Advice, Happiness, Uncategorized

Am I A Psycho Girlfriend Or Am I Just Honest?

There are two types of girls in relationships:

  1. The girlfriends that are totally rational, cool and collected. They don’t care that you have female friends, even if you’ve once drunkenly fucked them. They understand that you’re a human being and have your own life, wants and freedom. They call you once, and then wait patiently for you to call them back, however long it takes.
  2. The girlfriends that aren’t liars.

 

Thing is, the ‘crazy girlfriend’ cliché has given us a bad name. In movies, people are stalked, bunnies are boiled, bitches are murdered and cars are driven off cliffs. In real life (the Take-a-Break-Jerry-Springer-World), people can be un-funny psychopathic; penis’ are cut off, fried and served with eggs for breakfast. And of course, some girlfriends are extremely high maintenance or just complete bitches. Number 2 aren’t those people; Number 2 are just women strong enough to be honest about their feelings and their expectations of their partner’s behaviour, in the same way that a lot of men are to their partners.

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You see, for some odd reason, my generation of women have been brainwashed into suppressing their feelings for fear of being considered a “Psycho Girlfriend”. The dream is to be the “Cool Girl”: The Number 1’s. In The ‘Cool Girl’ Is Not Fiction, But a Phase, Tracy Moore writes;

The Cool Girl model of womanhood – Olivia Wilde in Drinking Buddies, Anne Hathaway in Love and Other Drugs, Zooey Deschanel in 500 Days of Summer, Kate Hudson in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (before she starts pretending to be the kind of hopelessly needy girl that is, obviously, repugnant to men) – is something you’ll only find on the big screen.”

The Cool Girl is the girl that’s “not like other girls” – the girl that doesn’t have girlfriends because they’re “too much drama”. The guy in the hot girl’s body. With this attractive image are also underlying suggestions of submission, complete emotional security/confidence and all round robotic-ness.

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I have been, or have at least experimented with being, a Cool Girl. At 16 I thought I was cooler than Summer in 500 Days. I pretended not to care that his best friend was a girl that had given him head months before we met, and that I was cool with him going out all weekend and not calling me for three days. I pretended that I didn’t really want to text him and limited my communication to every other day if he didn’t contact me first. Fucking hell, I even pretended to like football and The Smiths. I went through his phone and saw texts from a girl I hated talking about meeting up and I never even confronted him. Despite all of this, he broke up with me (I know…), thus breaking my tiny dumb heart for the first time. We eventually got back together but I stopped being The Cool Girl and started being more honest. Our relationship was a lot more relaxed, but there was still a lot that bothered me which I kept to myself; that he kept me separate to his friends and that he openly talked about other girls arses, amongst other things.

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I was stupid and blinded by first love naivety. Although I didn’t see it at the time, I believe that that first relationship gave me a sensitive Mugging Off Meter. It made me ruthless from the very start of relationships; If you don’t return my calls, bye. If you flirt with girls in front of me, you’re funny. In every relationship since, I have been honest and frank about my feelings and have been respected for it, albeit being called crazy from time to time. I’m not about to fake an attempted suicide when I’m dumped, or fight a girl that speaks to them in a club. But will I interrupt their conversation and introduce myself with an arm around his shoulder? Yes. Will I leave 30 missed calls, 20 texts and 10 voicemails if their phone isn’t answered all day? Absolutely.

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If that’s “crazy”, then I’m guilty. I have also been known to:

  • stalk ex’s online (there’s a whole article about that one)
  • stalk boy’s in real life, once hiding behind a bin
  • question boys on every single female they’ve ever met
  • get jealous irrationally
  • kick off in public due to paranoid behaviour
  • hurl footwear at a man (not proud of that one)
  • follow boy’s on nights out completely coincidentally
  • dramatically enter a room when I think something fishy is going on (nothing is ever going on)

I seem like an insecure mess, right? I hope I’ve made you feel better about yourself. But I don’t think this behavior has to mean the girl has been hurt, has issues or insecurities, and it definitely doesn’t mean that she will always be that way. We go through phases depending on what’s going on in our lives and who we are in a relationship with. At a time when I didn’t feel good enough for someone, parties were a sensitive place for me; I once followed a girl around a club because I was sure that she had been flirting with him (she had). Last year, after a lot of self-development, I watched calmly from afar as a girl sat on his lap and he instantly yet politely removed her. Later, when I told him I’d seen it, he asked why I hadn’t come over and sat on his lap instead; proving that what some people see as crazy, some find cute.

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My list of behaviour considered psycho becomes considerably shorter the older I get and the more secure I feel. Since the first boyfriend I’ve never felt the need to check a phone because I’ve never been given a reason to. Nowadays I would never date a person that gave me a reason to feel jealous – if they do, they’re obviously just not into you. It’s that simple. “Crazy” or “Psycho” is just a word used to invalidate your feelings. The truth is, even when our feelings seem irrational – we feel that way for a reason. We are human beings. Love and lust are chemical. Seemingly crazy behaviour is only a reaction to intense feelings, often worsened when mixed with personal feelings of inadequacy or insecurity.

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I believe in vocalising how you feel; communication is the key to a happy and healthy relationship. If your partner is too immature to handle you, they’ll be someone that can. For every crazy girl there is an equally crazy boy or girl to fall in crazy love with. You might be crazy for the rest of your life and meet a person strong enough to handle it, or you’ll meet someone that calms you enough that those feelings quietly fade away.

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Recently, I’ve seen a trend of girls owning their crazy and I love it. I’m so happy to be alive in the time of memes – memes are amazing for relating and normalising thoughts and behaviour once believed to be embarrassing. Confidence is without a doubt the sexiest thing about a woman. Be honest and have confidence in your feelings and you just can’t lose.

Own your crazy. Being cool is overrated.

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And as WordPress doesn’t upload the link, here is a little something to end on.

 

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Happiness

Generation FLAKE

It’s 10 o’clock Friday night. I’m standing in a sea of discarded clothes, wearing the 99th outfit I’ve tried on. Kiss FM is getting me geared up. I’m weighing up the options of saving money by wobbling around the underground in heels, or fucking-it and ordering an Uber. I’ve got that unbeatable friday night feeling, ready to dance and drink the troubles of the week away; a night I may not remember with the people I won’t forget xoxoxo

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And I’m lying. Although it really is 10 o’clock on a Friday night, my room really is trashed and I really am dressed up, I’m not going out. Because every single one of the people I was supposed to be having a great night with have cancelled on me last minute.

I’m sure you’re aware of the intricacies of flakey friend behaviour:

  1. Sudden avoidance / silence on the topic of the plan
  2. Beginning the light hinting; usually of sickness, tiredness, or some warning of potential plan ruiner i.e family emergency or third party you couldn’t possibly confront

Then, as the time nears, whether it be hour or minute before, they continue with an obviously very, er, believeable lie, something along the lines of

  1. Argh so annoying but I am waiting to see what’s going on because someone is coming to fix my cat flap and they’re running late and I really can’t leave the house without someone fixing my cat flap but I’ll still come if the cat flap fixer arrives in time
  2. I’m sooooooooo sorry but I’ve had a headache/been tired all week and I really don’t want to go out now honestly I’m so sorry for flaking sorry

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This is beginning to be such a regular occurrence in my life, that I’m hardly phased. Sometimes I’ll be super excited for a party, event or meet up, and then everyone will cancel, and I’ll be so disappointed that I’ll sulk and get a takeaway and maybe have an imaginary rant at them in my head. Sometimes I’ll be so eager to carry out the plan that I’ll go out alone, surely bumping into someone I know or know of and joining their party.

Tonight, I can’t be arsed for a sulk or a totally empowering act of independence. Because I wasn’t bothered about the actual act of going out or even FOMO. I just wanted to have fun with those particular people.

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Sadly, I’m in no position to stand with my arms crossed and my brows furrowed exclaiming, “I HATE PEOPLE THAT CANCEL”, because, I too, am shamefully, seasonally notorious for it.

I wouldn’t like to think of myself as a flakey person. In all honesty, I’m just kind of selfish. When I make a plan, I’m never making it while consciously thinking, “nah, that’s not going to happen”. I make it whole heartedly believing that I will be there, happy and willing, at the propositioned time.

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But when the date and time comes and I’m just not feeling it, I cannot under any condition enthuse myself into carrying out the activity that I have planned, whether it be a full blown party or a casual coffee. Because honestly, somedays I just do not want to speak to any humans. I’m hoping you can somewhat relate.

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I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a generational problem. The idea of a “plan” seems to have faded and shape shifted into more of a very “light suggestion” rather than an almost concrete scheduled arrangement. I’d say less than half of the social plans I make actually go ahead. I cancel on friends, friends cancel on me, in a never-ending inoffensively unreliable cycle; and I’m actually starting to get really fucking bored of it.

So why does flaking happen so often?

There’s no escaping the fact that we are the iPhone generation. There’s a lot of things I’d do or say in a text that I wouldn’t as easily say in real life. For a lot of people, confronting someone in a text is a lot easier than confronting the same person face to face, and I think the same goes for plan cancelling. When I’m flaking, it’s rare that I feel confident and relaxed enough in my decision to actually call the person – like, actually say with my actual voice, “I can’t come”. Sometimes, I’ll even be a proper weak bitch and ignore phone calls, resulting in a text return of “Sorry was in the other room, I can’t come… etc etc”. Getting out of a plan is now as easy as a few taps of your finger tips. You can even completely avoid any anger or confrontation about it by turning your phone off! Yay!

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There’s also the constant access we have to each other. We can basically strategically map out when the best time to cancel would be: leading the person on enough for them to believe your excuse while also kindly leaving them with enough time to make other plans on their own. You can also immediately cancel while caught up “in the moment” of your excuse using your phone, i.e, “OMG I just fell over and cut my knee and it really hurts, I want to go home and go to bed sorry”.

Imagine for a second what it would be like if we couldn’t use our phones or laptops or tablets to cancel. Imagine if the plan was made, and the next time you’d be able to talk to the person was at the chosen time you planned to see each other. It’s highly unlikely that you just wouldn’t turn up, leaving them stood up with an unavoidably completely ruined day or night. You’d feel too guilty. Technology gives us way too much opportunity to cancel.

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A second potential problem is our overwhelming 2016 life #goals. I am definitely guilty of over scheduling, truly believing at the time of planning that I can fit it all in. Truthfully, I’m easily exhausted, physically and emotionally, and after seeing one person for a lunch date, the thought of seeing another friend for a coffee has the potential to send me into an adult temper tantrum. We push ourselves to achieve social enlightenment; seeing as many friends and doing as many fun, Instagram worthy things as possible, when as human beings we have other needs greater than social.

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And then there’s another issue, one that we are all guilty of avoiding and sugar coating – social anxieties. We are the anxious generation, with social anxiety playing a huge part in our lives, and not just the cliche “geeky” among us – People that you maybe wouldn’t necessarily expect to suffer from social anxiety are indeed often crippled by it.

I could be described as confident; I “cool”, “fun” friends. I’m a model. I’ve worked in nightclubs. I’m alright at public speaking. I can scrub up alright, too. But there have been many, many nights, that I have cancelled on a plan because I couldn’t bare to be around people, didn’t like any of my clothes, felt too fat, too ugly, too sad, to go out and pretend to be happy.

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And nine times out of ten, when I’ve cancelled, I haven’t explained that to the person. I’ve said I don’t feel well, I’m tired, or something has come up. Because, well, it’s easier than people seeing the cracks in the perfect picture we all paint of our lives, and thinking you’re a sad, imperfect freak who can’t handle a night out.

Sometimes, I myself am shocked by the sudden surge of these moods. Sane, rational me tells me I’m being crazy and that this side of me is stopping me from enjoying life. Of course, insane, irrational me doesn’t care, turns her phone off and happily jumps into bed with Netflix and vegan dessert.

I’m working on it. Slowly but surely, the amount that I flake for this reason is diminishing. Although, it’s funny – before I began to see the problem in myself, I never considered others feeling the same. I either believed their excuses, or assumed they genuinely couldn’t be bothered to spend time with me. Now that I’m honest to myself about my feelings, I can see it in other people. Now, when my best friend gives me a weird hint at an excuse I ask out right if he’s ok and if he’s cancelling, to which he’ll reply with the true reason for his flaking, which I can almost always relate to.

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Our generation, anxious and flakey, also has a big problem with honesty. Excuses are really boring. Be honest when you make the plan, i.e I’m not sure how I’ll feel that day, or be honest at the time, i.e I don’t feel like going out. I can’t speak for everyone, but I personally find it difficult to be angry at an honest person. Even if my night has been ruined. And who knows, being honest with yourself may also help to cure yourself of the social struggle. Whether you’re happy out with your friends or happy alone, just be happy.

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Advice, Happiness

The Ex-Girlfriend Club

When I was 16 I met a boy called Will*. Will was my first everything: first boyfriend, first “I love you”, first other-person-orgasm, first p in my v.

But I wasn’t Will’s first any of those. That title in his life belonged to a girl called Chelsea, subsequently becoming another first for me: the first ex girlfriend.

These were simpler times. Pre Instagram and pre Facebook boom, it took a mutual acquaintance causally mentioning Chelsea for me to find out about her, around four months into our then very teenage relationship.

Of course, I’d recently been experiencing multiple overwhelming emotions for the very first time, such as attachment, sexual connection, vaginal stimulation and the gag reflex. None of these shocked me (the gag reflex comes in at a close second) or hit me quite so hard as the pure stomach turning gut wrenching jealously I felt upon learning of what I envisioned of Will’s “First Love”. Suddenly, our relationship felt tainted, which sounds very Victorian I know, and is strange because it’s not like I ever thought he was a virgin. Funnily enough, the fact that he wasn’t a virgin when he met me made me fancy him even more and installed a confidence that he’d take the wheel on my loss of virginity experience. But now, after discovering the details, I wished that I’d been his first. The awful, juvenile terms “sloppy seconds” and “upgrade/downgrade” was rife in our small town Essex gossip culture. I wasn’t anyone’s seconds. He was. I didn’t feel special anymore.

And to make it worse, she was hot. I tried to find faults in her to comfort my ignorant pubescent woman brain, but failed. She was tall and blonde, with a sexiness about her. I instantly compared this to myself, the unsexed round faced brunette tomboy in thick rimmed glasses, and for the first time ever, contemplated my own attractiveness. My awkward stage went on for longer than most (can we just forget pre-2011 didn’t happen?) whereas it seemed as if she’d never even endured one. As the law of attraction would have it, now knowing her face and name, I started seeing her everywhere on our college campus, but refused to acknowledge her existence, even to my friends. I didn’t need their opinions or even the truth, and I wasn’t insecure enough to put her down in order to pull myself up. She never caused trouble in any way. She was just living her life. But to me, she was the bitch that my boyfriend loved before me.

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(I literally ignored her existence at this party and we still managed to – kind of – be in the same photo.)

We’re raised well prepared for relationships and “love”, but no one ever warned me of the ex girlfriend game. Once over the age of 18, chances are your significant other has known genitalia other than your own. It seems like a simple fact of life, but one we are never emotionally prepped for or allowed to be honest about. No girl wants to be the “psycho” or to ruin her new relationship ‘cool girl’ myth. But if you tell me that you don’t know your S.O’s ex’s name, guess what – I don’t believe you.

Because, for every man I’ve been romantically or sexually involved in, I’ve known at least one ex by name or face, whether I’ve searched them out, stumbled across them or simply heard stories straight from the man’s mouth. Unless you’ve known them personally, they become a ghost like presence in the back of your sub conscious, even if it is a tiny little thought in a darker moment of the day, existing in a universe parallel to your own – still kissing and loving the man that is now yours. Their names become harder to pronounce, as if even the phonetic produces a venom, paralysing your lips. And even if their name is rarely mentioned, no matter what age, to some degree your person shared experiences and parts of their life with this other person. So in getting to know your person to the best of human ability, they’re going to remain in there somewhere, however much hidden.

To date, Chelsea is the only ex I’ve had no choice but to share an intimate space with, i.e a campus, a corridor or a mutual friends party. I’ve seen others in social situations that have been easy to escape from. I even worked with one, but didn’t have to be in close proximity with her. Chelsea is the only ex who’s persona was crafted in real life. All of the others have been created in a cosmic space between my brain and the internet.

For all the advantages that technology has granted us, among it’s negatives are the utensils to feed our curiosity in this particular subject. A simple Google search could show you half a dozen different medias that she has used over the years. I once found myself three years deep into an ex’s blog, flooded with photos of her and the guy on amazing holidays, making that past parallel universe far too present. And as the years have gone on it’s become as easy as a swipe of the index finger to fall head first down the rabbit hole and suddenly find your self finger slipping on a photo she posted 120 weeks ago. Social media gives us the tools to construct these once mysterious figures from the past. A 140 character tweet somehow acts as an autobiographical look into their soul, as does an over used Emoji or a one sentence self-bio.

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^THE WORST. 

You may believe that my behaviour and outlook is “psycho”. I’m ok with that, because I could name you twenty girls that have admitted to the same behaviours, and if we’re all psychos, then I guess we’re psychos. My own mother, at 53, tries to hide the flames in her eyes whenever her partners ex wife is mentioned, but fails. Thank God she doesn’t know how to use Facebook. It’s an organic emotion and action given our lives and culture mixed with our female animalistic instincts. It’s completely out of my usual nature and conscious control: I try my best to love or at least appreciate and support all women. But mixed with this possessive, jealous, stereotypically Leo outlook of needing to be the very best and perhaps a deep down insecurity within relationships, I’ve projected my inward thoughts onto their uniquely-crafted-by-me personas, and created monsters, of which are (probably) very far from their true selves. Take it through extensive experience, stalking is a game you enter with absolutely zero chances of winning, as is comparing yourself or your present relationship to any other human or past relationship. You will never come out of a stalk feeling better about yourself, as much as you like to believe the unflattering drunk photo of her does. Even this paragraph made me hate myself… But truthfully it’s never ever good to feel like that. It’s all about understanding our own brains and situations and having clarity, and not feeling guilt over emotions we don’t understand.

It’s taken me years to establish clarity on why we seek out the ex. I think it begins rather innocently as purely fierce curiosity – trying to work out if he has a type and if you fit it, or measure up to her level, even though a true ‘level’ will never exist. Plus, curiosity over our own metaperception: if I see her a certain way, does he see that in me? Is that how I appear to others? If she is forced into your personal business by way of contact – I’ve had a few weird messages from some scorned ex’s and one that has called the guy while I was sitting next to him to tell him she missed him – it becomes even harder not to investigate a potential ‘threat’. For me personally, this curiosity has at times murdered, butchered and dismembered the cat, and developed into a weird sort of morbid fascination. I’ve paralleled our lives so freely that it’s almost scary – 141 weeks ago when exhibit A. was in New York being a successful supermodel, I was crying after my first fashion week in London. 214 weeks ago when exhibit B. was loved up with my current love… Oh… I was loved up with my ex love… Awkward.

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The worst type of photo to see whilst stalking his ex / anyone could ever post. 

Which leads perfectly to another interesting comparison: unless you males have a secret community with a strict confidentiality agreement, you seem to react to our ex’s in the complete opposite way – remaining so confident in your patriarchal position that you just lack that need to compare, analyse and care whatsoever. When asked if he cared about in any way or had stalked any of his gf’s ex’s, one male friend laughed, and could only muster, “Why would I?”. Following continued probing, he later added, “I guess if she’s with me now, there’s just no need or want to go looking into her past. The past is the past. You girls seem to love the past”.

I can’t help but agree with that generalisation. But in these irrational, jealous moments, we also seem to magically forget that we have our own pasts, once too featuring other people: perhaps even more in love and having even better sex. There have been a few ex girlfriend’s that I have seen as SO beautiful, in a emotionally distressful time when I couldn’t feel worse about myself, convincing myself that I was the ugly one after a string of Candice Swanepoel’s. It didn’t help that a friend of the boyfriend, every time she drank, told me she loved me and that I was so much better than his most recent ex. “You’re great. I mean, she was BEAUTIFUL, but so cardboard. You are so clever and funny!” The first time she said it, I took it as a compliment. By the third time that she’d repeated the exact same sentence, all I managed to hear was, “SHE was BEAUTIFUL” – i.e, you’re not. I felt too embarrassed to tell my boyfriend at that time, so confided in another male, who cuttingly told me, “Even if she is way hotter, why do you care? You’ve had way hotter men than *****, but you still prefer him. It’s obviously the same with him otherwise he’d still be with her and wouldn’t want to be with you.”

Here’s an exercise for you: Close your eyes and picture your “best looking” boyfriend/sexual partner. I don’t mean your most attractive over all to you or the one you fancy or love the most. I mean the usual consensus of what’s physically “good looking” to the general public.

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If it’s your current, lucky you, I guess he’s perfect. But chances are he’s the guy from your past that had good looks and not a lot else. Now compare them to your current, in the same way you’ve compared yourself to his ex’s. In my case, exhibit Lol’sFromMyPast was a 6’4 male model gym buff who turned my flatmate’s gooey eyed and wet knickered. He was also dumb and dull as fuck and gave me nothing but something nice to look at, the novelty of which wore off after three weeks, which was still far too long. Exhibt SexiestManInMyEyes was an intelligent, endlessly interesting and charismatic, 5’9, un photogenic, wonky nosed tech geek, who gave me more orgasms than my right hand. The result? What does “looks” matter? Looks are nothing to do with love or even attractiveness and are always completely in the eye of the beholder anyway. Ask me which man I’d pick given the chance out of the two – I’d pick the latter in a fraction of a heartbeat every single time, with absolutely no thought needed.

We see every little thing that could be wrong with us, when others just see you in all your perfectly imperfect glory. I think women think that men think about “looks” ten times more than they actually do. If my current boyfriend told me he’d been humped over on the sofa stalking my ex on his phone for an hour, accidentally liking a year old picture in the process, I’d be dumbfounded. I’d demand to know what had lead him to such a time wasting activity. The ex couldn’t be further from my mind, living in another parallel universe filled with people who’s body parts once touched your mouth but who’s presence you now could not care less about.

Coincidentally, there’s other people I could not care less about, who’s bodies haven’t been near my mouth or any other orifice: my ex boyfriends’ current girlfriends’.

While conducting an albeit light study on other girls’ feeling towards ‘the ex’, another target came to light organically: 8 out of 10 girls I asked were very interested in their current’s ex, but 7 of those added that they also looked for and resented their ex’s current. This is really interesting to me, as it is honestly something that I am not effected by. Luckily, by the time they’ve moved on, I’ve moved on. I’ve been forced to acknowledge their existence, online and in person, but have never ever ever felt that little jealousy twinge I’ve had for ex’s. When I see the currents, I can appreciate their looks or overall character without compromising my own, sometimes even KNOWING that they are way prettier than me, and – I promise you – not caring one little bit. I don’t know exactly what the difference is, or how I can hold such opposing views on the two, or why some girls feel the opposite way. Perhaps that’s a-whole-nuva article.

Lastly, another super important thing to realise in order to come to terms with their ex is the strong likeliness that you are or one day will be the ex girlfriend to someone’s boyfriend. Imagine a girl you’ve never had anything to do with, examining your thoughtless Instagram posts, thinking you’re dumb and wondering if he found you prettier. Freaky Matrix style shit, huh? Ever had a boyfriend talk shit about his ex? He’ll probably be talking shit about you to his new girlfriend in a year from now.

After the first year of my relationship, I never saw Chelsea again, but if I saw her name on a friend’s Facebook, did I have a little look? Of course. Although, as time went on it became way less frequent, until after three years Will and I broke up for good. As my experience in men grew, so did my experience in mythic “ex girlfriend’s”. In turn, the longer I was with the man, the less I cared about the ex’s. I’ve come to realise, that you really only fully get over the girl when you get over the guy. With no judgement, I can’t help but wonder if the girls that have an issue with their ex’s current, perhaps aren’t over either of them.

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Earlier this year, I received a random LinkedIn invitation from none other than Chelsea. A name that once bubbled my blood now just rung prettily in my ears, and was one I realised had been buried deep in the past. The memories of my past feeling towards her shocked me, and suddenly everything clicked. I found clarity.

I accepted, saw a link to her blog and spent the next hour reading. She seemed cool and clever and exactly my type of girl. I somehow felt I owed it to my 16 year old self, to add her on Facebook and tell her I loved her writing – call it writer karma if you will. A week later we met for the first time. I was excited to finally speak to her and debunk the myths in my head. But like a first date, I was nervous we wouldn’t get on and I’d have to devise an escape route through a public toilet window.

Happy ending alert: we did get on, shared a few bottles of wine and laughed hours away without any weird “what-shall-I-say-now?” moments. In fact, I think I get on with her easier than I ever got on with Will. If you’d have shown a 16 year old me this scene from her future, she never would have believed you.

It’s so weird to think that, the way I feel about Will and whoever his current girlfriend may be now, is the same way Chelsea felt about Will and I way back then. She was over him, not caring who I was. I was in love with him, caring way too much about her. And now seven years later, we were in a bar in Notting Hill together, getting on so well that the topic of our once shared ‘love’ was the dullest and briefest thread of the evening’s conversation.

A POEM:

So remember, ex girlfriends are humans too
living their own unique lives as are you
If you’re cool and he finds you’re cool
chances are she’s cool
and you’d find her cool too.

Give it a few years – who knows – you could be friends.

ALL PHOTOS AND IMAGES FEATURED ARE COURTESY OF GOOGLE IMAGES & FACEBOOK.

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Happiness

Just Friends

My first best friend was called Luke. We met at nursery when we were three or four. Our favourite games were Cops and Robbers, Zoo Animals and Keepers and Barbie and Action Man. It wasn’t weird to me AT ALL that he had a willy and I had a mini. And he was never scared that I had cooties, or at least that he would catch them.

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Luke and I were best friends during infant school but must have grown apart once we began junior school. Maybe because that’s around the age that little girls are encouraged to form close relationships with other girls, thus creating a separation between the young sexes. Or perhaps my cooties developed.

Looking back, it’s a relationship that would probably mark my appreciation of being friends with the opposite sex as an adult. I absolutely adore girls and have lots of girlfriends that I admire and have a lot of fun with, but I’ve also had way stronger, way longer lasting, way more meaningful relationships with men.

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Even in my romantic relationships, there has always been a level of friendship amongst the companionship and romantic or sexual element. Perhaps I simply enjoy the company of men. I feel secure in the brother-sister-like dynamic and in some cases, the more uncle-niece-like dynamic. Even with male acquaintances or those I’ve just met, I feel a lot more comfortable in social situations than I do amongst the same level of females.

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And please, I promise this is not the awful “I hate girls”, “girls just don’t like me”, “I find boys so much easier”, “I’m not like other girls” bullshit cliche. To me, those demeaning comments translate as going against your own womanhood, insecurity, or simply surrendering to the sickening ‘cool girl theory’ (Google it). Deep down, what those comments scream to me is, “I want boys to give me attention”. Sorry.

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Criticism on this part of my life has been rife for as long as I can remember, and 99% of the time, the criticism comes from other men. The only friendships that didn’t garner any criticism was those with openly gay guys. I honestly didn’t understand the criticism until recent years. Up until the age of 20, I was dumbfounded when outer voices would tell me, “(insert boys name) has a secret agenda”, “(insert boys name) must be gay”, “(insert boys name) wants to fuck you.” Mainly because the statements are ignorant, and also because I’m not that stupid. I’d reply with noooooo, honestly, we don’t fancy each other, we’re just friends! The critics in question would give me a sarcastic thumbs up with their eyes.

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I can see why. In films and television it’s cliche for male and female friends to fall in love and get together and live happily ever after. My favourite is He’s Just Not That Into You’s “You are my exception” scene.  There are also countless songs written in the voice of a guy that is secretly in love with a friend or his friends girlfriend. It’s almost like friendship should be rewarded with romantic love. No fictional man is happy ending up as “Just Friends”.

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The majority of women have at least one or a few male friends, and most would say, “OF COURSE you can be friends with the opposite sex”, probably with similar explanations than the one I gave above. But I have to admit, it does make me wonder. How could so many men be wrong? And surely, being honest men – too honest a lot of the time  – could they know their own sex much better than I ever could? Do they know some enlightened secret that us with vaginas don’t?

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I mean, biologically, (straight) men and (straight) women are inwardly programmed to mate (I add brackets because the of course subconsciously the dynamic changes with gay or lesbian friendships). So is it possible to have non family male/female platonic friendships?

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Giving my word that they will never be outed with their brutal honesty, I asked some best friends, family members and acquaintances – the youngest being 25 and the oldest being 70 – and only men I (maybe naively) am certain would have no reason to lie to me – the old age question: Can men and women ever really be just friends?

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To be honest, I feel that the last entry concludes perfectly and sums up every entry in the most rational, eloquent way. This exercise has given me a new light as to how men truly feel. I think there are a few situations where the equation of men + women = friends could be so simple that it could be successful;

  1. Both parties don’t find any attraction in the other
  2. The attraction is fulfilled with sex or similar sexual experiences, subsequently broken for both parties, but an appreciation remains, allowing friendship
  3. The male feels unrequited attraction to the female but can control it enough to continue enjoying her company (although, I’m not sure how long this would last without the male becoming frustrated or bored, and most probably ending when the male finds another object of his attention or starts his own relationship)

It’s definitely made me sit back and question just how ‘friendly’ some of my male friends are. As long as the female’s intentions are clear and there is no cock-teasing, who says you can’t be friends with a guy that gently, subtly fancies you? I kinda fancy a few of my friends (I do have eyes) without being attracted to them. And I really can’t see a When Harry Met Sally situation arising out of any of my present friendships. I have never really fancied someone I’m friends with, or even casually slept with a friend. But again, I think this is where males and females differ: I think females know straight away whether they want to sleep with someone, and act specifically to that feeling. But men, being from Mars and all that, sometimes don’t separate their ‘friend’ actions from their ‘I want to be deep inside you’ actions.

But, who knows, perhaps there are exceptions to the rule.

Whatever the answer, all we can do is be aware of the differences between the sexes and be aware of their feelings and intentions. That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy their company, as long as everyone in the equation is a respectable, decent human being.

(All images taken from POPSUGAR and my own phone/family album)

 

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Happiness

Little Things

What is it about 4am that makes my brain go into over drive and burst with epiphanies?

I’m feeling really happy at the moment. Maybe because I’ve distanced myself from both the vacuous fashion industry and the sometimes more vacuous nightlife industry. Maybe because I’ve been spending more time with my mum. Maybe because I’m getting older –

(My friend Jake, who is an amazing producer in his thirties, once gave me a great piece of advice. He said that as you get older you naturally start understanding your own brain and life gets so much easier. He said that 28 was the age when, mentally speaking, everything seemed to fall into place for him)

– whatever it may be, it’s a lovely feeling. It’s not even that I can say everything is perfect. I’ve been in and out of hospital for two weeks. I’m poorer than I’ve been in a long time, my future seems uncertain and my skin in currently going through an awful breakout. Ordinarily, these points would have me spiralling into an anxious wreck (when to most they are simple privileged-girl-problems). But even though these things are on my mind, they’re definitely at the back, or at least in the middle – definitely not at the forefront. My brain feels calm. Instead of a million voices racing at 1,000 miles per hour, the soundtrack to my brain sounds like reggae music and birds singing. For tonight, at least.

And it just makes me realise – I have wasted so much of my time being simply unhappy. So many precious moments, hours and days have been wasted with worrying about things that haven’t happened or things that really really don’t even matter.

Due to the numerous hospital visits (a cyst in my ovary burst last week and the pain, although greatly improved, hash’t gone away) I have been resting at my mum’s house. While searching for something in her office, I came across a box filled with childhood photos which were obviously too random and meaningless for an album or frame. Bubba/family photos are one of my favourite things in the entire world. I sat for literally hours rooting through photos I’d never laid eyes one, deciphering when and where they were taken and who long forgotten people were making appearances in them. It’s such a lovely but strange thing to look at photos of yourself. There’s kind of a dramatic irony to it, like, woooah little girl, you have no idea what’s coming or about the world you think you have already mastered. I know that little girl so much at the same time as feeling like I have no idea who I am at this present moment.

The little girl is fucking cool. Made so much cooler for the fact that she had no idea at the time. She didn’t care. She was happy. She thought she was the shit purely because she was herself without having seen or heard anything that had told her otherwise. She’d had no outer influence except her family who made her feel like the shit 24/7, and who were and still are themselves ‘the shit’ (I’ll stop saying the shit now). She didn’t care about the little things. She knew what she wanted, she just had no idea how to get it.

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At one point I thought – imagine if time were reversed and this little girl look 17 years into her future and see her future 23 year old self. What would she think? Who would she hope to be?  Would she be disappointed, or excited to get there?

On paper, she may be excited. On paper (completely shallow, ignorant, thin paper) I have an ‘exciting’ life, with an ‘exotic’ job, a flat in a place that 7 year old me could only dream of (anywhere out of Essex would have seemed fabulous to her, mind you), great friends, a great relationship, three beautiful dogs – every 7 year olds dream… In fact, everything 7 year  would have written down on a list of “Things I want at 23” (minus 1million£ in the bank. She aimed high) But if she looked deeper, I image her inexperienced, simple mind would be confused – why is 23 year old me not always in a good mood? – I’m sure she’d be wondering. Why does she let little things bother her? Why does she let little things stand in her way? What’s stopping her? Why isn’t it enough?

I’m sad to say that I can’t answer any of these questions, because deep down I’m still wondering myself. But at least I’m getting there. All I do know is, I want to be the 23 year old that the 7 year old dreamed of.

So, I’ve decided that I will be. I owe it to her.

“No offence but I’ve decided I’m gonna stop being sad and start being unbelievably powerful, creative, and full of love & light”

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Happiness

KIM K AND THE FEMINIST CONTRADICTION

Among other socially important news stories this week – Kim Kardashian posted a selfie.

But alas, not the conventional, head and shoulders, face-drowned-in-make up-with-immacuate-shiny-hair kind. The naked in front of a bathroom mirror kind.

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In months, a week or even days, the media excitement and fan frenzy will die down until it’s tossed on the pile of previous mildly shocking celebrity activity, along with her full frontal Paper Magazine photo shoot and her sex tape.

But for now at least, general opinion seems to be divided into two categories: the, “Wow, she’s so hot and confident, good for her!” side, and the “Wow, what an attention seeking little whore” side.

I personally have very mixed opinions on the subject.

Love them or loathe them, we cannot escape the fact that over the last eight or so years, the Kardashian klan have taken over the celebrity ‘tabloid’ world once dominated by Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan. I’ve read arguments that the sudden growth in reality TV and social media was the end of the tabloid, murdering the middle man by letting the viewers and the followers hear it and see it from the horses mouth, making the once untouchable, fantasy like public figures infinitely accessible. E!’s Keeping Up With The Kardashians is arguably the biggest reality show ever made, making a whole family of privileged, non-talented, not extremely interesting individuals the most popular celebrities of this decade. In 2003, Kim Kardashian was a young woman giving Ray-J a blow job and receiving (what looked like the most dull and unsatisfying) cunnilingus (I have ever seen). Eleven years later, she was on the cover of American Vogue. She went from sex-tape-with-a-B-list-Rapper-trash to modern American ‘Royalty’. (Sorry, Will and Kate)

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The fact is, the reason that Kim Kardashian and her family are so famous is prominently due to her appearance in the sex tape. It’s apparently what garnered interest in momager Kris Jenner’s show pitch. So firstly, why people are so shocked that Kim posted a naked selfie I have no idea. Plus, her titties and nooni are ‘modestly’ covered with post-edit black strips – I mean, I’ve already seen her bare vagina in LOVE and Paper magazine and have seen her bare arse one million more times than I will ever see my own. It’s hardly new imagery, is it?

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The word ‘feminism’ means different things to different people.

Some purely believe that feminism means ‘the advocacy of women’s rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes’ – the Oxford definition of the term.

Some believe it is the females power to do whatever the hell she wants to do with herself or her own body as long as she’s not hurting anyone else. Some believe feminism means that women shouldn’t be the sexual objects that over centuries they’ve been glorified to be.

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So in the same breath, Kim could be seen as the anti feminist and the heroine of feminism, depending on your individual view. Whether she was in control of the sex tape release or not, on some level subconsciously, Kim lost ownership of her body. Anyone with access to the internet could and still can view her body in the act of sex/making-love/fucking, an act which is mostly conducted in private with hopefully loving and comfortable connotations. If it’s true that the tape was released completely against her will, then in some sense Kim was deemed control less and ultimately sexualised in the most horrendous way. Her private life was and is everyone’s property. For Kim or her handlers to turn that awful violation into millions of dollars, a brand and a career is arguably the greatest feminist victory. You can’t argue that Kim’s hustle is second to none. Along with the heavily constructed reality show, social media means that her and her family can be in complete control of what we all see. This selfie is a perfect example of that sentiment; her body is beautiful (as is her bathroom), she took the photo and she released it. Like her body, it is completely hers. Just because we as the public can view it, doesn’t change that. Plus, why does her naked body have to mean that it’s sexual? She isn’t posed in an overtly provocative way. The caption, “When you’re like I have nothing to wear LOL” is directed more to women than it is to men. I mean, it’s just a body. A body that has produced two babies. We all have the same reflection just before we step into the shower, whatever shape or size we are or how styled our hair or faces. If Kim is a whore, does that make Venus de Milo one too? (OMG Venus is such a slut, standing there parading her tits and almost showing her vag! Does she have no shame?)

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Call this comparison crazy, but man (humans) ‘created’ Kim Kardashian in the same way he (they) sculpted Venus.

“You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting “Vanity,” thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure.”

― John Berger, Ways of Seeing

And yes, feminism is equality between the sexes. So why is it that men can post nude photos, get their dicks out at every opportunity, moon like ten year olds and walk around with their BARE NIPPLES on show in the summer without a bat of an eyelid?

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But on the other hand, I have to admit: there is still a part of me that finds it a little bit… well… sad. I’m currently searching deep within myself to confirm why I feel that while fully standing for the paragraph above. All I can gather is that I find it sad that we, as a Western society, obsessed with appearance, bourgeoisie and celebrity, created the Kardashian-kraze in the first place. The whole image of the family and their whole lifestyle is an astronomical glorification of fame and money as overarching life goals. I find it sad that we have placed someone with no significant spirit, courage, talent, and magnanimity, bravery, intelligence, or perseverance, so high on a pedestal that young girls could look up to her. Kim and her sisters are only really famous for their bodies and the men that they marry, subsequently suggesting that they only know their worth through their appearance, patriarchal acceptance and the male gaze. I don’t know that many pre teen girls to ask, but from what I gather, quite a few of them look up to the Kardashians. Instagram is to them what radio and television was to me growing up – powerfully manipulative contributors to adult psyche. If posting a photo if your naked body is celebrated and then normalised, I have no doubt that young girls will start posting similar things themselves. Kim’s selfie could give a much darker message – your appearance/sexuality is your worth. You are a sexual object.

It’s sad because women shouldn’t have to show off their bodies to be looked up to, or to emphasis their talent, confidence or power. No matter how talented she is, the focus is always predominantly  on the female celebrities sexuality.

Of course, negative responses from other celebrities were rife. Kim began tweeting those that had openly criticised her. Among those were Bette Midler (someone who is incredibly successful without ever using her sexuality) with a relatively witty response, and teenage actress Chloe Moretz, who is yet to succumb. Kim went on to age-shame (have I just created a new discrimination?) Bette and “attempted” to slut-shame Chloe over a Nylon cover featuring Chloe and her bare leg. In all honesty, I would have stuck with my initial argument and maybe even respected Kim a little bit if she hadn’t retaliated and had instead marvelled in her own confidence with an unfuckwitable silence. But, who am I to pass comment or to even have an opinion… It’s her life.

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Klassy.

Mainly, it’s sad that we care so much about any of this. Perhaps if the sexes were equal (trust me, we are far from it), there wasn’t such intense emphasis on female sexuality, women were not so cautious, conscious or considerate of their appearance and more confident and content within themselves, all we would see when we refreshed our Instagram feeds (maybe there wouldn’t even be a need for Instagram) was a grown woman standing in her bathroom.

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Happiness, Health

There Will Be Blood

Men are wonderful, disgustingly frustrating creatures.

For all the reasons I adore men, there are also a few things – through extensive experience – characteristically exclusive to the less fair sex, which infuriate me:

Ladies, have you ever hounded a man ferociously after he politely turned you down? 

Have you ever told a moody man to, “Smile, love”, when he innocently minded his own business with a resting, anything-less-than-ecstatic face? 

Have you ever told a man that he should dress/act/speak/live differently, so that he may give himself a chance to attract a nice woman? 

Now, if I ask you how many times this week you have been on the receiving end of this behaviour, I’m sure you’ll have lost count.

But probably above all of these annoying behaviours, the one that makes my blood boil (pun intended) the most, is the majority of males reactions to our menstrual periods.

(Guys, I know that you would prefer not to know all of the gross, gory details, but since the reason you are here on Earth is because your mother had periods, you should and will know: Between the ages of 10 and 15, young women begin bleeding from their vaginas once every 28 days or so for three-five days (on average) at a time. The bleeding usually comes hand in hand with stomach/back cramps, emotional changes and even lethargy. This continues all throughout our lives until we hit menopause between our late thirties to mid fifties. That’s around 40 years of bleeding 12 times a year. I’m not here to give you a science lesson, so if your tiny mind is baffled and you need answers, read here. If you don’t want a baby mama or you want your future wife to love you, you should probably get as clued up as possible.) 

Since that glorious day in which I discovered a puddle of brown blood in my Tammy Girl knickers and entered the elite club of official womanhood, I’ve been aware that periods are not something that should be openly discussed – especially around men. I was met with embarrassed stutters when I announced the exciting news in front of my mums early noughties boyfriend. At school, we had to mask toilet visits in front of male classmates or male teachers while hiding tampons up our sleeves and sheepishly pretending we really needed a wee. My Gran used to hush me when I spoke about my still new monthly visitor in front of my Grandad, like the image of his darling little granddaughter bleeding out of her little virgin vagina might send him to an early grave. Even now, in my early twenties, I am so used to men squirming, turning their noses up or openly “Ew”ing and sarcastically saying “thanks for that” at the news of a period, that it’s just easier not to mention it at all.

(Image credit: Saint Hoax)

Periods are embarrassing.

BUT WHY SHOULDN’T I TALK ABOUT IT? WHY SHOULD I BE EMBARRASSED? 

Periods are something bestowed upon every single one of us girls unwillingly. Here’s there thing, guys – WE CAN’T HELP IT. WE DON’T ENJOY IT. IT HURTS. But since we have to deal with them and you don’t, I think the least you can do is to do your best to not make us feel like gross-vagina-bleeding-freaks-of-nature when we talk about it or are suffering with it.

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There is a loooong winding history, I’ll guess specifically with a modern social context, of period-shaming; men seeing periods as a weakness and consequently using them against us. There are a lot of people that believe that women cannot be successful leaders of business and countries alike, because we are ‘too emotional’ or ‘too irrational’. We are taught very early on that during our period we are deemed almost disabled, for fear of flooding, collapse or other dramatic outcomes.

And even the more innocent, jovial cases show underlying proof of social period-shaming. I have lost count of times a man has asked me sarcastically if I was on my period when he hasn’t liked my behaviour or attitude, been mad at me, or simply had more emotion than a Barbie doll.

Yes, periods do make us ladies more emotional and erratic at times. Our bodies produce different amounts of hormones at different times during our menstrual cycles. This isn’t just bitchy mood swings, it has it’s own medical term: PMS (premenstrual syndrome) describes the psychological and behavioural symptoms which can (and in my case, always) occur in the time leading up to or during our periods. It’s completely natural and we cannot help it. We might cry over absolutely nothing. We might react to certain situations slightly irrationally and do or say things a bit out of character. We might demand more love (cuddles), attention (hampers of chocolate and cake), or in some cases, complete solidarity.

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Unsurprisingly, when ignorant people (cough men cough – other woman are far too sympathetic) call this behaviour “crazy”, it only makes us feel like undermined emotional wrecks.

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So we bleed. Our emotions get muddled. But most of all, it bloody (haha) hurts. Your male body produces baby making tools with no pain, only pleasure. You have no right to an opinion on something you have and will never experience.

When a man reacts negatively to my period, I now never ever ever feel bad, disgusting or embarrassed. Instead, I feel embarrassed for them; that they are so immature and weak that they can’t handle a period. Why do straight men love vaginas and tits but get freaked out when those same vaginas bleed and those same tits swell and are sore to touch?

If you look at it deeply and psychoanalytically, perhaps it has something to do with the whole Madonna/Whore complex. I feel like our society has drummed the idealistic perpetual child-girl-woman image into the modern males brain, so that the natural growth and development and puberty of women appears disgusting. I don’t know many men that prefer hair over porn star shaven haven, or any men that wouldn’t mind anything more than stubbly legs and underarms. Women have become purely sexual images. Although periods are arguably the most naturally sexual thing in the world (we have periods in order to get pregnant and as mammals we have SEX in order to get pregnant), they apparently interrupt the male gaze for one week out of a month. Therefore men ‘hate them’, or are at least scared of them.

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(mic.com – image credit: Tom Hooper)

Some women also get really horny during their periods, which poses a problem if your sexual partner is a period-hating-man-baby. I feel so sorry for the girls that want sex on their periods and have to squirm with desire because their men refuse to cooperate. It’s all down to personal taste of course. But in my experience, real men can easily deal with it.

The real men will also buy you tampons and painkillers without much persuasion. Real men will rub your belly and fill up your hot water bottle and suck on your nipples, if that’s what you want. Periods are not gross things. Really, periods are beautiful; reminding us that our bodies are capable of the greatest thing on Earth. (Or, a message from Mother Nature that we successfully got through another month without an unwanted pregnancy – which ever way you chose to look at it)

(Image credit: Georgia Grace Gibson – BITCHTOPIA )

So ladies, be proud of your periods.

Men, carry on the good work, we love you for it.

And Boys… grow up.

Images courtesy of Instagram unless stated otherwise.

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