New Year's Resolutions get some bad press, right? Sure they do. They're just not fashionable; many people believe January 1st to be as arbitrary as every other day of the year; just as good a day as any other to pursue something wonderful and worthwhile. For one person hopeful for a new year of bright beginnings and becoming an improved 2.0 version of their selves, there's about 30 cynical Tweets - what's the point? What's the difference? Who's to say you'll stick at it just because it began at the start of the year?
Well...I'm saying it. I'm going to at least try and say it.
First of my resolutions is simply to forgive. If you've ever done wrong to me, I probably have not let you forget about it. Or, you might think everything's fine and we're on the straight and narrow, but chances are I still associate your name with turds. What an ugly trait - if I've learnt anything this year, it's that humans make mistakes and there's not a single thing we can ever do to take them back. We write on the whiteboards of our lives in permanent marker. So I need to learn how to let go of my anger and bitterness instead of clinging to it like a child to the string of a balloon that's probably going to deflate soon anyway, because - like the ill-fated balloon, really - it's not worth anything.
Furthermore - and this is probably an old classic - I need to seriously stop giving a shit. Not about my uni work, because a degree is probably going to be quite useful and I should probably give a shit about that, but about the people that surely do not deserve a second of my time. I'm not kidding myself, I'm an emotional wreck and I want to give out every part of myself to others and truthfully I totally buzz off of that, but some people just really don't deserve a thing; the people that never say "thank you", or would drop everything they're doing to sort me out like I would for them. Sensitive souls like me are probably never going to become less sensitive (only better at faking it), so it's best to stay surrounded by people who understand rather than undermine that fact.
Perhaps it is silly or overly philosophical - perhaps I've read too many John Green books this year ("too many"? I'm not sure about that..) - but don't we need something to keep us determined and motivated? I'm in my first year of university and there's no denying the loneliness I feel, and the realisation that the only true dependency I can ever have to get me through the path I wish to take in life is on myself. So I like to think that maybe I can put my mind to something that involves "bettering" myself and keep at it. Admittedly, my track record is embarrassing, but that's probably down to thinking resolutions are a bit like wishes, or finding four leaf clovers.
However daft and impractical, it's worth a shot, because in possibly the weirdest quote I am ever going to reference in this blog, President Snow from the Hunger Games once eerily quipped "Hope is the only thing stronger than fear" Pushing aside the fact that he's a bastard, he's kind of right on the money, here - maybe the hope of getting things in life right beats the fear of continuing to do them wrong. I'm hopeful, I really am.
Thursday, 26 December 2013
Saturday, 7 December 2013
Drunk Text Juliet
There is only so many times you can listen to "Girl" by Destiny's Child, and eat so many packets of Digestives, before you have to face that the day just isn't going to improve. I'm not in a great mood.
A lot of it is to do with my first ever university exams approaching - all three of them! THREE OF THEM! THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE OFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF THEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I've essentially signed up to do my A Levels again. Twice a year. For the next four years.
That's only a small factor contributing to my woes, however, Largely my sulky disposition is down to the fact that last night after a few too many Strongbows (aka about 3, aka, too many for Flo and her lack of ability to soak up alcohol like a real man) I drunk messaged a few people that possibly don't deserve the joys of my merry intoxicated self. And now I'm a bit embarrassed and well...ashamed. I mean, what's a "good drunk"? But still, there is a "loser drunk" and I fear I fulfil that perfectly.
This is the topic of today's blog - drunk texting people you shouldn't. Why do we do it? Note the "we" - I recognise that in many areas of life I am probably more of a loser than you are, but I would bet a lot of Digestives that you've sent a few messages when you were a bit tiddly, too. But as ever I have baffled myself, and did what all baffled people do - Google the problem. If there aren't any explanations, it isn't a problem.
Low and behold:
I also know that I'm not alone:
It really is a dreadful habit I've fallen into since having internet data all the time on my phone. After I've had the pathetic amount it takes to get me drunk, I put the bottle down and pick my phone up. I wish I could go through my elaborate thought process which leads to this happening literally every single time but I honestly don't know what possesses me to stop trying to do the robot and text everybody instead.
Well, I say "everybody" - faces from the past, people I have somewhat tricky relationships with now, occasionally my parents...and let's face it, they don't want "HEY GUYYSYSYSYSSYSYSY!!" from their child.
According to the internet, my need to text my little weary heart out is because I miss the recipients and wouldn't normally reach out to them. Truthfully, I daren't look at what I sent after last night to see if I wrote anything along those lines, since I already feel embarrassed and it might thrust me into the "don't leave bedroom. Ever. You sad cow" stage.
The obvious solution to end the weekly devastation the next day when I inspect my phone inbox and Facebook chat would be to keep my phone the hell away from me when I go out. However, my phone is a big source of comfort for me; it enables me with the ability to contact/wail endlessly down the phone to my folks at a second's notice. Another solution would be to only go to clubs with no signal but again, that's not a practical thing to base your night out around - what about the Instagram selfies? What about the drunk Twitter stalking?
But maybe it's all futile, anyway. At the end of the day, alcohol makes you feel invincible. Daiquiris tell you that you can dance. Beer makes you bulletproof. Lager makes you laugh in the face of your biggest fears, then run away from them the next day. You can well and truly shed your inhibitions and reach out to people you usually try not to think about. Alcohol bestows even the most faint hearted with a kind of bravery they might not ordinarily know; the kind of bravery where they forget about how mortified they'll be in the morning when inbox inspections go down.
With that in mind, next time you receive a drunk message - however incomprehensible, however long it's been - don't look at your phone in horror. Smile to yourself. At least somebody's having one single thought of you when their real issue is whether they should get up and slut drop on the table or not. They've got better things to get on with and yet they're still thinking about you.
A lot of it is to do with my first ever university exams approaching - all three of them! THREE OF THEM! THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE OFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF THEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I've essentially signed up to do my A Levels again. Twice a year. For the next four years.
That's only a small factor contributing to my woes, however, Largely my sulky disposition is down to the fact that last night after a few too many Strongbows (aka about 3, aka, too many for Flo and her lack of ability to soak up alcohol like a real man) I drunk messaged a few people that possibly don't deserve the joys of my merry intoxicated self. And now I'm a bit embarrassed and well...ashamed. I mean, what's a "good drunk"? But still, there is a "loser drunk" and I fear I fulfil that perfectly.
This is the topic of today's blog - drunk texting people you shouldn't. Why do we do it? Note the "we" - I recognise that in many areas of life I am probably more of a loser than you are, but I would bet a lot of Digestives that you've sent a few messages when you were a bit tiddly, too. But as ever I have baffled myself, and did what all baffled people do - Google the problem. If there aren't any explanations, it isn't a problem.
Low and behold:
 |
| It's a problem. No walking away with my tail between my legs. |
I also know that I'm not alone:
It really is a dreadful habit I've fallen into since having internet data all the time on my phone. After I've had the pathetic amount it takes to get me drunk, I put the bottle down and pick my phone up. I wish I could go through my elaborate thought process which leads to this happening literally every single time but I honestly don't know what possesses me to stop trying to do the robot and text everybody instead.
Well, I say "everybody" - faces from the past, people I have somewhat tricky relationships with now, occasionally my parents...and let's face it, they don't want "HEY GUYYSYSYSYSSYSYSY!!" from their child.
According to the internet, my need to text my little weary heart out is because I miss the recipients and wouldn't normally reach out to them. Truthfully, I daren't look at what I sent after last night to see if I wrote anything along those lines, since I already feel embarrassed and it might thrust me into the "don't leave bedroom. Ever. You sad cow" stage.
The obvious solution to end the weekly devastation the next day when I inspect my phone inbox and Facebook chat would be to keep my phone the hell away from me when I go out. However, my phone is a big source of comfort for me; it enables me with the ability to contact/wail endlessly down the phone to my folks at a second's notice. Another solution would be to only go to clubs with no signal but again, that's not a practical thing to base your night out around - what about the Instagram selfies? What about the drunk Twitter stalking?
But maybe it's all futile, anyway. At the end of the day, alcohol makes you feel invincible. Daiquiris tell you that you can dance. Beer makes you bulletproof. Lager makes you laugh in the face of your biggest fears, then run away from them the next day. You can well and truly shed your inhibitions and reach out to people you usually try not to think about. Alcohol bestows even the most faint hearted with a kind of bravery they might not ordinarily know; the kind of bravery where they forget about how mortified they'll be in the morning when inbox inspections go down.
With that in mind, next time you receive a drunk message - however incomprehensible, however long it's been - don't look at your phone in horror. Smile to yourself. At least somebody's having one single thought of you when their real issue is whether they should get up and slut drop on the table or not. They've got better things to get on with and yet they're still thinking about you.
Thursday, 23 May 2013
Bye Bye, Boarding
“You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.”
So this is it! I'm finally writing the blog that documents "The end".
...not of my life, but certainly my college/boarding life, the one I built up and made all by myself nearly two years ago. As I type this I'm lying in the same bed I anxiously tossed and turned in the night before I left; the same one I would cry in because I didn't want to go back and felt I had made the wrong decision; and the now the one I'm going to be sleeping in a lot more, because this time is nearly over. And frankly, I am gutted.
A year ago, I couldn't have been more keen to get the ball rolling, wrap up my exams and return to Germany. A2? Pffft, get it over with - that was my mind set. But after an unexpectedly amazing second year, it's almost completely over with and I feel a little bit lost. It was such a life changing, character building thing, to leave home a bit earlier than usual and enter a period of almost-sort-of-independence and make some of the best friends I could have wished for and study subjects that challenged and stretched me. I am returning to a place that I love, but will never quite fit in to like I did before the Peter Symonds era began. There is a definite sense of being in limbo here, with no real direction for me to take off in.
There's the friends I have made in boarding, who I consider more like family these days. These are the hip cats who have felt every trip, witnessed every bad moment and have been brave enough to face me in my most ferocious, hormonally-charged fits of rage (you can't hide anything when you do 'communal living'). These are the friends you'll make in life who have seen every little twisted and messy part of your personality, but love you anyway. But it's these people who I have the most amazing memories with: warm ciders in fields became cocktails in bars so quickly, and it's hard to believe that soon I won't wake up and see any of their faces first thing ever again. If any of you are reading: yes, you, you're a beautiful, crazy bastard and I bloody love you.
There's Alex, my lovely boyfriend who I will amicably part ways with in less than 3 weeks. Here's the thing; this isn't my first relationship, but it is the one in which I really grew to understood the cliché of there being a 'thin line between love and hate'. There have been times when I've just beamed at him and thought "I am dead lucky to have you", and times when I've bitterly glared and thought "I would so much more lucky if you were dead" in equal measure. But the really good, positive feelings always outweighed the despairing ones for both of us, and that's why it's worked for so long. It's a bitter pill to swallow, the anticipation that it's going to end abruptly in a matter of days now; bitter in a "it's 3am and I'm awake thinking about it all" kind of way. The one great thing to remember, however, is that one day he might be the drummer in some cool band, and I will have an awesome claim to fame. Silver linings, right? He may soon be reason for the endless frowning I'm going to do for the first few weeks of the summer and become a bit of an issue for me, but he'll be the good kind of issue. The kind of issue I'll ultimately be grateful to have.
And of course, the lessons I learned along the way - not just the academic type - are ones I'm going to remember forever, which I probably wouldn't have taken on board so much if I had just stayed at home. For one, your parents are usually right and should be listened to, since believe it or not, they're genuinely motivated by love over kicks to make your life as miserable as possible. Furthermore, if you don't work to the point that at one point or another you do consider sacking it and working at ASDAs, you won't get the results. Good work doesn't appear with no work ethic and nights in with the Here Comes Honey Boo Boo over The Crucible. Also, don't wear summer dresses in the winter and think it's fine because you're wearing boots. It's not fine.
Still, I sometimes have trouble keeping my gaze firmly ahead and into the future, when everything so solid and good is crumbling away and life is set to resume a very slow, quiet pace. This isn't like a regular old military move, when I pack my life up with my family in one place, and open it up again somewhere else with someone to supervise every step to make my life easier. This time, it was just me, with nobody to bail me out of tough times; building things for myself which I now have to take apart and kick elsewhere for the time being. I do know there's a good future ahead of me though, but as with life sometimes it is far easier to concentrate on everything that's disintegrating, rather than coming together.
But things will come together again. Yesterday, I found out I had been offered the summer job I really wanted. Fingers crossed, I will be going to the University of Glasgow in September. For every damn good door that closes, another one opens, and until then I'll just have to be patient.
Yet there's no denying the bitter truth; this will be a door I'm sad to close.
So this is it! I'm finally writing the blog that documents "The end".
...not of my life, but certainly my college/boarding life, the one I built up and made all by myself nearly two years ago. As I type this I'm lying in the same bed I anxiously tossed and turned in the night before I left; the same one I would cry in because I didn't want to go back and felt I had made the wrong decision; and the now the one I'm going to be sleeping in a lot more, because this time is nearly over. And frankly, I am gutted.
A year ago, I couldn't have been more keen to get the ball rolling, wrap up my exams and return to Germany. A2? Pffft, get it over with - that was my mind set. But after an unexpectedly amazing second year, it's almost completely over with and I feel a little bit lost. It was such a life changing, character building thing, to leave home a bit earlier than usual and enter a period of almost-sort-of-independence and make some of the best friends I could have wished for and study subjects that challenged and stretched me. I am returning to a place that I love, but will never quite fit in to like I did before the Peter Symonds era began. There is a definite sense of being in limbo here, with no real direction for me to take off in.
There's the friends I have made in boarding, who I consider more like family these days. These are the hip cats who have felt every trip, witnessed every bad moment and have been brave enough to face me in my most ferocious, hormonally-charged fits of rage (you can't hide anything when you do 'communal living'). These are the friends you'll make in life who have seen every little twisted and messy part of your personality, but love you anyway. But it's these people who I have the most amazing memories with: warm ciders in fields became cocktails in bars so quickly, and it's hard to believe that soon I won't wake up and see any of their faces first thing ever again. If any of you are reading: yes, you, you're a beautiful, crazy bastard and I bloody love you.
There's Alex, my lovely boyfriend who I will amicably part ways with in less than 3 weeks. Here's the thing; this isn't my first relationship, but it is the one in which I really grew to understood the cliché of there being a 'thin line between love and hate'. There have been times when I've just beamed at him and thought "I am dead lucky to have you", and times when I've bitterly glared and thought "I would so much more lucky if you were dead" in equal measure. But the really good, positive feelings always outweighed the despairing ones for both of us, and that's why it's worked for so long. It's a bitter pill to swallow, the anticipation that it's going to end abruptly in a matter of days now; bitter in a "it's 3am and I'm awake thinking about it all" kind of way. The one great thing to remember, however, is that one day he might be the drummer in some cool band, and I will have an awesome claim to fame. Silver linings, right? He may soon be reason for the endless frowning I'm going to do for the first few weeks of the summer and become a bit of an issue for me, but he'll be the good kind of issue. The kind of issue I'll ultimately be grateful to have.
And of course, the lessons I learned along the way - not just the academic type - are ones I'm going to remember forever, which I probably wouldn't have taken on board so much if I had just stayed at home. For one, your parents are usually right and should be listened to, since believe it or not, they're genuinely motivated by love over kicks to make your life as miserable as possible. Furthermore, if you don't work to the point that at one point or another you do consider sacking it and working at ASDAs, you won't get the results. Good work doesn't appear with no work ethic and nights in with the Here Comes Honey Boo Boo over The Crucible. Also, don't wear summer dresses in the winter and think it's fine because you're wearing boots. It's not fine.
Still, I sometimes have trouble keeping my gaze firmly ahead and into the future, when everything so solid and good is crumbling away and life is set to resume a very slow, quiet pace. This isn't like a regular old military move, when I pack my life up with my family in one place, and open it up again somewhere else with someone to supervise every step to make my life easier. This time, it was just me, with nobody to bail me out of tough times; building things for myself which I now have to take apart and kick elsewhere for the time being. I do know there's a good future ahead of me though, but as with life sometimes it is far easier to concentrate on everything that's disintegrating, rather than coming together.
But things will come together again. Yesterday, I found out I had been offered the summer job I really wanted. Fingers crossed, I will be going to the University of Glasgow in September. For every damn good door that closes, another one opens, and until then I'll just have to be patient.
Yet there's no denying the bitter truth; this will be a door I'm sad to close.
Tuesday, 7 May 2013
A Less Than Titillating Problem
I have an issue. Perhaps it is not the most dire, pressing, or deserving of your valuable time. You may be in predicaments far worse than my own, and you have my sympathies. But it is an issue that is undoubtedly close to my heart.
Quite literally - my issue is my boobs.
Indeed, it seems odd that mine are seemingly causing so much offence, to the extent I feel the need to furiously blog about them (because it's clear this blog is a platform for serious, topical issues...). At the end of the day, we all love a good rack, and mine is frankly not too bad. But sometimes, the "cushions of love" are more like "the furniture of fun-hoovering", particularly if they're attached to me.
For want of a statement a little less dramatic, THEY ARE RUINING MY SELF PERCEPTION.
They are. It is making me tired, bloggees. Tired of going into a clothes shop and finding a dress in my size that I seriously suspect would make me look a little bit like Mila Kunis from a distance, trying it on in the changing rooms, then weeping in despair because it won't fit over my boobs. I am not a big girl. I do not want to feel like I am. I cannot afford tailoring. I rely on these shops for their affordability and accessibility, and if they can't offer clothes to flatter my shape, what else will?
Truthfully, this isn't a blog purely about the humble tatty-bo; it's about the high street. Sure, it is commendable that many high street shops are starting to stock clothes for the larger and petite lady. Less of us feel marginalised, and that's actually wonderful. But I don't feel wonderful when I have to summon a feeble looking shop assistant to physically pull me out of a dress that my boobs have trapped me in.
Oh yeah, that happened. TODAY.
I know what some of you might be thinking - complaining about having a pair is selfish, or ungrateful somehow. On the contrary; thank God I have them. I love mine dearly - they're womanly, fill out a bra nicely and double up as excellent cushions on long train journeys. But they become a problem when I can't find clothes in my size that also accommodate them. Why should I buy a larger size that still won't fit? How is that okay?
If we're entering a new generation that celebrates women of all shapes and sizes, I would like to be a part of this. Anonymous Clothing Bigwig, if for some reason you're exploring the Bloggersphere and find this - help a sister out, and sort it out. I would not like to be left out of wearing pretty clothes I feel good in because of the very curves that we are supposedly embracing in the first place.
Quite literally - my issue is my boobs.
 |
| It's alright for some. |
Indeed, it seems odd that mine are seemingly causing so much offence, to the extent I feel the need to furiously blog about them (because it's clear this blog is a platform for serious, topical issues...). At the end of the day, we all love a good rack, and mine is frankly not too bad. But sometimes, the "cushions of love" are more like "the furniture of fun-hoovering", particularly if they're attached to me.
For want of a statement a little less dramatic, THEY ARE RUINING MY SELF PERCEPTION.
They are. It is making me tired, bloggees. Tired of going into a clothes shop and finding a dress in my size that I seriously suspect would make me look a little bit like Mila Kunis from a distance, trying it on in the changing rooms, then weeping in despair because it won't fit over my boobs. I am not a big girl. I do not want to feel like I am. I cannot afford tailoring. I rely on these shops for their affordability and accessibility, and if they can't offer clothes to flatter my shape, what else will?
Truthfully, this isn't a blog purely about the humble tatty-bo; it's about the high street. Sure, it is commendable that many high street shops are starting to stock clothes for the larger and petite lady. Less of us feel marginalised, and that's actually wonderful. But I don't feel wonderful when I have to summon a feeble looking shop assistant to physically pull me out of a dress that my boobs have trapped me in.
Oh yeah, that happened. TODAY.
I know what some of you might be thinking - complaining about having a pair is selfish, or ungrateful somehow. On the contrary; thank God I have them. I love mine dearly - they're womanly, fill out a bra nicely and double up as excellent cushions on long train journeys. But they become a problem when I can't find clothes in my size that also accommodate them. Why should I buy a larger size that still won't fit? How is that okay?
If we're entering a new generation that celebrates women of all shapes and sizes, I would like to be a part of this. Anonymous Clothing Bigwig, if for some reason you're exploring the Bloggersphere and find this - help a sister out, and sort it out. I would not like to be left out of wearing pretty clothes I feel good in because of the very curves that we are supposedly embracing in the first place.
Tuesday, 19 March 2013
A Letter To My High School Self
Dear High School Floraidh,
Oh, I know...that bastard. No big speech, no talk of you growing up so quickly, no "just be yourself". That bastard - dad, more specifically - has abandoned you at the school gates on my first day of secondary school, because he soooooo desperately needs the loo. He could not even walk you in the doors, so urgent was this need to pee. The emptying of his bladder was more desperate than what seems to be the singularly most important day of your life so far. You've left Germany behind, still filled with sadness and longing for the memories you wish to relive every single day, and you're in a town nobody seems to have heard of, on your first day of An Actual British Secondary School. You don't know what to do. You are alone.
Standing there, you attempt to look windswept and interesting with your shiny new rucksack and the trendiest school shoes you could find ("Shopping for school stuff in the UK is so much easier than back in Germany, isn't it?"), and simply wait. You're waiting for somebody to talk to you, but they never arrive. The bell rings, and you walk into the first door you can spot, still clinging on to the hope that someone to take you to one side and ask where the hell you've came from and would you like to be their best best best friend, you fascinating creature. Oddly, nobody does.
Nobody does for a long time, actually.
But it's fine. You have books, and My Chemical Romance. There are people like you out there - you know it, you've seen them on the internet - but they're just not at this school. But it doesn't solve the problem that you're lonely, and it's getting harder to stay optimistic about making a friend at school who doesn't think you're a Nazi, or wants you to talk German. The feeling of euphoria before a new day vanished, and becomes replaced with fear and dread. You tried to get away when you applied to a boarding school in Scotland. They didn't want you, and it breaks your heart. You feel like you're stuck in this little town with little minded people where you are just...invisible.
But somebody up there - no, not the sheer power of Gerard Way - is on your side. A group of nice girls reel you into their circle, and things look up so much for you. You suddenly have friends, who really do care. Things are good again, and you stop listening to "Helena" so frequently. You mopey, stiff-lipped thing - your issue was your defeatist attitude; you were so young, and far too bleak. You might have been lonely but there were more options you could have taken. Whilst you'll always remember having to eat alone at lunch times and the endless silent weeping in lessons, here is the first lesson Wiser Floraidh wishes to give: always be proactive, not reactive. Don't wish for change, bring it about yourself.
Be assured that dad won't ever forget about leaving you at the school gates that day. He tries to laugh it off and makes it sound like some kooky anecdote, but you'll know he still feels guilty, and this is going to comfort you somewhat. Also, dying your hair black would have been RIDICULOUS. Who do you think you are? Amy Lee? Siouxsie Soux? Floraidh, you're not that girl, you know it. It's okay. To mum's relief, you do grow out of your emo phase. For a while, you'll contemplate becoming a goth, because it's a bit more dark and complex, but you reckon your hair isn't right for that either. Second lesson: you do not have to emulate the shit on the internet. Be yourself - that is the best and most honest representation you can offer the world.
One day, in Year 9, mum tells you something you're not supposed to know, but she's going to tell you anyway. She tells you that there's a chance - a slim chance, one that could maybe be swiped away at any minute - that dad could be posted back to Germany. You talk about it every single day for three weeks, and three months later, you're there.
Check you out, having fun! The next 2 years really are fantastically kind to you. A lot of your old friends are still in Germany, including one, who you really do think is one of the most fantastic people you know - your paths will cross, and end, and you'll get lost on that particular path a few times, I'll tell you that. But he's going to be one of the most important people you'll ever meet. You will still trust him years later and seek him out for any advice - no matter how trivial - even when you start to disengage with others you once held close. That's the metanarrative of the military lifestyle; you will eventually have to deal with being left behind, and leaving people behind. Lesson three: recognize who these people are.
It was a funny old time really, wasn't it? Secondary school. It really did start awfully, but ended on such a high. At the time, you really do think you're the dog's bollocks. You think the weight of the world is on your shoulders with all your silly boy troubles, petty friendship squabbles and your so-called "life determining" GCSE exams. None of these things, ultimately, matter at all, and you didn't realize it at the time. Younger Floraidh, I really do wish I could reach into the past and shake you sometimes; you had such a habit of focusing on what was going wrong, instead of what was going right. At times you couldn't see the beauty in doors closing, in order for others to open; sure, some dude doesn't like you and likes another girl. So what? There are plenty of guys out there. Lesson Four: know what matters really deserve your time and attention. (like your GCSEs, which you maybe could pay more attention to...)
Here is the best lesson of all, I think: have fun. Think nothing of the future, nor the past, and make the most of every minute. You will grow to treasure those times so much. One last reminder - seriously, what are you thinking? Black hair would be just....awful. Disastrous. You're the shade of milk, you silly cow.
All the best,
Bona fide college student Floraidh - still making mistakes, saying silly things and overthinking, but a lot wiser and cooler than I ever was in high school. xxx
Monday, 11 February 2013
The Perpetual Case Of The Uglies
I am about to rummage into my messy guts and reveal a slice of myself that I really, really don't like. It's a very boring slice. If I'm really going to break down barriers between us, I'll confess that this notion occupies at least 65% of my waking thoughts, and is slowly driving me in an unpleasant car over the edge and into the cliffs of madness. Ready for this?
I AM OBSESSED WITH HOW I LOOK.
I wear so much make up, I spend so much time on my hair, I want to wear nice outfits and look the best I possibly can every day so I feel better. Before I "prep" myself each day, I literally gaze into the mirror and go on a dreadful misery-go-round "eyelashes too small lips too big horrible chin no cheekbones hair won't curl properly and don't even START on my nose". Once I've worked the mascara wand, slicked on some lippy and curled my hair, I don't feel so bad. But when that hasn't happened, I can feel quite...well, yes, ugly, and that I am failing my only ever test in life. "NOOOOBOODY THINKS I'M HOT!" my brain cries like a pathetic, whiney gerbil. "And anybody who dates me will always wish they'd stuck around for a hot young minx from a lingerie ad instead of me, a hideous sea monster!" Oh yes. A tragic thought indeed.
Y'know what? I get that this isn't cool, really. As far as life tests go, being considered a "hot young minx" is the least important one I will ever face. In fact, I recall my mum once saying to me after days of self-indulgent whining "You've got a good life if all you have to worry about is how you look compared to other girls!" and of COURSE she is right, she is totally right! There are times when you get so caught up in measuring the exact length and width of your nostrils, you forget about the poor souls on earth who actually had their noses bitten off my chimps. You forget that worrying about your looks is a terrible waste of time and usage of brain space. In reality, I know that if my nose were actually smaller, my life would not improve drastically and suddenly I would be the object of envy for girls and lust for guys - I would have lost a potential weapon and an incredible sense of smell.
This isn't natural - whilst I firmly believe everyone suffer from it to an extent, my case feels extreme at times. I felt like this was a topic completely worthy of a blog, and with no pretences or sugar coats either. I read a lot of articles on self-esteem, and it grinds my gears when none of them tell the damn truth or give advice that doesn't make your eyes roll. None of them disclose the exact details of how crushing but utterly ridiculous this obsession with looks is. It is not just me who puts their self through a ridiculous regime each day just to feel less unsightly compared to other girls, to secure that their boyfriend still finds them attractive, to make their parents think they've not done too badly, even.
I want to see somebody openly confess that they spend a disproportionate amount of time trying to "fix" all that they see is "broken" in the mirror; to admit that they spend an unhealthy and inappropriate amount of time being worried about my looks, what the shite is up with that?!
So hey, I am obsessed with my looks and I do and buy some ridiculous things to try and improve them. It is not right. I should know better. I need to step back from the make up bag and get some perspective.
Dear self: read a book, watch a film, remember what it's all about.
I AM OBSESSED WITH HOW I LOOK.
I wear so much make up, I spend so much time on my hair, I want to wear nice outfits and look the best I possibly can every day so I feel better. Before I "prep" myself each day, I literally gaze into the mirror and go on a dreadful misery-go-round "eyelashes too small lips too big horrible chin no cheekbones hair won't curl properly and don't even START on my nose". Once I've worked the mascara wand, slicked on some lippy and curled my hair, I don't feel so bad. But when that hasn't happened, I can feel quite...well, yes, ugly, and that I am failing my only ever test in life. "NOOOOBOODY THINKS I'M HOT!" my brain cries like a pathetic, whiney gerbil. "And anybody who dates me will always wish they'd stuck around for a hot young minx from a lingerie ad instead of me, a hideous sea monster!" Oh yes. A tragic thought indeed.
Y'know what? I get that this isn't cool, really. As far as life tests go, being considered a "hot young minx" is the least important one I will ever face. In fact, I recall my mum once saying to me after days of self-indulgent whining "You've got a good life if all you have to worry about is how you look compared to other girls!" and of COURSE she is right, she is totally right! There are times when you get so caught up in measuring the exact length and width of your nostrils, you forget about the poor souls on earth who actually had their noses bitten off my chimps. You forget that worrying about your looks is a terrible waste of time and usage of brain space. In reality, I know that if my nose were actually smaller, my life would not improve drastically and suddenly I would be the object of envy for girls and lust for guys - I would have lost a potential weapon and an incredible sense of smell.
This isn't natural - whilst I firmly believe everyone suffer from it to an extent, my case feels extreme at times. I felt like this was a topic completely worthy of a blog, and with no pretences or sugar coats either. I read a lot of articles on self-esteem, and it grinds my gears when none of them tell the damn truth or give advice that doesn't make your eyes roll. None of them disclose the exact details of how crushing but utterly ridiculous this obsession with looks is. It is not just me who puts their self through a ridiculous regime each day just to feel less unsightly compared to other girls, to secure that their boyfriend still finds them attractive, to make their parents think they've not done too badly, even.
I want to see somebody openly confess that they spend a disproportionate amount of time trying to "fix" all that they see is "broken" in the mirror; to admit that they spend an unhealthy and inappropriate amount of time being worried about my looks, what the shite is up with that?!
So hey, I am obsessed with my looks and I do and buy some ridiculous things to try and improve them. It is not right. I should know better. I need to step back from the make up bag and get some perspective.
Dear self: read a book, watch a film, remember what it's all about.
Saturday, 2 February 2013
The Perks Of Dating A Fruitcake
By any means - as my boyfriend will tell you - I am not exactly the "perfect catch". My ability to misinterpret the smallest or most meaningless of actions is perfected to a fine art, I'm less than impressed by any kind of beard and it really can be my way or the highway. He is almost definitely nodding his head as he reads this. But come on, there have to be some pros of dating me? Surely?
The thought struck me recently when one evening in my sad virtual life, I noticed the "Perks Of Dating Me" trend on Twitter. Scrolling through people's Tweets, I found some responses that made me chuckle, and others that made me feel...well, almost bad for the person writing them. The prime example was "I'm pretty ugly so you will always look good next to me!". Now, I'm sure in some instances this does apply; as a self-confessed beauty product addict and relentless unpractical dresser, to take away the little mask hiding reality sometimes does have "oooer" sort of results. But y'know what? I think that's part of what relationships are about; your beau being able to see you when you look like an elbow, and you not being all that embarrassed about it.
Anyway - not really what this post is about. The point is that whilst I can seriously suck at the glaringly obvious parts of a relationship, I think I make up for it in other less conventional ways.
.....
Yikeeees - maybe the less said about the disadvantages the better.
The thought struck me recently when one evening in my sad virtual life, I noticed the "Perks Of Dating Me" trend on Twitter. Scrolling through people's Tweets, I found some responses that made me chuckle, and others that made me feel...well, almost bad for the person writing them. The prime example was "I'm pretty ugly so you will always look good next to me!". Now, I'm sure in some instances this does apply; as a self-confessed beauty product addict and relentless unpractical dresser, to take away the little mask hiding reality sometimes does have "oooer" sort of results. But y'know what? I think that's part of what relationships are about; your beau being able to see you when you look like an elbow, and you not being all that embarrassed about it.
 |
| Hmm... |
Anyway - not really what this post is about. The point is that whilst I can seriously suck at the glaringly obvious parts of a relationship, I think I make up for it in other less conventional ways.
- My party trick is that I can touch my nose with my tongue. Do you know how many people on earth can do that?! Seriously. The door to infinite possibilities swings open.
- Excluding Singstar and Eye Toy (which apparently - and it's a slap in the face every time it's said to me - don't even count as "proper games"), I really do suck at gaming. I have difficult enough time translating my tumultuous array of thoughts to a keyboard a lot of the time! But I will gladly provide commentary for yours.
- I am a cheap date and will never sweet talk you into taking me somewhere fancy; saying No to Nobu and yes to "let's eat & underdress". So hey, I'm down for a gleeful, hand-in-hand stroll to McDonalds if you are. The power of the Sweet Talk, in my eyes, has only been harnessed to charm our loved ones into buying us McFlurries and ginger biscuits.
 |
| You're just too good to be true...can't take my eyyyyees off of youuuuuu |
- Spiders? Fine, cool. Snakes? It's cool, I'm unlikely to bump into one. Heights? Meh. As far as stereotypical worries go, I'm relatively fearless. However, my traces of tension derive from the far more trivial; loud noises make me jump, flying puts me on edge, and I'm not too big on cats either. The perk of having such a wet blanket of a girlfriend is that I will make you feel manly in comparison.
- In the spirit of being a peaceful panda, I will never complain about what film we watch.
- Whilst almost every other aspect of my personality indicates that I am well and truly a girl's girl, the one trait that lets me down is that I am fascinated by burping. I am TRAGIC for a good burp. If you proclaim in true boyish fashion that you wish to burp the alphabet, I will not scold you, nor will I tell you that you're gross and that's no rightful behaviour around your girlfriend. I will encourage you, always.
.....
Yikeeees - maybe the less said about the disadvantages the better.
 |
| Hm...erm, well. Touchy subject, that. |
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