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”

Schadenfreude

There is a nasty bastard inside each and every one of us who gains pleasure from witnessing the misfortune of others, we call this phenomenon Schadenfreude (Sha-den-froy-dah). Now each of us will have watched shows like You’ve Been Framed and spent half an hour giggling guiltily at grannies falling off benches and toddlers getting maimed by the family pet. There is no joy like watching other people absolutely fuck it. A great example occurred this weekend, me and my friends went paint-balling and it must have been maybe the 6th game of the day. I was pumped up, paintball gun in hand, loaded up with precious ammo, the adrenaline was coursing through my veins, I was so ready. The Marshall called “Game On” and it all happened in slow motion much like the battle movies of the eighties. I sprung forward aiming for the shelter of a nearby palette and caught my foot on a root or a branch or some other unhelpful dickhead like that. I was flat on my face, paint-balls spilling everywhere like blood from the wound in my ego. I took a friend down with me, we both scrambled towards the palette to take cover and a third friend, who had watched it all unfold all but pissed herself at our misfortune. In this example, I too found the entire mishap completely fucking hilarious, I haven’t fallen like that since the playground, it was a glorious mess, and had us laughing for the rest of the day.

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Now the reason I bring this up is because I still find myself thinking of a particular past conquest every now and then and it bothers me. I am aware that it could be a case of a bruised ego, as if it hasn’t suffered enough, this asshole wormed his way into my brain without permission, and usually he is a fairly good tenant, keeping to himself, but every now and then he will throw a kegger up there, and the odd empty can will roll into the conscious side. Upon hearing that he who has so dis-pleasingly plagued my thoughts is allegedly pretty unhappy with his current lot in life has filled with with a sense of serenity unlike any other. I’ll openly admit that hearing this news has given me the congenial gift of smugness. This prick has made and broken promises, he has mind fucked me, he has been unfair and essentially represents the side of the male gender which we are all programmed to avoid at all costs, and now, finally I have received glorious confirmation of karma biting him on his pretty perfect ass. How honest of me to accept this nasty little part of me with open arms, because we can’t possibly be nice all of the time. It is healthy to, every now and then, leave yourself completely open to being a total bitch, being nice all the time and swallowing our venom creates within us a miniature Dark Lord Cthulhu, whose tentacles spread into our arms and legs and turn us into a walking nightmare when we least expect it. Exorcising our bitchiness is our right, nay, our duty as human beings.

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Schadenfreude is a guilty pleasure, a bit like watching Man VS Food or quietly farting at the station as the train rolls in. You know you shouldn’t be doing it, you know you shouldn’t be enjoying it, and yet you let it happen time and time again just to induce that smug little smile, that grin of perverse enjoyment which only mischief can induce. And you just know that others do it too, groups of school girls burst into musical giggles as a teenage boy face-plants whilst showing off on his skateboard, friends deliberately commenting on unfortunate Facebook photos so as to bring them to light in an annual event of hilarity and piss taking. It’s good hearted fun, a bit of comic relief, there is nothing like the savage joy of watching somebody else fuck up and watching beauteous karma show its occasionally demonic face at the party.  So yes, when I hear that that girl at school who was mean to me now has three kids with another on the way and zero qualifications, I smirk to myself, when I see that smug bitch take the last seat on the tube only to be sat next to the world’s smelliest man, I grin and when I see a cat, nature’s most graceful creature, stack it and fall off a counter top, I outright laugh because I know, were our roles reversed, it would do the same to me!

Mind Games: A Dire Idea

 

Fancying someone is like what I imagine having children to be like, no matter what you’re doing you cannot get a moment of peace and radio silence is more suspicious than anything. There is nothing more frustrating than not knowing where you stand. A friend said to me this weekend that relationships would go a lot more smoothly if there was a stronger element of transparency to them. He’s absolutely right, of course, the games we all play to do nothing but shroud us in an unnecessary fog of ‘mystery’ or, as I like to call it ‘mind fuckery’. The act of mind fucking is a plague upon all of our houses, serving no purpose other than to deliberately taunt the minds of those unfortunate enough to experience it. My assumption is that you’re either a brain raper, or you’re a perfectly honest person just trying to get by in a world where having the upper hand is apparently paramount. Gone are the days of honest hearts and open minds. We are, all of us, allowing game playing to become a horrendously ordinary way of going about our romantic business.

 

With the advent of Tinder has come the loss of transparency; casually flicking through five or six potential candidates a minute, stock piling those you ‘definitely would’ is creating a selfish generation where ‘playing the field’ has never been more a la mode . To me, it is clear that we are losing faith in the idea of finding anything meaningful, we no longer value monogamy, we fish about in the sea using a net rather than a rod, preferring to ‘keep our options open’. I was guilty of this too,however since the flaccid experience on a Tinder Date lately, I’m hanging up my swiping shoes in the hopes of finding a genuine connection with someone which isn’t based on looks and proximity. Imagine my frustration then, when I think I’ve found something that could have become significant, only to have fucked it (ha!) by hastily fumbling about naked…..twice. Silly, silly girl, when will you learn that no matter how glorious you are as a sexual partner, carnally vivacious does not girlfriend material make.

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Our old enemy obsession (see my post Obsession not Love for full rant) plays a key part when it comes to brain banging. The culprit relies on the fact that their victim has a strong interest in them, whether it is forged in a mutual interest, or (more commonly for me) in manipulation. A friend who I will call M (for Master Manipulator) has told me a few times that to get someone to fall for you, you need to work out what is missing from them and provide them with it. For a while I thought ‘what a great idea, creating for oneself the opportunity to seize the upper hand, to hold the power and become (This summer, Arnold Schwarzeneggar is) the Manipulator’.  But I soon realized, having spent years feeling endless tuggings on my various strings, I couldn’t put someone else through it. Call me weak, call me soft, but having been fucked over time and time again, I know how pathetic it can make you feel, and it isn’t something I would risk on my hunt for a permanent piece of peen, slash ‘love’ (if it still exists somewhere)

 

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I’m sure it isn’t just me who gets excited when I embark on a new adventure in romance, I will fantasize, maybe I’ll see something of a  future, maybe I’ll read into things a little too much and is that so wrong? Perhaps my interest in finding something real shows in my face, in my posture, the way I construct my texts or the frequency of them. Maybe I reek of neediness, but whatever it is, it can be sensed and it is a repellent. So I deliberately try to be chill, I treat the situation as a fragile glass spider, handling it with care and diligence, holding back so as not to snap its frail legs. Yes, this is obviously not transparency at its best, but it is keeping my cards to my chest in order to cushion the blow of what will doubtless be yet another rejection. Obviously this is incredibly negative, but, honestly, its the only surefire way of avoiding that horrific ache in your chest you only experience when your affections are rebuffed. Why shouldn’t I use any armor available to me? Why shouldn’t I get my cub scout on and be prepared? The worst that will happen is my assumption that things will flop is, yet again, correct. Its surely better than getting your hopes up, pinning them all on someone (which, by the way puts a huge amount of unknown pressure on your beloved) and having all of them smashed in an instant. The situation I’m in now, I am doing my utmost to put out of my head, the more I think, the more the obsession takes hold, and the top of a pedestal is a long way for anyone to fall.

 

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So I will protect myself, I will keep my shit together, be a friend first and foremost, as has been asked of me.  I can’t stop the sensation of butterflies that follows a dazzling smile, and I can’t avoid feeling as though everything is a sign of something that could be coming, but I can try to ignore them. I will not decode every text, every full stop, every lack of  kisses at the end. I will keep my feet firmly on the ground and do my best to keep my head out of the clouds, but we all know that eventually, not matter how many distractions you provide yourself with, no matter how busy you are and how much you try to ignore it, your mind will saunter back to the forbidden land of your heartthrob and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.