

I like LB.

Hands up who had already realised this before I had?

Image via

So, Friday.

PIC and I went out one last time as she was leaving early on Saturday morning when I went to work (cue me turning up to work slightly drunk and somehow getting away with it). We'd decided to go out just before midnight so hurried to put on clothes that weren't pyjamas and vaguely make our hair look halfway decent before leaving.

When we got to da club - the same da club as on Wednesday - we went straight to the bar and got a few drinks. We were nowhere near drunk enough for da club and, as it turned out, nowhere near drunk enough to witness what we did.

Having been in da club for approximately an hour and having spotted LB a few times on the dancefloor, we went to get another drink. LB had made no forms of acknowledging my presence there but I was positive he had seen me. And then, as we were walking away from the bar, I saw him kissing another girl.

That's it.

Just kissing another girl (one who was very much shorter than him, I may add. It looked ridiculous).

And I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I genuinely stumbled back and could not bring myself to look away. It was one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.

I told PIC what I'd seen and we quickly left to go home. I was trying so hard to keep it together. So, so hard. I am not one for crying unless I am drunk and I can assure you, I was not drunk at this point. But I couldn't help a few tears rolling down my face as we walked down the street. Public crying, again, is not my thing.

I texted my flatmate to tell her what had happened and why we were coming home early just to prepare her for the wailing mess that she would undoubtedly be confronted with. And wailing mess I was. As soon as we got in the door, I collapsed on the floor in the hall and started properly bawling. My flatmate came out of her room in a duvet and sat on the floor next to me and hugged me as did PIC. Then my flatmate started crying about something to do with a boy just as my other flatmate came rushing through the front door and into the bathroom and started throwing up. If you think about it, we are the perfect flatmates.

Once we'd calmed down a bit - and put Flatmate Number 2 into bed with a bin - we all cosied up in my room. I had a quadruple vodka cranberry and Flatmate Number 1's man thing was round singing happy birthday to me as he put a cymbal on her head and played it in time. It was wonderful. And also the cause for the 3 hours sleep we eventually had before having to get up for work/trains.

But after the aforementioned vodka cranberry, I decided it was a bloody marvellous idea to text LB and tell him precisely what I was thinking. For once, I managed to write something eloquent yet short and to the point. It went:

'Fuck you.'

Thank you, thank you, I am a lyrical genius.

He texted back right away claiming confusion. I replied that he knew I was there so what the dick was he doing kissing someone else? In so many words. He replied to say that no, it was not his best decision and was in a way, quite glad that I had seen and had this reaction. I was very confused. Pleased that I was acting like a jealous fuck? I asked him as much and he said yes, yes that was it because otherwise he didn't know how I really felt.

If all of that looked incredibly bumblefuckish and confusing then you are experiencing just what I felt at that current moment in time. I told him as much and asked him if he wanted me to spell out how I felt. He agreed and, with as much eloquence and aloofness as before, I told him that; 'I want you to like me. That's it.'

I now realise that I should have phrased it better because his reply in the morning of; 'Sorry, I do like you. And now I feel like a cunt x' confused me even further.

Like? Like me? Or like like me?

Words are the worst.

To cut an even longer story slightly shorter, we are now pretty much back to where we were before all this. Except he knows I like him and I am none the wiser about his feelings. Which is a bit shit and frustrating to be honest. I like things to be spelled out for me. This is a bloody cryptic crossword if ever there was one. Why are there cryptic crosswords anyway? What's the point in them? How do they even work? Who even writes them?

I know that it is nicer and easier to convince myself of the romance underlying these texts - even if it arises from reading between the lines and using my imagination to an extent of which I am not proud. It is easier to see things in the daylight where the shiner parts are illuminated and the darker truth is hidden away. But one cannot help but think, as darkness closes in, that once the magic of midnight and moonlight has faded, there is left only blackness. This blackness is the truth that you do not want to face. It is the horrible feeling that truth brings that you ignore time and time again because you want the stars back and you want the daylight. And you try and convince yourself that if you wish hard enough, the darkness of truth will disappear and be transformed into the light that you so desperately wanted.

Does that make sense? Does anyone know what I am talking about? Because that is what's going round my overtired mind at the moment. I know it sounds pretentious but I cannot for the life of me think of a way to describe the feeling using normal words.

Does anyone know what I should do? What do you think of this? Does he like like me? Or does he think I am a complete idiot?

Men are a nightmare. A bloody nightmare.

Monday, 27 October 2014

Manly Men & Delicate Fairies

Have you ever wondered when you're going to achieve your peak hotness? You see all these TV shows about 17/18 year olds played by 25 year old actors. And they all look crazy hot and you're like, what the dick?

Case in point:

Elena in The Vampire Diaries is supposed to be my age. I can assure you I look as much like that as a I do a potato. I probably look more like the potato to be honest. And guys get it so much better than us. I was discussing this with Troy in Budapest and we thought I'd hit my peak hotness at about 26 and it'd last maybe until 29 if I was lucky. Whereas he, as a fairly average looking man at the moment, would reach his peak hotness at 35 and it would continue for the next 20 years. By which time I would look like a raisin. It was a good conversation.

Speaking of people being older and better looking than me...

I have LB news. I have so much LB news. Some minor but still confusing TGI news but we all know how irrelevant that is.

So it was my birthday on Thursday. Officially in my last year of my teens. Which is about bloody time because I am so sick of being a teenager. My gorgeous friend from Edinburgh - one of my bestest partners in crime - came to stay for a few days and I took her out to see the cray cray nightlife in the 'Deen.

We got all dressed up in dem short dresses and went with my flatmate to one of the pre-drink bars for cocktails. PIC (Partner In Crime) got chatted up by a random New Zealander which we were all very impressed by as that has never happened to one of us before. Making out with people in clubs is not the same.

PIC and I went to one of the clubs as we had taken many tequila shots and were therefore drunk enough for clubs. My flatmate went to be with her scary punk friends with all the piercings. She quite rightly hates clubs. Anyhoo, PIC and I were in the queue when it hit midnight and turned into my birthday. We were incredibly excited about this so got more tequila as soon as we got in. Obviously. Then we hit the dancefloor where I showed off my Shakira moves. Again, obviously.

Then a medical emergency occurred as someone dropped a bottle or a glass on PIC's foot which caused general bleeding and grossness. Being the super friend that I am, I did not freak out at said bleeding and grossness and took her to the skanky first aid room to get multitudes of plasters.

Then we decided she was fine and we should go dance again. Which is where LB comes in. 

I heard a deep manly man voice behind me saying 'happy birthday' and when I turned round, there he was. Looking tall and just ugh. Manly.


Update: I have now eaten practically all the food in my house in under 10 minutes.

So yes, LB. I am afraid to say, I do not recall what happened in da club but I doubt it was very exciting because very soon, the lights were up at PIC and I were leaving. As we got outside, who should accost her but Very Forward New Zealander! VFNZ engaged her in conversation - very persistent conversation - and LB magically appeared in front of me.

So we kissed and shit and were generally, even if I do say so myself, pretty damn cute. Then I realised that PIC was being an ultimate wingwoman by having VFNZ's tongue shoved down her throat. To be fair, it was my birthday so I deserved some LB time... But not that much so we shoved VFNZ away and buggered off home.

And LB followed us. HE stalked ME. I know right. Isn't this a plot twist. Not a fucking exciting one, I know but we work with what we can. PIC and I ignored him as we walked back until we got to the end of my road and he had to walk past. So I left PIC with her bleeding foot in order to run after him in my bare feet and tell him off for stalking. Also, when we kissed, I had to stand right on my tiptoes. I have never felt so delicate and girly and fairy-like in all my days.

Once PIC and I got home, I proper medical-like bandaged up her foot with bandages and shit. And we went to bed. She fell asleep quite quickly but I stayed up to text LB. He was very jealous that there was someone other than him in my bed, to say the least.

So this sounds all fine and dandy does it not? Indeed it does. LB is into me - at the very least in the physically way if not the 'ooh, do I like like her?' way. 

And then Friday happened. Oh yes, Friday happened.

So what do you think of LB? Think he's my Prince Charming? (6'7", just sayin')