In Defence of Selfies: It's YOUR Face

My friend has a theory. It might not be backed up by scientific evidence, nor has she phrased it very articulately, but judging by the pained expression she's pulling, she's pretty serious about it anyway.

"Selfies.." she begins a tone that warns there is no room for debate. "Selfies are for losers. Like, I don't understand. Why would you want to have a picture of yourself clearly not having a life? It's just so 'Year 9'"

As a self confessed selfie fan, her theory unhinges me somewhat. Sitting meekly with a head full of counter arguments but no guts to voice them aloud, I ponder my own current Facebook profile picture - a selfie. The self conscious pre-teen voice that lay dormant within me suddenly jerks back to life with a fretting monologue; is that...a universal thought? I worry. Or is it just her? Oh god, I don't know. But the thing is, my hair is pink and my lashes look long and my lips are the good shade of red and for a change - for a really pleasant, welcome change - I quite like how I look in that picture.

This is said selfie. I was a nerdy Nicki Minaj. Now I'm just nerdy again..

Looking back now - hundreds upon hundreds of selfies later - I realise that's actually the whole point; you should like how you look in pictures. You should at least try to. Whether that picture was taken with your webcam at home because your hair looked alright or when you were riding that elephant in a bikini with your mate in Thailand, if that's the little snapshot of you that you wish to present to the world then crack on. It's your face.

But you might not have the most straightforward of relationships with that face. It could be a tumultuous one; a love affair one day, then hitting a rocky patch the next and wanting to cover it up with a balaclava, for the rest of your natural life if possible. You might not have the kind of face that cameras love, and your goddamn friends always seems to capture you at your worst angles - double chin and all.

Now here, here is where the true beauty of the selfie lies.

With a selfie, you are in control. You can actually determine if your Facebook friends can see that double chin or not! Your hair can be perfectly coiffed; makeup tastefully applied; skin glowing; your best angle captured and projected for the world to see. Surely, this is empowering. I know when I take a successful selfie where my double chin is artfully concealed and my generously sized nose is less obvious, I get a little self confidence boost. They don't come around very often, so why should I be made to feel bad for them?

Plus, consider your surroundings. In day to day life, images of supposed "perfection" are thrust at you from all angles regardless of if you've got the strength to shrug them off or not. Achingly beautiful women and men with looks that could stop traffic modelling clothes on shop windows; club promoters so effortlessly stunning it feels as though the effort you've made for the night wasn't worth much, after all; actors and actresses on movie posters outside of the cinema - again, with head turning, heart racing looks that are difficult to ignore. Why shouldn't you try and do what you can to fit that bill sometimes if it gives your self esteem the little raise it needs?

Today, Glasgow - my current "home" - was ranked 37th for cities in the whole world with the most selfies taken. After initial concern that I accounted for at least half of them, I realised just how strangely brilliant this news was. Perhaps the beauty of trying to find your own beauty via a selfie is not just passed off as exclusively for "losers" after all. I'm so glad of it. Because in that smile or pout towards your phone camera is an attempt to love yourself, and as somebody who continues to fight in an eternal struggle to do exactly that, I could not encourage selfies any more.

 

 

I Am A Chubby, Irritable Seal

Every four weeks or so, I become a bit furious. As my skin gains a few more spots, foundation stops being a "once-in-a-while" thing and becomes an "absolute necessity or you'll frighten the infants of Glasgow". I pack make up wipes in my hand bag, in case I see something vaguely poignant and burst into bitter, inexplicable tears. Showering twice a day is acceptable, to get rid of the floods of grease woven through my hair. I make open, frequent noises of exasperation to the general public - tuts and sighs, mostly. My jeans become a bit tighter. I frown a lot.

Have you figured it out yet?

Yes, these are all signifiers of mother nature's monthly "gift", though answers on a postcard as to who came up with that metaphor - "gift" infers something pleasant and unexpected, but a period is highly unpleasant and anticipated with nothing but contempt. Sure, I'm not pregnant and I'm pretty pleased about it, but I do now deserve these five days of hell?!

How I currently look and feel.

Now, I'm not usually one to moan about being a girl. Regrettably, I can only empty my bladder sitting down and do occasionally wonder what the magical peeing mobility men have is like...but aside from that, the "being female" experience gets a big thumbs UP from me. I love to perpetuate what is my own personal definition of femininity and I love to celebrate other women's, too; but dude, I really, really don't love periods.

For a start, I don't love unreasonably intensified emotions; I'm impartial to a good weep every now and then, but crying at the mere sight of baby's smile, a particularly unforgiving hangover or a friend's mildly inspiring story of buying a top she quite liked in Topshop is just a waste of precious mascara. Not to mention the anger; suddenly when your hormones are heightened, so is your ability to rage at absolutely anything. Even the most mild mannered and pleasant of women can experience these tinges of wild, unjustified wrath. I would say I've been properly, fist-shaking angry at least three times today. Why? I don't want to tell you. Because my reasons are absurd.

When asked how a period physically feels, my friend Becca sombrely replied with "death". Since I've never, y'know, died, I can't confirm if that's a fair judgement, but I can admit that the pain is pretty dire. Period pain is not just the occasional twinge in your stomach. It is not something that can be easily cured with your mother's old remedy of "rubbing your tummy and having a poo"; it is a sharp, constant ache in your abdomen that can make any movement painful. That said, some women claim to never experience period pain as they "exercise regularly" - you should wave your fist at those women on their healthy high horse, all the way from your sweaty pit of a bed.

Furthermore, periods do not make your hair shine, nails stronger and skin glow like a lighthouse. They do the complete opposite. Obviously I can't speak on the science behind it all, but around this time of the month is when your skin becomes prone to spots the size of Ben Nevis popping up all over your face. As mentioned before, grease also appears in your hair. For me though, the worst part is becoming bloated around the face and belly due to water retention (or something?? Not sure?), which makes it incredibly hard to have any kind of body confidence - already quite a hard thing to achieve even in the slimmer times of the month. Currently, if you lightly slap my belly, it will jiggle around a bit for around a good second and a half, which does not ordinarily happen. I'm quite pissed off about it.

Fortunately, there's a major catch in what I've just described for the menfolk of the universe: you are gleefully free from it all! As well as being able to pee where ever you like (amazing! AMAZING!!) you are more or less consistently of the same mind frame, which must make it difficult to understand life with oestrogen, extraordinarily priced tampons and walking around with a towel between your legs.

Sere are some wise tips from me - a mere, incredibly hormonal woman; boys, tread carefully, even when she's being irrational. Love patiently, even though she's pretty hard to love when she's throwing the TV remote at you. Compliment generously, though actually, her bum does look a bit big in that. She might not be great right now, but it's a biological thing; and like Marilyn said, if you can't handle her at her worst, then you don't deserve her when she's back at her bloody fabulous best when this month's episode is all over.

"When You Don't Love University" - Eleven Days Later

By and large, the response to my blog "When You Don't Love University" gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling, like weeing in the bath.

It was the first blog I've ever posted that's got over 1000 views! I could take this as ya'll enjoying my troubles or people genuinely relating to it. Thirty two messages later and I'm glad to be fairly sure it's the latter.

My initial fear to even publish the post was eclipsed by the array of emotions that followed once I plucked up the courage to put it out there - both the good and bad. My little heart was warmed by the amount of people saying they had enjoyed reading it, and even that I was "brave" to post it (I am as meek as a Chihuahua at a Lamb of God gig in most wakes of life so this was a very, very big deal for me). If you were one of those people to reach out and respond to my words: thank you. You played an instrumental role in restoring my faith and hope...and I fear that's more than an attempt at being deep. You night have ruined my mascara that day but for the first time ever, I am so glad that you did. I don't even want to punch you for it.

However, whilst I was partially pleased that it wasn't just me who had been figuratively shat on by their expectations, another part was appalled. It was heart breaking to hear that so many people had felt the same way but hadn't told a soul, letting their problems boil up inside of them like some kettle of doom (?). It's almost unnerving how you can never really assume who suffers in silence. To be honest, I would never have expected some of the people I received emails from to do so. Another reminder that we all have our little struggles despite appearances - the real reason we should endeavour to be pleasant and warm towards everybody, I think.

If you are one of those people - or indeed you felt similarly but didn't email me, in which case, why the hell not? Come on, if you read my blog then we're automatically homies - what I'm about to urge you, I want you to hear me loud and clear. Don't hear it as a cliché that's easy for me to say, hard for you to act on - I probably know that better than you do.

TALK TO SOMEBODY. DO YOURSELF A HUGE FAVOUR AND TALK TO SOMEBODY.  Do not sit and wallow behind a computer screen, writing melancholy poetry on Tumblr, listening to Scar Tissue far more than a person should in one day. Your problems won't disappear. I know that, too.

Look - famously, I am a big wimp about roughly 75% of my life and if I can face my problems head on, you probably can too. So talk. Talk to your parents, your friends - the ones who won't start telling you how great their life is after you've spilled your emotional guts, lord I know they have the audacity to do that. If you want a non-judgemental ear who really knows their stuff, seek out your university counselling service. Ignore any stigmas of seeing a professional to help you make sense of things; Lily bloody Allen once admitted she's worked with a therapist. And she's a proper ballsy chick.

You could even write about it. That's when it clicked for me. (although be a pal and don't start a blog, eh? I don't wanna compete for who has the better blog, because in my head, that's what it'll somehow morph into. I really don't wanna do that)

When You Don't Love University: A "Big Big Big" Deal

Today, I'm going to write about something that I've been avoiding writing for a long time.

I've known it would be good to write about, because it might help others who are also quietly in this predicament feel less alone. But it has taken a long time for me to accept that this was the predicament I have inadvertently landed in.

Today, I'm going to change that.

The predicament I wish to talk about is something I've been made to feel ashamed is happening, as it goes against the societal grain. This predicament is simple: university has not been the most fantastic, exhilarating, life-changing experience I was promised it would be.

That isn't to say that it hasn't been any of those things at all. I'm fully aware that people will read this and be like "pah, gutted! I'm having the time of my life. University for me has been PERFECT, soz for your woes Flo" and yes - I have had some brilliant times here, my English Lit course caters brilliantly to my needs and as indicated by my blog about the city, I remain to be besotted with Glasgow itself. However, it hasn't been all smooth sailing for me.

To start from the beginning, my flat mates and I are not the best buddies I was guaranteed they would be - our relationship is by and large a 'working' one. You are generally told that your flatmates will be your first guaranteed circle of pals, but this just wasn't the case for us. I was placed in private halls which - truthfully - I haven't found to be particularly friendly, in comparison to the other halls actually owned by the University of Glasgow. But with the building I live in being the first port of call and that letting me down, it's been challenging to throw myself into socializing elsewhere. Usually alone.

A few months on and everybody seems to have found their niche and I am usually found floating in between them, never particularly fixed to one group. I am not exactly companionless and there is always somebody to go out with, but to feel like you don't fully belong anywhere with anybody pushed me to a real low ebb.

By the end of the first semester, my willing myself to believe that everything was fine, great, amazing had disappeared. I couldn't go even for a few hours without crying over the smallest things. Though I'm well aware that it isn't REALLY the biggest issue in the world, I remember when I discovered that a flat mate had eaten an entire packet of my bacon - I cried for around 3 hours and felt awful for having to ring my mum for her to bring me to my senses. Most days, I could hardly bring myself to get out of bed - I couldn't see a reason to. The worst part was that I felt like I did not have somebody at my university close enough for me to really confide in them without them judging me, or even becoming offended. Looking back on it, I probably was a bit depressed.

It is the beginning of semester 2 now and I just can't go back to that. That wasn't very Flo of me, y'know.

There is a lot of stigma attached to those who don't absolutely love university - what with the "best years of your life!" line thrown at you by every elder you come across. This is why it took a lot of soul searching and "come on Flo, don't be a dick" for me to finally write and publish this. I like to think that maybe I'm not the only one with this little speed bump, and hopefully others might read it and feel less alone.

Finally, it can feel like a long, bastard wait for somebody to reach out to me, but the assertive military child in me isn't quite ready to sit back and accept that as my fate. If there isn't anybody to reach out, I have to get there first. Generally in life, I am an optimist and I always, always hope for good things, even when it feels like this hope is slipping away more quickly than I could ever grab it back.

'If clouds are blocking the sun, there will always be a silver lining that reminds me to keep on trying.'

Life in Glasgow: Forget What You Heard

"TRAINSPOTTING IS F*CKING SET IN F*CKING EDINBURGH!!!! NOT GLASGOW!! JESUS CHRIST!!!!! WHY SAY THAT?!" I screamed at my understandably alarmed work colleague - and not for the first time, either.

It was the end of the summer, and I'd achieved the results I needed to go to the University of Glasgow. I was ecstatic and just couldn't stop casually dropping it into the conversation, like everybody else who had just got into their first choice university, I'm sure. However, not everybody was so quick to reciprocate my joy. There were many raised eyebrows and shifty looks, with tones in voices changing from gleeful to a bit concerned in a second. Every single time this happened, it would feel like my achievement was undermined, somehow, and suddenly my going to an excellent university wasn't that important. Which - if you're wondering - feels like somebody's just taken a dump on all of your aspirations.

Having now lived there for 4 months, I can confirm that Glasgow has the perks and downfalls of every other UK city. It has terrible areas that I know nothing but their reputation and I don't want to know any more. People who pace the streets with knives...errr, aren't always necessarily going to be chefs. Drunkenly stumbling out of a club on Sauchiehall St and loitering around in a mini skirt probably isn't going to attract a friendly passing gentleman. The risks of walking around alone at night are high and you'd be out of your mind to do so. I can't just leave my bag somewhere and assume it'll be there when I get back. Not everyone's gonna help me out.

But come on - these are not features typical of only Glasgow itself. These are the unfortunate but natural dangers of any big city, and it's frankly ridiculous to think otherwise, especially if you make these assumptions without having visited the city. But as the locals would say, keep yir wits aboot ye and you can't go far wrong. Also, surely, if you've proved your intellectual worth by getting into a top Russell Group university, you would know  all ofthis anyway.

I'm yet to speak to another first year who hasn't gone a bit mental for Glasgow, voted the European Capital of Culture in 1990. There's a lot to go mental for; the West End with its gorgeous boutique bars and cafes, the complete buzz that comes from getting the actual subway (!), the picturesque green scenery of Kelvingrove Park that many would think could never exist within a city, the way you could go for weeks and never need to go to the same club twice. The locals have been nothing but friendly and helpful in my days of being a Poor Little Lost Fresher; countless times have I had to stop a passing stranger to ask for directions and each time they've stayed until I was completely sure of where I was going, even whipping out an iPhone to physically show me on the map in one instance. Plus, whilst being the best shopping destination outside of London probably isn't ideal for the ever-dwindling student loans, nobody seems to be complaining about it.

Coming to Glasgow remains to be the best decision I've ever made, even when the deadlines are piled on top of me like an especially stressful game of Jenga and with the occasional craving for a bit of countryside air. But long before the UCAS process had even began, I knew I had to move to a city. I didn't want another little 'bubble' or a small community where people knew me and I would never have anywhere to hide. I didn't want to ever feel like I had explored everything there is to explore. The anonymity and excitement that city life guaranteed was what I desperately craved and every day I'm glad I chose Glasgow to finally experience that.

"Besotted" doesn't come close to how I feel about Glasgow and I'll still be acting like a tourist and chirping about how my uni looks like Hogwarts until long after I graduate.



George Square, central Glasgow

Hogwarts/University of Glasgow, West End

Merchant City, central Glasgow

Ashton Lane, West End

Buchanan St, central Glasgow

In Defence of: New Year's Resolutions

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.

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:



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.