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V Day Approacheth

Hey January! Fuck you in your stupid fucking face. Yes that’s right, off you fuck for another year. February, come at me, I’m ready. Oh except, whats that? Oh Valentine’s day. The day in the year that no one asked for. Ooo look: hearts and flowers, expensive dinners in restaurants set up with only tables for two. Oh an intimate dinner in a quiet bistro, dream on!  Couples are packed in like sardines in a can, all competing with each other to look the most in love. Yes! Let’s all eat oysters and drink champagne and use our noses to push that last meatball towards our other halves. Let’s buy roses and watch them wither and die the following week. You know what I need? I need a fuzzy white teddy bear holding a heart with the words “I love you” or “Be mine” on it. I want edible body paint and a pair of handcuffs inspired by Kim Kardashian’s ass cheeks! I want a butt plug shaped like Ryan Gosling! Let’s make the singles feel like unloved lepers for a(nother) day! I can’t even enjoy my usual activities like online window shopping with out being confronted with “Ideas He’ll love” and “Meanwhile in the Bedroom” sections (cheers ASOS). Netflix starts chiming in with either “10 Romantic Movies to Watch this Valentine’s Day” or the even more sick making “6  Movies to Watch Alone this Valentine’s Day” (suggestions included Mission Impossible (1 and 2) and Star Trek Into Darkness)) because apparently being single is the same as being a teen-aged boy. I lie, I loved Star Trek. Even Ann Summers is getting involved with daily promotional emails “Kitty, your Valentine’s Day specialists are here to make sure the big day is as perfect as possible”. God damn, Ann, can a bitch not enjoy a one time purchase without being bombarded with your assumption filled bullshit for months afterwards. It was a  lonely winter…

 

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Ahhh romance

Yes, okay that was fairly bitter. But to be fair, when you’ve just had to deal with log-fire-and-red-wine couples at Christmas and their smug Instagram posts, the last thing you want (after the utter ball ache that is January) is to be faced with the bleak weekend of February 14th. You can’t fucking go anywhere without being bombarded with love hearts and cherubs and Valentine’s Three Course Lunch Menus. When I was a kid, my dad would get me a red rose, a box of nice heart shaped chocolates and a card every year signed from “Guess Who?”, I was part of the fun of the day. It was nice. But now that I’m expected to actually be having a sex life (scoff!) I’ll be lucky if I get a smile from the crazy man who wanders outside my office with a can of Special Brew at 11am. Maybe I’ll sit and listen to Eminem’s Kim on repeat and think about all the boys who have wronged me. Maybe I’ll look up said boys on Facebook and go through all seven stages of grief as I scroll through their profile pictures. Maybe I’ll build a bonfire and burn effigies and chant to The Goddess in the hopes of retribution. Just a quiet night in, you know?

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The one thing I actually really enjoy about this horrid day is that for a week afterwards, you can buy a big fucking box of chocolates for like £2. Sure you have to go in and look like you’re a shit girlfriend who forgot to get her other half anything, but no one has to know that you’re single. Or that the only other person who might get a look in on your chocolatey goodness is your cat. And he can get fucked if he thinks you’re sharing. It seems like most of my (coupled up) mates have plans, and they’re all so blasé about it, saying (direct quote) “Valentine’s is a load of shit anyway. I’m more excited about the prospect of getting laid without parents being within hearing distance”. Also, I’ve just seen that 1979 Horror Classic, Dawn of the Dead is on Iplayer so I’ll be watching that in my pants whilst I snigger into a tub of Ben and Jerries at how little I spent this most consumeristic of days. So my fellow singles, don’t get down. If you got through the week long utter Shitfest that was Christmas on your one, you can get through this. Now excuse me while I go make out with a hot dog.

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New Year Same Outlook

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HAPPY NEW YEAR! Champagne all round! More canapes! Bring on the rest of that honey glazed Christmas ham! Right that’s enough of that. Resolutions to spend less on frivolous lattes and spend more time at the gym! Dryathalons! Sales! Taking down decorations and tangling the Christmas tree lights up in a bundle resembling a bowl of squid ink spaghetti! The inevitable boredom that comes with the seasonal comedown that is January. The pointless harbinger of two more month of freezing winds and icy rain. No worldwide holidays allowing a week or so of hiding in the warmth of your house eating an entire pannetone followed by a box of celebrations. No chocolate for breakfast. Just a miserable cold month during which time we make ourselves even more miserable by adopting this strange worldwide competitive healthy living. Don’t get me wrong, I get it, especially after a month of gorging ourselves to the point of bursting through the seams of those Topshop Joni’s we shouldn’t have worn in the first place. A detox of a few days, remembering that not all vegetables have to be slathered in goose fat and gravy to taste good. Remembering that water is a beverage as well as a substance with which to wash the glitter from our hair and clothes. Treating prosecco as a treat at weekends rather than a casual 11am pick me up. It is a difficult transition to make for us all. The children are still asking for presents, the parents are still weeping over their sobriety and people like me are looking into the misty future year ahead of us with our usual face of expectancy and cynicism. So here is my advice for getting through this bitter month.

 

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CALM DOWN-  Everyone gets so over excited in January trying to push themselves over the edge by limiting calorie intake and time spent indoors in favor of spending this disgusting month running about outside in the cold and getting themselves ill. You have a whole freaking year to sort yourself out before the world somehow forces you to re-evaluate in the annual reset that is New Years Eve, so even if you do make some bad decisions in terms of career, personal life or whatever, you will have time to right them. Don’t rush into getting everything on that bucket list done. Don’t spend the month performing these weird self-punishments like the Fast Diet (which is total garbage) and daily spin classes with Rodriguez the Destroyer. Instead do nice things for yourself. Go for a walk wrapped all up warm and cosy in your Christmas knits (keep them hidden though, people will judge). Stick on some wellies and run about in a soggy field. Laugh at people’s “New Year, New Me” Pinterest boards. There is so much time to make yourself feel bad for not exercising as much as you think you should, or for eating too much fast food. Why consolidate it all into the one month which already sucks. Enjoy the Christmas belly, you earned it, you put a lot of hours into dedicating your time the glorious mistress that is food! Also, why is everyone starting to pop their little sequinned numbers to the back of the wardrobe? Why is glitter banished until Festival Season is in full swing?

 

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I have this very linear view of the year, kind of like a ladder with January at the top in the mist of frosty clouds and December at the bottom bathed in the balmy light of log fires and daytime drinking. With this ladder you start at the top; you start in Blanduary having been kicked out of the glorious log cabin of joy that is Christmas and onto the cold hard curb of the bleak new year and you spend the rest of the year gingerly climbing back down the ladder to get back to December again. For me things tend to pick up in April with my birthday and Easter (another chocolate for breakfast situation) and I tend to ride the wave of smugness right to the end of August when everything becomes dull until Halloween and then again until Christmas. So what is the answer to the annual ennui? What do we do to drag ourselves through the moods of early March and the graying September skies? We plan. There are 53 Saturdays in a year. 53 opportunities to do something new and different and challenging and exciting. 53 opportunities to binge watch those series on Netflix that everyone has been banging on about since 2013. 53 opportunities to deal with another hangover with a fry up with friends. 53 opportunities for city breaks, country breaks, tea breaks and wine breaks. So start planning, use these Saturdays to your advantage, you may only get 18 days holiday a year, but there are 53 more that work can’t take away from you damnit!

Should I Hibernate?

As the nights draw in and the weather begins to work against every new hairstyle you attempt, my (still very single) mind turns to how I will spend the darkest months. It  seems as though everyone is coupling up, as though the north with doth blow and we shall have  snow and I will die alone when the heating fails because everyone I know is under a blanket by a log fire with someone they love. The beginning of winter signals the arrival of four months of cold nights and short days. We bid tearful farewell to the days of beer gardens and sun soaked lunches with friends are long gone, because why brave wind and rain for a pint when you can stay in with red wine and Netflix?

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In truth, I adore winter there’s something about wrapping up against the cold in layers and topping everything off with a time of year themed coffee beverage that shits all over sweating and shaving all summer. My skimpy summer dresses have been exiled to the loft as I welcome back my cold month cosies back to my wardrobe with open arms. Oh oversized cashmere jumper and  leggings, how I have missed you. I have to say I really love winter fashion but don’t get me wrong I’m devastated to have said goodbye to my bright prints, outrageous clashing and the ability to wear a bikini top in lieu of a bra. With winter comes velvet, the most glorious of winter fabrics, the simple fabric that turns a navy dress into the perfect post work drinks outfit. Blacks are back.  It is now completely acceptable to wear an outfit without a splash of color and I love it and its so chic!

A friend recently wrote a blog on the power of an all black outfit (http://www.thefbombblog.com/#!Back-to-Black/c1w7u/8EE83955-1B15-4355-B43D-0CD19BAAE658)

There is also a lot to be said about the party season, sequins are still here and they will not be banished. I love the glamour of winter, the (faux) fur coats, the sparkly chandelier earrings, the fact that dark lipsticks during the day are not only acceptable but celebrated.

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It’s the time of year for hot soups and hearty stews and endless roast potatoes and I love it. But winter is a cruel mistress; for every charity shop jumper, there is having to watch couples Christmas shopping in town. For every pumpkin spiced latte there is forgetting how to use the damn heating. We must take care of ourselves this time of year, make time for a hot bath with a glass of red (Oh Merlot, how I’ve missed your caress). My first post back in March, I was writing to get over some moron who crossed me; I referenced Bridget Jones then, and I’ll do it again now. That gorgeous moment when she runs out in her pants and gets wrapped up in Mr D’Arcy’s coat and you die inside. Yeh that. I feel like that’s what every couple does instead of a peck on the cheek in wintertime. The smug winter advertising about what you and your loved one will gorge yourselves on as you wear matching jumpers while sequinned confetti rains down on your perfectly laid dinner table. The emotional blackmail from supermarkets. Its a confusing time of year for singletons, while wrapped happily in the warm embrace of winter’s blend of warm smells enjoying the spices that the approach to Christmas reintroduce onto our pallets to; we remember the couples’ playground that is winter wonderland. The couples on ice rinks holding hands and laughing as you trip them up with a stray limb and curse as you avoid slicing apart their smug fingers.

 

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I feel constantly between moments of solitary bliss,  wrapped up cosy on the sofa, Sex and the city filling in the silence in the background, watching Carrie struggle with having landed an amazing book deal but suffers from a total lack of love life and feeling like I know what its like! Standing on a dark platform as the mist makes way for the rain but getting to work and having gourmet chocolate waiting on my desk. How do I feel? I honestly can’t decide! Winter is the pull of a cracker; a loud bang, secreted in one half festive novelty fun, the other a lonely cardboard cylinder of nothingness. So dark. So bleak. But all is by no means lost, the festive season brings delicious treats with which to quell the fires of anger. I’m talking hot chocolate, cinnamon pretzels, freshly made chilli chicken wraps warming your fingers as you peruse tiffin at Borough Market. Warm your belly on that crowded, damp train home with a warm coffee beverage laced with spices and sugar. Winter is for dinner parties and wine and catching up with old friends and eating too much cheese. Sure many of us may be facing the bleak wilderness of singledom, some are seasoned pros, others left out in the cold, others throwing their arms out to the open sky with the glee that comes with new found freedom. Many things are uncertain, will we ever go a whole day without having to hoist the crotch of our tights away from your knees? Will I ever bring my useless tiny umbrella on days when I actually need it? Will I ever see the sun again?

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Girls…Please

Many moons ago, in my first year of uni, I was all about the heels and the dresses. Night after night I would go out dressed to the nines, wearing heels that made me look like an unsteady baby giraffe and more make up than you could shake a packet of face wipes at, only to inevitably come home, shoes in one hand, wadge of toilet roll in the other desperately trying to mop up the tequila and shame from my skirt. These nights out were a meat market, a cat walk without the glamour, during which time the sole aim was to be considered ‘fit’ by the dribbling masses slurring into their jagerbombs and forgetting your name every ten seconds. I shiver now when I think of the money I spent on these dresses, the time I wasted convincing myself that I would totally wear those heels all the time and the smiles and fake laughs I wasted on those mugs in the smoking area who didn’t give a fuck what your favorite Kubrick film was as long as they could tongue you.  I remember the significance those nights out had, how important it was to look good, to look like everyone else, to dare to wear the tiniest skirt, the highest heels, to pull off that quiff and why? Because it gave you some sense of self, some evidence that you exist in the eyes of others, and you know, since I stopped giving a shit, more people have been interested in talking to me. Gone is the girl who would get too drunk smile and laugh and play along, she has long since been replaced with a more superior model; the girl who is quicker than you, funnier than you and can take an insult better than you. Beware, females, your doe lashes and hair extensions will only take you so far, but what happens when they come off and all you have is you, and you’ve forgotten how.

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As I take the final pull on my cigarette before extinguishing it against the side of TGI Fridays, I see the hoards of girls begin to flock by in a milee of tiny skirts, huge coifs and heels that could kill a man. Inside ten female traipse in, each wearing heels and dresses that would make a drag queen blush. There is a sense of competition in the air as she who dares will surely be carried off over the shoulder of some hulking rugby player who has replaced his brains with biceps and foregone having a neck in favor of having pecks like dinner plates. This competition is at the centre of it all, the push up bras, the heels, the holding in tights, the false eyelashes, the mesh skirts, the see-through tops. I saw a girl wearing a white pencil skirt which was all but see-through throw shade at this girl for wearing a tiny black dress displaying both T and A. Hilarious, pot kettle slut! This is it though, these girls are going out dressed like they’re going to some horrendous TOWIE party, they work all week in jobs they hate, developing no real interests or hobbies focusing everything they are on how they look, the clothes they wear, the next color to dye their hair and literally living for the two nights a week they can put on a costume and pretend to be like the people they see on these horrendous shows (The Kardashians, Jersey Shore, The Valleys) when these people do fuck all with their lives. Oh look, Kim Kardashian posted another selfie online, why? Because she has no fucking life, she spends money, she has her picture taken and she goes home wondering why she still feels empty inside even though there is a generation of girls coming who want to be just like her. Forget Ellen Page and Michelle Obama because Jordan just released another autobiography about her life, oh, Emma Watson did a nice speech at the UN, that’s cute but look Rita Ora just dyed her hair pink, I wonder if  I could pull that off.

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Meanwhile, in my leggings and t shirt I tuck into a burger the size of my head, having already tucked into two starters waiting for the rest of the group to arrive, I have no shame. We all meet for dinner and head our separate ways to get ready for our friends’ birthday night out, for some this means taking out the rollers they wore at dinner, applying fake tan and picking one of the ten dresses they brought to wear. For me it meant having a shower, sticking me face on (and attempting contouring) and pulling on my jeans and top. Boom. Low maintenance. Ready. I even have time to roll a joint which I will share with the only guy in the group before we brave the land of spanx and blisters.

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As we head out, most are already drunk, girls walking around looking like Bambi on ice in heels that will doubtless be worn for an hour to deliver maximum effect when strutting into that first bar, to show in the split second that less than half the eyes in the place will be on you, that you take care of yourself, you make an effort, you’re a hottie.  Meanwhile, yours truly draws looks all night wearing black jeans, doc martens and a  nondescript black strap top. How upsetting for those who spent hours on their hair and make up to be ignored in favour for she who made the most minimal effort possible, and isn’t even remotely drunk when she cracks out her best grunge dance moves (all knees and face). I should point out now that it is not everyone’s fault that they are so drunk, the drinks in Swansea are hilariously cheap, at one bar I got a sizable cocktail for £6, a tequila for £2 and a Disaronno Cranberry for £3, so its no surprise that at one point I see a woman in a pencil skirt cuffed and escorted by police still holding her stilettos.  Also, tits. Tits everywhere in Swansea, little tits shown off with a plunging neckline in a backless number, tits propped up by so much foam they’re popping out of the tops these girls shouldn’t even bother to wear and the sheer amount of fake tits about was staggering. The rest of the night was harmonious, we kept to ourselves, danced like we were the Supremes, Michael Jackson and Beyonce all rolled into one. One of the girls in heels disappeared and returned triumphant and smug in flip flops and I have never been so proud.  It was traumatic for me to be confronted with the types of people I thought ceased to exist after 2009, but I feel secure in the knowledge that eventually they will go, fuck this, catapult their spanx out the window and opt for something comfy and let themselves be themselves rather than the girl who’s face they put on to go out in.

 

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Commitment

After a two month hiatus in which apparently nothing has bothered me enough to make me blog, I am back Fucked It fans to talk about the tricky subject of Commitment, a word which up until pretty recently has been almost exclusively used to describe men enjoying the single lifestyle of taking numbers and breaking hearts. If you type “Fear of commitment” into Google you get 10,700,000 results, so it is clearly something which is widely discussed, at least online. For men it seems that commitment means an immediate loss of freedom and the swift introduction of your balls to a vice, which, unless you’re into that sort of thing, is pretty scary. There are things in life which people commit to without a second thought, I’m talking Gym memberships, E-bay purchases and phone contracts, so why when it comes to sharing ourselves, our happiness and our lives with another person do we tend to run for the hills, find a cave and live on lichen and beetles for a few months until the coast is clear?

 

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I’ve spent much of my adult life being asked the same question by friends and relatives “how’s your love life?” And I have had the same answer since forever “non-existent”. This always creates the same reaction, furrowed brows, worried eyes and that weird sad smile that says ‘oh sweetheart you’re just so alone aren’t you, it must be so hard, let’s go for coffee and talk about how lonely and miserable you must be.” WRONG. I am a smug bitch, my life is complication free, oh and that’s absolute danger. When you describe your love life as ‘complicated’ or ‘hard to explain’ or ‘a long story’, that’s when you are miserable. That’s the time that you are spending days on end trying to decode texts, or lack there of, or Facebook stalking to make sure they aren’t having more fun than you. Fuck. That.  Meeting a potential love interest is fun for the first few weeks, the butterflies in the stomach when they text you, the planning of an outfit that doesn’t look too planned for a casual cup of coffee, the shaving every frigging inch of yourself every few days. But after that is the difficult bit, which I am not talking about from experience, I mean as I’ve said before I find it difficult to sleep with the same person twice, so getting out of the dating phase and into the “so what are we” phase is mythology to me.   I hear that once you get past the initial few months and enter long-term territory, it becomes about farting in front of each other and eating dominoes before deciding you are both too bloated to even think about the no pants dance.

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So let’s get specific. I want to talk about ladies who are not into committing. We are not rare, we are not the unicorns of the human world, we are not few and far between and we are certainly not ashamed of our lack of interest in the long-term. I will use my friend as an example, lets call her PMP (for Pretty Much Perfect), PMP has a boyfriend (BF) and has been seeing him for lets say 8 months. PMP is a sexual butterfly and her immaculate physique, intelligence and sense of humor mean that she literally turns heads wherever she goes (she would NEVER admit this because she’s a stupid bitch). Now this constant interest from men is having some sort of chemical or psychological effect on her in that she cannot be with one person without wanting to drift. Obviously BF has no idea, he takes for granted the fact that they have some unspoken contract where neither of them will flit about the pond in search of other options, however, BF also doesn’t know that he is very much punching above his weight, and therefore should not be taking anything with PMP for granted.  PMP has always been a horn dog, she appreciates the male of the species in many different forms, but has a penchant for intelligence, so while BF is madly in love with her but has forgotten to show it, PMP has sought out comfort elsewhere. Why? Because commitment has burned her before. PMP seeks to avoid getting hurt by keeping her options open even though her partner is totally besotted with her (as is every member of the straight male population). PMP is bored and undervalued and has sought out fun in the form of ED (for End Date). ED is exotic, reminds PMP of how much she’s done with her life in terms of travel and offers escape and far more than BF when it comes to emotional intelligence. ED is also moving abroad in a few months thus any sort of fling between PMP and ED has an end date which means he is a hugely attractive option, minimal commitment for maximum satisfaction.

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 They always say nice guys finish last, and its true, we like bad boys, we like the dangerous option and subconsciously we like the fact that they will never commit; why else would certain ladies (like myself) constantly find themselves attracted to guys who are utter dickheads. We are ingeniously finding a way to escape the bonds of any sort of relationship before it has even been established because we are that clever. “Where are all the nice boys” we ask, rhetorically, “We’re here” come the cries from the nice guys  in the friend zone who are absolutely furious. To the guys who think that they are absolutely bossing it, finding a different girl every weekend, texting ladies left right and center, just remember that we are not stupid. We know what you are, if you are an asshole, we are probably using you too even if we aren’t that aware of it. Ladies,we all know that it isn’t just men who think that monogamy is unnatural, it is part of our biological make up to want to spread our DNA as far as possible. But this bullshit about how girls are sluts and men are studs has got to stop, we ladies are far more aware of how we are perceived that men think, we know that if we wear this dress we will get attention, but if we wear this one, we will be left well alone. We know how to manipulate men in a way which makes them think they have the power in an exchange. We just have to be stronger, not look for emotional bonds and let them find us naturally.

Also Christina had it right when she said

“If you look back in history
It’s a common double standard of society
The guy gets all the glory the more he can score
While the girl can do the same and yet you call her a whore”

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Beauty is Gross

 

I can deny it no longer, summer is here, tights banished to the back of the drawer and this (for me at least)  means one thing: time to step up the old beauty regimen. Blessed as I am with lady friends with whom I can be completely open, I have come to realize the hilarious irony of the foul things we put ourselves through in the name of beauty. From shaving to Veeting we are a living in an age where prepubescent hairlessness is not only preferred but expected by the masses, and its not just women. Thanks, in part, to shows like jersey shore and TOWIE male grooming is fast catching up with its long-established feminine equivalent. Waxing hairy shoulders and investing in periodical back sack and crack maintenance are now considered general housekeeping for today’s man and I am not going to berate them for this. Eyebrow grooming in men should be minimal the aim is not to look like a drag queen or Gwen Stefani circa 2004.  However, I personally must draw the line at removing chest and armpit hair, these are a magnificent manly things, I have a particular penchant for a strong snail trail, or the garden path as i like to call it.

 

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Meanwhile, in Girl World, we are doing everything we can to remain smooth and hairless everywhere we can without looking stupid. Only our brows and lashes are safe, everything else is fair game. Its pretty ridiculous that we wait with anticipation to grow our first pubes only to annihilate them as soon as they arrive on the scene. It starts when we see the ladies on the Venus ads, splashing about in pools in a tropical climate (because that’s where you shave your legs, under a waterfall in the amazon, and you definitely won’t contract a nasty infection) and you think, I too wish to be a smooth goddess; so you buy your first razor and shred your legs into ribbons, they don’t show you that on TV! Then you realize that not only is a shaving cut THE most painful thing in the world, but that they just will not stop bleeding. EVER. So then you discover Veet and Nair, two products which literally dissolve the hair upon which they are smeared, how convenient, how easy. But the SMELL, sweet Jesus lord, the smell. Rotten eggs sprayed with Febreeze, on your legs, on your foof, on your upper lip. Oh yeh, where there’s hair, there’s Nair. Its an easy way of doing things but it just isn’t worth having everything in a 5 mile radius smell like a dead pigeon.  So then you try waxing, because you’ve heard great things; nothing extreme at first, you have your friends warm up the prepared strips by rubbing them between their hands, and then you cover your legs in these strips and get someone else to tear them off.  OUCHIE!! Eventually you try Epilating which was invented in the 15th century as a way of torturing, alongside the rack,  people into the confession of crimes they were innocent of. Epilators work by tearing out each individual hair at the root as you roll it up your leg, like tweezing, but times 30. Are you absolutely kidding me?! Not a chance. Personally, it didn’t take me long to accept that I would stick to shaving for the foreseeable future, I just have to be extra careful in the danger zones (ankles, shins, knees) and yes ladies, we all shave our toes.

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So legs wrangled under the control of your trusty razor, we come to realize that an unkempt bikini line is not what you want in your life. So you begin to experiment with different management styles. I find the different ways of maintaining your lady garden are very much the product of experimentation, a friend of mine was told from a young age to TWEEZE her bikini like. Now I guess when it’s literally just the bikini line itself, that’s not so bad, plucking out strays here and there so it doesn’t look like there’s a spider in your knickers, that’s just fine. But this friend then explained that she would regularly spend about two hours tweezing her entireness, which resulted in a cricked neck and (years later) much ridicule….from me. You can try waxing but the idea of hot wax anywhere near my foofla is something that fills me with horror, plus all the dangers of ingrowing hairs, the fact that you have to keep getting it done and it costs you like £20 a pop. Personally, I stick to shaving, there’s nothing like that glorious position you get yourself into to really make sure you do a thorough job, I’m talking to squat and shave, the Brazilian squat if you will, hey the better you squat the smoother your twat, am I right? Yes…I am. That’s another thing, how do you know how much to take off?  Like I’ve always just gone whole hog, mainly because I can never shave a straight landing strip, but some of my friends think its bizarre to look like a 12-year-old girl down there?! There is no right or wrong answer here, its all a question of what you like. I don’t feel that this applies to men. Men folk, please, for the love of all things manly, do not get rid of your manly shrubbery, by all means trim and maintain, but to be bald there… Just no!

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Then women start stripping their arms, their armpits, their upper lips. Actually this last is hilarious, I once watched my mother sit and read a book whilst casually sporting an Einstein style Veetstache. Then come things like fake tanning, I mean the stuff that comes in a tube looks like Marmite and smells like a tramp’s shoe, the stuff they spray you with makes your entire body smell like an armpit. Then there’s the problem of it going all streaky, getting the wrong shade done and looking like Katie Price. There’s the pain of threading, the mess of teeth whitening and the stinging of getting your eyelashes tinted.   All of these things in the name of beauty! How completely hysterical is that?! We put ourselves through frankly UGLY processes in order to look more beautiful, and don’t even get me started on plastic surgery, sweet Lord! The injecting of chemicals all over our bodies in order to alter our natural appearance more often than not goes horribly wrong, let us not forget the likes of Leslie Ash and The Jacksons. Lets just stick to ripping, cutting and burning our hairs away for now, shall we?

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Power and Passion

Today there is a worldwide lemon shortage as I have apparently eaten them all. Such bitterness has not been experienced since Megan Fox had hundreds of  thousands of dollars worth of cosmetic surgery done only to have her toe-thumbs pointed out (seriously, Google it) . Love and hate are twin emotions, both felt with a fiery passion which is hard to extinguish once the embers are crackling to life. One could argue that the difference betwixt the two are simple, one is positive, the other negative. We are supposed to associate love with romance, warmth, puppies and kittens, toasting with champagne and generally being really quite smug. Hate is the badlands, the shadows, lurking alone scowling and nothing filling the void. However, each can be as brutal as its brother. Love can put a sharper edge on the twisting knife just as hate can make you feel power and accomplishment. Love lifts us up where we belong but hate sends us into orbit. Both can send us spinning us out of control until we slow down enough to enjoy the view with which we have been presented. Yes, glorious perspective. Given the impetus for today’s post, I will focus on hate, with the promise that if I ever experience smugness of the romantic sort I will create a post full of puppies and kittens and feelings and sweetness. But that is not for now.

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What, I hear you cry, has happened to send your blood boiling to this extent? What chaos has erupted into your life, miss salt, to make you unleash the beast? I’ll let you think about it for a second or two…..can you guess what it is yet? Ahhhh yes what else could it possibly be.  For a few months now I have been battling a ghost, something not quite there, but who is the vengeful spirit now?! Me… I am.  I have spent time with G (for Ghost) fewer times as I can count on both hands, and yet my mind has given him such power as the spirits themselves possess. Lurking in corners and disappearing from view when looked upon directly. There is nothing supernatural at work here, no measurable powers of charm, persuasion or seduction, there is only the smokey air of vague. I gave him undeserved weight, status and purpose in my stupid mind clouded by a pretty face and cracking blue eyes. And an accent. The journey of blogging began with him because I let myself feel. Well, lesson learnt, there is to be no more of that nonsense.

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The best thing about being on the other side of the fairground ghost train is knowing it’s not real. Knowing its cogs, bells and whistles. Seeing the horror house actors underneath the makeup and wigs and knowing that the fear comes mostly from you imagining what isn’t there. The same is true of whatever I have let myself feel, reading warmth into an icy blast, making allowances, omitting and adding details, essentially creating a person who doesn’t exist out of the good bits you find. And so Frankinstein’s Monster is given life by its creator and allowed to blunder about in my mind for weeks on end, trampling everything in its path. But in my version the monster doesn’t develop a sense of duty to those around it. It just ceases to be. Hate helps,like a torch in the dark it picks out pieces of Lego and upturned plugs on the floor wishing to cause us harm in the night. Nothing can hide from hate, nothing fogs its crystal clear focus.  It is not the nasty dark power people think it is,it is the last knife in the drawer when it comes to self-preservation. Hatred is both sword and shield, aggressor and protector. It gives a sense of purpose, an outlet for excess emotions, recently evolved from something softer and less able to protect itself. Where many of us are left in a state of dribbling confusion, unsure of what to do with ourselves when mere thoughts sting, we can use hate. Give your weakness strength; transform those fragile butterflies into iron dragonflies. Shed your exhausted and tear-stained skin and step out clothed in glorious hate, the smoldering embers in your eyes the only clue as to the depth of your true feelings. Some may say that promoting hate is a bad thing. I am promoting the kind of hate that you feel but never act on, it gives you a charge, an electricity that surges through your veins, speeding up synapses, reminding you what you’ve been through so you are not taken in again. I’m preaching power with a sustainable source, you don’t need to feel weak, no more tears only clenched fists and a source of power that will never run dry, after all, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

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