Friday, 30 January 2015

Shopaholic tendencies

I'm not even ashamed to say it, I'm materialistic. It's not always a negative thing, it's not always shallow and it doesn't always mean someone is a selfish person. I like things. Objects. Something I can run through my fingers or have in my palm, carry on my shoulder or wear on my feet. And what is my downfall? Clothes. 

I spend more than I could ever earn. Usually, it's on ASOS, but that doesn't matter. From brand-spanking new underwear, to this season's new dress, I have to have it. Don't get me wrong, I don't buy to compete, just instead, I like things. This may seem like a really poor defense but I am attempting to justify it. 

There's nothing more satisfying than waiting for a clothes delivery to arrive, with my delivery driver/wannabe friend Russell arrives with my DPD package from ASOS with a big smile on his face and a look in his eyes that is a combination of sheer amusement and intrigue. How can I possibly have this many clothes? He probably thinks to himself. In fact, I think he's said it aloud once or twice, and I've laughed along with him. 

I like dressing up. I'm really boring tbh, evidently I can't even blog properly, and yet I'm now rolling my eyes at myself while I talk about how in love I'll be with my newest order when it arrives at some point tomorrow. The dress that will get vodka spilled down it the first time I wear it when I'm laughing at my friends in Brit on Saturday night. The pair of heels that will burn my feet while I attempt to dance badly in them. The earrings I'll lose in three weeks time because they're too big and heavy to really wear practically. The jeans I buy a size too small as some sort of motivation to exercise and eat healthy, and instead are reserved for thin days, when I somehow can manage to squash into them. The make up I buy and then isn't even preferred to my usual brands. The blouses I really like on arrival and then I end up wearing what I already have, because I don't own anything 'snow-proof' as I keep drowning.

I am better at shopping than I am at anything else, I almost guarantee it. It may not be a talent but it gives me a certain kind of buzz that I'm ashamed to say I love. Similar to writing I guess. Except I get a physical shiny thing out of it. For example, in the past few weeks, I've bought about four new underwear sets, a pair of boots (that I'm actually sending back), a really REALLY tiny pair of skinny jeans I am using as motivation, a sweatshirt that says 'HANGRY' because it is the truest emotion I have ever felt in my life, a Benefit make up set (that is yet to even be dispatched from QVC- oh yes, shopping channels are bad places), a blouse that is so pretty I can't wait to wear, AND THREE MORE ITEMS ARRIVING TOMORROW, that may or may not actually fit/be accepted/take permanent residence in my room. (I'd really like to say wardrobe but it's so full so usually my clothes are wherever they land.) 

If only I could channel my shopping love and my writing love as one. Maybe. Perhaps. I don't even know.

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

Lashings of happiness.

Eyes that just stop me mid-sentence, and I'm lost in them, a smile creeping over my face until it fills my cheeks. Yes, I grin cheesily, you're mine. You're the one buzzing up my phone at two in the morning and again at two in the afternoon. The one who makes me laugh uncontrollably and irritates me beyond measure. The person who can finish my sentences, wind me up and still make me want to come back for more. The one I see a future with, someday. And that, is something that will always be a reason to smile. 

Saturday, 17 January 2015

Why couldn't I be simple?

I'm awkward. Or at least part of me thinks I am. In the career prospect area anyway. I hate the Arts. Theatre, film, paintings, music, literature. They are wonderful, inspiring and absolutely hellish when trying to find employment. Because really, they're the things I love the most. I made a choice at 16 that I wanted to write. Maybe before that, but at sixteen it was more of a decision about University prospects than anything else. I would study a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. It would be widely sought after and when completed, so would I. A brand spanking new graduate of English with my shiny BA honours. WHATEVER. 

I resent the day I made that decision, and yet I also stand by it firmly. Part of me, maybe a small part but still, wishes I was more practical. More realistic. More cynical. Less naive, less of a dreamer. Why couldn't I be one of those people who wanted to be a builder, a hair dresser or a teacher? An electrician, a mechanic or a supermarket worker? Anything normal. Anything concrete. But no. I want to write. I want to sit with a pen and a notebook and write something with killer speech and snappy characters that come to life when you read their dialogue. And it's just not realistic. It's unreliable. It's stupid. It's dreamy. And I want it anyway. But part of me wishes I'd never had the option to go to uni. Maybe I would've been happier. Who's to say I'll ever get the career I want and still be able to live off the money? It's very unlikely no matter what talent I may or may not possess. 

I want a good job, a decent wage and really, just to be comfortable. I have a family, a wonderful boyfriend and a good set of friends behind me, so really I can conquer anything thrown at me. As long as I'm happy, things will fall into place. A job or career will always come second for me. The people in my life and their happiness, as well as my own, are the most important things, and no matter the wage I'm on or the place I'm working, they always will be. 

Hormones, or whatever.

We've all been there. The raging feelings, the hideous pain, the not knowing what bitter comment will come leaping out of your poisonous mouth next, and living in fear that you'll just offend everyone you come into contact with. Today, this is me. All I want is cake. 00:04 and it's cake, the chocolatier the better. Maybe a muffin. Maybe a proper cake. Maybe coffee cake, yum. Maybe just like one of those cakes everyone Instagrams with the malteasers and kitkat combinations that look oh-so-simple and yet really arty and delish? Perhaps. I don't even know. My brain isn't working, my eyes feel sore and strained and I start my FINAL EVER semester of uni on Monday. The end is nigh. Looming scarily. Employment as a graduate is on the horizon. Making me feel like I could vomit at any moment. I don't know what's around the next corner and at this precise moment, curled up in my quilt feeling sorry for my grouchy self, I don't even think I care. 

Monday, 12 January 2015


You can always tell when I'm upset, as I write a lot more, whether it be notes, lists or blog posts like this one, my writing definitely increases in volume when I'm sad, down or under the weather. Maybe that's ironic: I love writing, it's my passion, and yet i seem to excel in it's field only when my life is falling apart around my ankles. So why? Why does it take a few tears to get real? Why when I feel absolutely alone or totally worn down does my writing skill flourish? Surely in my dark times, it really doesn't matter if I can write fluently or eloquently, just at all. It's more of a way to get the thoughts out of my head and allow me to relax than it is for public reading or any kind of display. Perhaps there's a certain peace I get from writing when I'm upset. Maybe that's not practical or good for me, but some of the best pieces of writing I've ever conjured up has been due to too many tears or vodkas, or sometimes both. There's part of me wonders whether I can't write happy things. It's a lot harder to write about happy things. The light is flourescent if you mess with it too much, while the dark can get pitch black and nobody questions it's truth. The positives seem overexaggerated sometimes in my eyes, but the negatives, the old cliché, everyone believes. It's true. A news headline about something terrible and it never passes through your mind as to whether it's fact or fiction, yet a positive story about someone changing their life for the better makes people cynically question the realism of it. That's how I see my writing sometimes. The dark, somewhat depressing side of my writing is where my passions are hidden. If you read my sadness, you get to know the real me. The happy posts are half-hearted, quickly written between an outfit change, a touch of make up, or a taxi arriving at 9.30. The happy times don't get documented much, for two reasons. Firstly, because I tend to find myself preoccupied with said happiness, so writing about it takes a back seat, and secondly, I'm not really sure I know how to write about happiness. That is the elephant in the room I've finally admitted. I've written so much about people's downfalls, low times and heartbreaks I really don't know where to start with the love, laughter and happiness. It's difficult. It's simpler and yet, harder to convey in words. It's a smile at a bus stop, a laugh while staring at your iPhone, someone holding your hand, a compliment you know is actually meant from the heart. The mundane, the real, the normality of every day is difficult, and yet it shouldn't be. Not every day is a car crash, a death, an assault, mentally or physically. Not every day is bankruptcy, breakdown or fall out. Every day is going to work whether you like it or not. Paying bills because that's what you have to do to get by. It's reluctance and disdain and yet it's so many other things. It's routine. It's coping mechanisms all united. It's patience and kindness and calm and friendliness. It's tolerance. It's arguing with someone you love. It's smiling at someone you don't like. It's buying an overpriced coffee so you can take a photo of it for Instagram. It's the Monday mornings as well as the Friday evenings. It's the 7am starts, the baby crying in the middle of the night, the snuffly noses and sore throats, the rain, sleet, snow and sun. It's the going for lunch vs skipping lunch. It's having too much time and no time at all and clock watching and seconds flying by all at once. It's every day that matters. Pieced together. Today is only significant because of there being no tomorrow, or no yesterday. Writing about today is the easy bit. Writing the tomorrow is hard. 

Some days.

Some days are just shit. There's no other word for it. From the little things not going right to the big things going very wrong. And there's nothing you can do. You're just left floating there hoping that soon you'll find something, or someone to clutch on to. Someone to cry with, someone who will pry a smile out of you even if it's forced and through sobs and gasps for breath. That's what today feels like. I feel like the walls are closing in on me and there's nothing I or anyone else can do to stop it. It will happen whether I react or notice or not. Helpless, is how I feel. From the aches deep in your bones to the exhaustion under your eyes, some days are just too hard. A strong cuppa, a nice tea, and maybe that doesn't even help. Bed. That's what helps. Resetting. Restarting. The only real cure for a bad day is an end. The only consolation anyone can draw from a bad day is it's definitive ending. Tomorrow may be worse, but the possibility is there: tomorrow just may be better than today, and sometimes that's all you need to know.  

Thursday, 8 January 2015

Memories stick.

Sat in my room when a song comes on and a tear pricks my eye. It's amazing what can make you react, and you don't even realise it. I always like to think I am in control of my emotions and actions, but really, that's a really bad attempt at a façade. A line of a song, a look, a smile, a Friends quote, an act of kindness, a bitchy comment, a noise, a face, a single word, a smell, a taste, a laugh, a voice. They can all change you. And they all have at one point in your life, regardless of your self-control. Don't sit and shake your head indignantly at me and tell me you aren't always changing, because you change every single day.

The line of a song would be from Sweet Caroline, because you never knew it was his favourite song until it was too late. You never had chance to sing with him and hold his hand and tell him it was yours too.

A look from someone who just sees things in you that you never thought possible will boost your confidence and make your doubts excel at the same time, because its all so new to you.

A face you haven't seen in a while crops up in a busy crowd, and maybe you don't talk now, maybe it's just been too many years to fix things between the pair of you.

The smile on the face of the person who loves you the most, or the person who has never been more proud of you in their entire life, it's priceless. It makes you get your arse into gear, step up, get a grip of your life and act like someone who deserves the acknowledgement.

A Friends quote you share with a certain person, reminding you of a time when you've really never laughed as hard. You'll cherish it, and do anything to maintain it.

The act of kindness you never saw coming and you chastise yourself for it, like it makes you cynical or something, when in fact it makes you human. You learn to see the best in people, rather than the worst.

The bitchy, nasty comment a friend makes to you crushes your insides and shatters the relationship you once had. It will never be the same after that day, and maybe that's the best. Cutting out damaging people is a step forward, not a step back.

A noise that will always make you smile; an applause, a congratulatory nod in your direction to let you know that the hard work, late nights and sacrifices do pay off.

A word that sends your brain into overdrive for so many different reasons, it makes your stomach churn and your head ache and your chest go tight and yet, it's all okay.

A smell that makes your eyes widen and your mouth water and your whole body ache to be somewhere else, with bright lights and good people and amazing wonderful things.

A taste you never forget, its bitter at first until you get used to it, and then you learn to love it. You drink it black now, and it makes even the worst days better.

A laugh that echoes further than you could even imagine. The most contagious thing you've ever come across and you can't actually remember a time when it wasn't in your life. She makes you laugh more than anyone, and she's basically your best friend, not just your sister. Nothing will ever be funnier than a joke shared with her.

A voice you adore. His voice. The way it dances in octaves when he's talking about something that excites him. The way he whispers something wonderful. The huskiness of breathing 'I love you.'

It's mad how things stick in your mind. For good or bad reason, memories stick. Some are hidden, granted, but most come out to play when that song comes on, or your hear someone's name uttered, and maybe that's just it, - your memories may fade but they don't disappear. And usually, I'm thankful they don't.

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

Me and You.

I'm 21 years old, 5 foot 2 inches high and weigh around 9 stone. I have never broken a bone, spent a considerable amount of time in hospital or suffered from a debilitating illness. I do no take medication daily, rely on something to get me out of bed or have any sort of symptoms that stunt me in every day life. This isn't a norm, I'm suddenly becoming aware of this. I'm very lucky. I am surrounded by people who do. And credit to them. Waking up every day and swallowing a tablet that will correct their hormones, make them feel 'normal' or less anxious, stabilise their blood pressure, suppress their pain. I couldn't imagine it, and yet I experience it vicariously on a daily basis practically. I thank my lucky stars I have such wonderful people around me. I don't care what it takes for you to get out of bed, I don't care you're miserable if you don't take your medication regularly, all I care is that you're mine. It makes you no less of a person. It doesn't make you any different. Whether it's an insulin injection or some really strong painkillers, or something totally different, so what. Everyone has a crutch. Something they rely on. Something they need. And maybe I don't understand, because I've never had to do it. Maybe that's how it feels to all of you who wake up and reach for the silvery white packet of pills and swallow hard as they coat your throat. But this is why. You're all my crutches. My reasons to wake up. My reasons to live, love and laugh. My people. I love you so desperately, wonderfully, brilliantly, and I'm so happy that you're all mine. Don't think anything like that makes a difference to me.