You're my best kept secret.

A little creative piece I just whacked out.

Aaron had left early this morning, gone to get a pint of milk before heading off for work. He'd left me a note, simply reading:

"I'll love you. Forever and a day. See you when I see you, Luce. You'll always be perfect no matter what.
Aaron
 x

P.S. Milk's in the fridge, coffee's waiting in the cup."

I was definitely wearing a grin the size of China when I'd finished reading that. Hmm, I felt inspired. I felt thrilled. I sat down, took my time, and with coffee in tow, wrote the most true thing I've ever even thought. Because, I really think it needed to be said. It read:

"Aaron,
Every second I spend thinking about you, but not talking about you, I feel like a fraud. I feel like you're never out of my head, kind of always in my heart, but those few words are never uttered from my lips, and why? I'm scared. That's the short answer. Simple. But it's no less true. I'm scared my feelings will land me in the same mess they always do. I'm scared you don't feel the same, and I'm even more terrified that you actually do. I'm scared of commitment and "what ifs" and talks about things we know too well already. It's backwards and weird and yet I still find myself wishing for it. I have for a while, but I haven't told anyone. It's like you're my secret. That feeling people describe, butterflies. Well, with you, I understand what people mean. The way you look at me. Knowing you couldn't tell me the thing you wanted to the most. The grin you flash at me, and my knees go weak, and it's like everything I could ever ask for is standing right in front of me. The way you dress, or run your fingers through your hair or hold my hand like you'd never be ready to let me go. I love that. I love talking about you. I love the expression my face takes on when I hear your name, your voice or see that name flash up on my phone. You make my bad days tolerable, and my good days great. I'm proud to know you, honoured to be part of your life, and I never ever want to lose you.
Forever and a day isn't long enough.
I'll see you when I see you.
All my love,
Lucy
X"

What I call a conscience.

You're the dull ache in the pit of my stomach. The feeling of dread when there's something up. That well-named gut feeling. The thing that enables me to feel butterflies one minute and fuming anger the next, well, that and a very slight tendency to overreact. A horrible feeling meeting a smiley, happy-go-lucky one. And what happens when hot and cold air meet? They clash. Truth V Lies. Denial V Reality. Battles that are bound to end badly, but do we care? Do we hell!

I've confided in friends and then hated myself for it.  For the way they reacted when I did just that. I have started to think it's unfair to depend solely on my friends who want the best for me, because sometimes they don't hold the right answers, or the best ones, or the ones you really want to hear. But that's all okay. I was, perhaps naively, hoping for some advice minus judgement, but I'm not sure that's possible when friends are involved. There's a thin line between wanting the best for someone, and actually just wanting to appear right. It's a blessing in disguise though. Friends want the best for you and I know, I'd run into a burning building for a few of my closest girls, no matter the consequences.

I don't do poetry. This isn't really an attempt, but it is, sort of. It's not meant to be great and profound. But honest. After all, fellow bloggers have praised me for my somewhat-honest outlook. The truth doesn't always hurt.


I want to trust you,
but only for the right reasons,
no wrong answers
or bad decisions
I'm sick of that.
I'm through with that.
The awful demeaning
nasty feeling
in the pit
of your stomach
that tells you,
no, -scratch that,
screams at you,
that this,
is a bad idea.
That this is just
another one
in the huge list
of bad ideas
brought to you,
by the ministry of Are You Stupid?

Tell me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear.

Dedication #2: Steph.

Right, I've been meaning to do another dedication for weeks, and never got round to it. I really probably should have a million and one other things to do right now, like revision for my last exam on Monday, but that will have to be done at a more motivated time. For now, my dedication is as follows. I hope she reads this, considering we've just been talking about my blogging habits over piping hot Starbucks.

Stephanie, or more so, Steph. One of my best friends. One of the craziest, funniest people I've had the pleasure of getting to know over the last few years. It's one of those weird situations. We went to school together for years, and always spoke, but it was like, as soon as we got into Sixth Form, we immediately clicked. I found myself thinking 'how the hell have I not been friends with this girl before now?' It's hard to explain. So, if a picture speaks a thousand words, here's a summary:

It's like there are no words to describe how much this girl means to me. She's painfully hilarious (we laugh for hours on end!) about anything and everything. There's nothing I can't tell her, and I like to think that the feeling is mutual. We've been through a lot together, from two years of mind-numbingly difficult A-levels, including our very weird Pyschology lessons, to receiving our exam results and finding out we both were destined for the same place. I know what you're thinking, stardom, obviously? Perhaps one day, rather the same Uni. Northumbria, to specify. Perhaps the lesser known of the two universities in our home town in Newcastle, but certainly that does not mean it's in any way less eventful, in fact, I think we certainly show everyone how to enjoy themselves.

I've had the funniest time lately, since starting uni. I trust Steph with my life, and I know I can say anything and everything to her, and she can do the same to me, (and has on a few very necessary occasions!) She's definitely what you'd call my drinking partner, and I'm always telling people exactly that. We get drunk together, we shop together and we never ever stop talking. In the past six months or so, we've been to pub crawls, countless parties (including a fancy dress foam party, pictured above) celebrated birthdays, holidays, exams, results, or just partied because it was Friday night. She's the kind of person I can talk with for hours on end, and we never ever run out of things to say. But even if we did, what would it matter? The one I immediately look for, ring or text when a particular favourite song comes on, when I spot a certain someone in a crowd of people, or just when I have some seriously juicy gossip to share. She's amazing, and I don't tell her enough how much I love her. She's been with me through a lot, and I know I can count on her. The girl who I know can ring me up for a quick chat or a three hour update on the latest things happening in our lives. She knows everything, and I trust her with every word I say.

                                                             "Trebles anyone?!"
                                                       

Also, I must say, at times she must have the patience of a saint. As anyone who knows me well, knows I have a tendency to get drunk and make a fool of myself, well, although this is fine, Steph's the one always there, to make sure I don't ring the one person I shouldn't, waste all my money on sambuca and get me home in one piece. I thank her for that often, because everyone knows it's necessary from time to time. The girl who honestly doesn't believe in herself enough, and she seriously should. She's amazing and lovely, and it's about time she realised the extent of it. I'd be lost without her, so much so, we're jetting off to Ibiza in the summer together, for a fabulous time, I'm sure. Steph's also kind of a genius. She'll laugh when she reads this, because she's quite modest, and god knows why, because there's no need to be sometimes! Pursuing a degree in Human Biosciences (yes, oh my god) genius. Not only is she studying something scientific, she's also pretty damn good at it, and that's not what many people can say.

So, Steph, if you're reading this, then I hope you're smiling. You're fab. I wouldn't change you, and you're not losing me any time in the near (or far) future, just to instruct you of such. (I know you'll probably be laughing!) There's so much more I'd say, but it all depends who's reading this. Steph will understand the references more than most. We're very alike. In more ways than one. She copes with my drunken antics, and I'd do the same for her. And she, somewhat astonishingly, hasn't slapped me, when my increasingly foul mouth runs away with itself. Dilemma hour seems to be a regular thing between us, and I'm so looking forward to spending the summer with her (and others) and having what will, hopefully, be the time of our lives.

Because let's be honest, we always do.

My blog baby.

This sounds weird and slightly neurotic, but I've recently become quite protective over my blog. I still don't talk about my blog, just in passing to my closest friends, but no one else. I occasionally tweet my blog URL and it's linked to my profile, and despite my view counter, I'm under the impression that this thing is hidden from nearly everyone I know. I never used to be so protective over my writing, but I'm starting to adopt a sort of kinship with it. It's like my baby, metaphorically speaking. My best kept secret. It's like my online diary, in one respect, in another, it's merely a vacuum where I can vent my deepest passions and my greatest desires and upsets. My interests, my loves and hates, everything and anything. Non-specific. Not able to be thrown into one category or the next. From my endless Friends references, to my slight pessimistic streak, it's all contained in a little package I like to call The Beautiful and The Damned.

And you know what the most ironic thing is about it all, I've never even read The Beautiful and The Damned. 

An explanation.

Right, I've been AWOL for a while, over two weeks in fact, and I think I owe my fellow bloggers an explanation. So, what have I been doing with myself these past 14+ days? A lot and not much, if that at all makes sense. Far too many nights out for various different reasons (or excuses rather) with a group of amazing people. Bank holiday celebrations, my sister's 18th party and my uncle's wedding, all in the space of  a week. My liver is suffering. I know this is very disjointed, but who cares. It's not a proper blog post, if such a thing even exists. Also, I've just recently sat my first ever degree-level exam, which was quite scary. (Fingers crossed on that front!) So, what's the update? I have realised a few things: I can stomach far too much alcohol on an empty stomach, I'm probably more stubborn than I like to admit, shots should never look like they contain milk, family events can really be quite awkward when you don't know anyone and finally, there's no such thing as too much when it comes to getting dressed for a wedding. I'm far too tired, and still suffering from the remains of a two-day hangover, the latest of my escapades, which shall probably remain to be seen in a negative light. Counting down the days, until firstly, Thursday, the day my all-time favourite book, The Great Gatsby, gets a second, newer, shinier film adaptation released, two years in the making, and secondly, my last exam to over, a week tomorrow, so I can finally do everything I've got planned the second the clock strikes 4pm, including reading every piece of Literature-related material I can get my hands on that isn't on my Must Read list for Uni, and celebrate like crazy, even if there's nothing to celebrate, and more to commiserate. 

Confused, tired, and ready to abandon that Uni ship for four entire months. I need sun, laughs and plenty of reading material. Eight days, and I'll be pursuing it all, and hopefully, a lot more.

Who I really am.

I've been up and down lately, for reasons that I won't list, otherwise i'll be on for pages. Anyway, I got to thinking about what I deserve, as well as who I really am. After talks with friends, I've come to realise a few things, mostly, that I shouldn't ever let someone make me feel small, instead, shrug it off, and don't give someone the satisfaction.

I've changed a lot this year, and I've finally decided who I want to be, as a person. This isn't, unfortunately, a massive, let's-confess-our-true-passions whirl, instead, just a little note to say I'm a better person, in spite of some of the horrible people I've come across lately.

Maybe I am the girl who drinks too much and ends up mouthing off from time to time. The girl who can't walk in her six inch heels but still won't go out without them. The girl who will spend a lot of money on an outfit that will lose any classiness it ever had by 3 am, when I'm drunk and either euphoric, tired or upset, because sometimes you don't need to always plaster a smile on your darkened visage. The girl who drinks industrial strength coffee, loves to write and is passionate about reading. I stay up all night and am no good during early mornings (before my third cuppa!) I bite my nails, and I get obscenely stressed out over stupid things. I hardly ever cry in public, because I don't know how other people would react. I'm a bit of a big spender when it comes to clothes, but I don't think that'll ever change. I've got a group of close friends, but seem to be expanding it, willingly. I'm happily impatient, and a very hard-worker. I hate Mondays and love Made In Chelsea. I never ever stop tweeting. I'm addicted to crime dramas, 90210, Grey's Anatomy and Pretty Little Liars. I touch-text and type, and my parents are always telling me that I'm wasted by just typing nonsense into a vacuum, and my typing skills would actually benefit someone. I can quote Friends, Mean Girls, When Harry Met Sally and  know all the words to Peter Kay's The Tour that Didn't Tour Tour. I go through stages when I just want to be alone and stroppy, I love closing my bedroom door and disappearing for a few hours, or even a day or two. (I swear I don't lock the door for days on end.) I love marmite. I have a short attention span, unless it's something I really am interested in. I have a gawky obsession with The Great Gatsby, and could gladly eat rubbishy foods until I was fifty stone.

I want to make it. Sounds, well, big, doesn't it? MAKE IT. Ambitious, probably. But who cares? I recently thought, why am I not taking Uni seriously? I should have more confidence in myself, as a person, a female, and a Literature and Creative Writing student. After all, why can't I be the one that makes it Big. Why have I got this blasé, half-hearted attitude that my writing isn't up to scratch. For a while after I started my Uni course, people kept saying to me "So, what do you want to do? Be the next J.K. Rowling?" It was as if it was one big joke to some people. I still get that impression. People ask what I study, and when I respond, the divide is infinitely clear. The nice half of the human race, with more than one brain cell to share between them, and a less than narrow mind, replies in an embellished sort of way, intrigued, happy, impressed. I like that. I get a kick out of the fact I do a "proper subject" at University. The other half, well, we've all experienced them, the bored looks, their eyes glaze over. The people that believe we should all go into vocational courses, that leave us with "actual career prospects" and "a steady pay" in our "less than stable" economic climate. I want to jump up and down on the spot, scream in their faces and then thrust a piece of my Best Work into their less than welcoming hands, just to prove I'm not a good-for-nothing, layabout student. Then one day, it just struck me. A eureka moment, as it were. Why can't I be the next J.K. Rowling or Stephen King? Get a piece of my maddest work on the best sellers list, or reviewed in The Times. 

I get screwed over, kicked and brought down, but I'm ready to pick myself up and get a pint of confidence down my neck. (Not just Dutch Courage.) I want to be able to have something to show for my crippling student debts, late nights, early mornings and tonnes of hard work and inspiration. I want to be able to show all of those people who've turned me down, screwed me over or to made me feel about six inches high, that I'm worth a hell of a lot more than they ever gave me credit for. Whether they like it or not, I'm going to be able to say "I told you so!" with the biggest grin sitting on my face.

So, Who am I? 
Hopefully, in ten years, you'll not have to ask. 

Ugly on the inside.

So much for women's rights. I've lately read an article in a newspaper I probably shouldn't name, the not-so-drunken slurs of a woman who makes me feel embarrassed and humiliated for sharing so much as a gender binary with her. Who is the woman in question, you may wonder. Some call her the devil incarnate, others are ready to cut off their own limbs to support her vile, overly-cruel views. I'm refraining from actually including any definite references to this journalist, or her article's name, as I'm not actually sure it wouldn't be considered slanderous.

The article to which I'm referring to, states that women who have any ounce of self-respect, would diet for her entire life, to allow herself a feeling of accomplishment. While the basic subject matter may be controversial enough, the content is even more infuriating, if that is actually possible. The journalist, in my mind, is an egotistical, vain and harsh woman, who actually has no respect for her fellow females, never mind the rest of the human species. Her self-comparison with Joan Collins was enough to make me want to swear, as if you've ever caught a glimpse of THIS WOMAN, (I acknowledge she's quite attractive) however, I don't believe she, nor anyone else, no matter how beautiful/gorgeous/stunning you are, has the right to belittle another person, because of their gender, race, weight, looks, sexuality or ethnic background. While I know fine well that 'Mrs X' wasn't taking all of these major sources of prejudice on when she wrote the article (decidedly poor choice anyhow) I think that the hypocrisy of the newspaper is also partly, or equally, to blame.

In the latest of her media-sourced attacks, this woman, who angers me indescribable amounts, wrote, or rather projectile-vomited such offensive trash, including the statement that 'overweight is never attractive' and 'any woman with a modicum of self-respect' wants to 'watch her figure' and be skinny. Not only does her bile-ridden article promote an unhealthy, dangerous way of life, I'd even go as far to say she seems to be promoting a lifestyle that could put females at risk of developing seriously damaging eating disorders. It's well known that the media are always slamming us for how we should and shouldn't look, what's IN, what's OUT and what's never, EVER been anywhere near IN. So, now body shape is the latest of her fiery targets.

I felt ashamed discovering that this woman was trending on Twitter after reading her slurs, and was actually disgusted that anyone could even toy with the idea of allowing such a narrow-minded woman to publish such total rubbish. I am a firm believer, that while we live in an age where it's fashionable to be thin, that in fact, as long as you're happy and healthy, we're all as beautiful as one another. There's absolutely no need to thin down to a size zero, while I also accept that everyone is a different shape/size. We shouldn't have such pressure, surrounding and suffocating us, a vicious unconscious whispering "Are you sure you want to eat that?" every time you pick up something not filled entirely with O2. Calories, in moderation, are fine. Why can't people understand that being underweight is just as dangerous as being overweight?

I don't believe that, in 2013, that anyone, man or woman, should be allowed to publish something so controversial, especially in a newspaper such as this one. A (somewhat) trusted outlook. An influential piece of media. A nudge in the wrong direction. While we should all aim to be healthy, I don't believe that starving ourselves is the way to do it. Even model Kate Moss is famous for saying "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," a statement that has sickened me for years, and will undoubtedly continue to do so for a long time. I abhor journalists, models and media publishers who feel they have the right, (and the sheer arrogance) to portray lifestyle and eating habits in such a way.

No matter your dress size, your weight or your daily calorie consumption, at least us real girls can say we are beautiful on the outside and inside, something that said journalist can never, ever say.