Wet for Dry Jan

It’s nearly Valentines Day and yet here I am, wishing my Boo-zy and Booze-free Readers a Happy New Year!

This is my first post of 2019 and we are hanging out without the hangover, riding those waves without the whiskey; reading that prose without the rosé. (Well, you might be, I’m not).

2019 has thrown her head back, gripped those sheets and squeezed out a new me. I’m wiser. More sensible. Crispy frickin’ clean. I’ve been given the chance to redeem myself; focus on cleansing my hidden chakra. That’s right readers, you can catch me in a downward dog at 5am, snorting up dried Aloe Vera crumbs through a Tibetan windpipe and chanting to the God of Neroli.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am seriously fucking with you. But I did complete Dry January without a single drop of gin, or any other spirit for that matter.

And, as this is a space to safely air my dirty laundry, I have a confession to make.

Remember Prose for my Brothers? I wrote that while drunk. Some halfwit made a subtle yet ignorant remark in front of me and I got so fucked off I ended up dowsing my liver in the good stuff until stars sprawled out before me. I woke up in the morning with smudgey-eyed mascara, 1 half eaten chicken nugget in my bed and a decent piece of writing. I’d obviously come home and ugly-cried into my laptop, which is both moronic and embarrassing, but at least I’d processed what I needed to thanks to Gordon’s pink edition.

Ghosted. Remember that tragedy? I was nursing the hangover from hell when I wrote that. I’d been drinking Negroni the night before (the coincidental Ghoster’s drink of choice), so when I woke up feeling like my skull had been plummeted with a Turkey carcass and shaken all about, it only felt right to write about him.

I drank more in 2018 than I probably did my whole life. After my job role changed, (and I suddenly gained access to the free bar), there wasn’t much stopping me. I was like Charlie in an adult Willy Wonka’s brewery; a golden ticket with “2 for 1” stamped across the front. My social life changed. Birthdays, dinners, casual work evenings; boozy-bingey weekend antics. It got to the point where I was drinking four times a week; hangovers were treated with KFC breakfasts and clammy duvet days. I got used to feeling tired, bloated and dehydrated allll the bloody (Mary) time.

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Being with people, drunk, allowed me to feel free. Any remaining thoughts of seriousness turned to silliness, and as the night would spiral out and wind down, I would end up slurring to my friends, declaring my love for them and projecting my inner most feelings.

No fucking regrets there, either.

Towards the end of the year though. I did start to feel tired. Not the tired described above, but an on the brink of boredom tired. Bored of limiting myself to the same kind of social scenes. Bored of getting into a cab and suddenly feeling like everything was spinning, a sickness in my throat and stomach, doing everything in my power not to throw up.

I would stumble home, throw my belongings on the floor, guzzle 2 litres of water and wake up in the night desperately needing a piss. I would then just lay in bed, feeling incredibly sick and anxious, wondering if I’d ever get back to sleep again.

That’s not my idea of fun.

Now, before you make hasty assumptions and think “What a sellout, joining the Dry Jan conga line to simply go bat-shit crazy come February 1st”, you’re very mistaken. To clarify, I broke Dry Jan on February 2nd and more importantly, I needed to remember what life was like before I started drinking.

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Life before Drinking, Unhappy as Ever

I didn’t drink much during the Christmas period. I was turning down mulled wine offerings and steering clear of the Prosecco. Like I said, I was tired. Dry Jan was the perfect excuse to give myself a lengthy break. I needed it, mentally and physically, more than I’d anticipated.

During the first week of January, 3 of my closest friends came over for an evening of fun. I cooked dinner, made cocktails (mocktails for me), and pretty much watched my friends get smashed. It was fabulous. We danced, gossiped, debated; hugged, made silly voices over Snapchat filters, walked to the shop to buy wine (I was thrilled to find an alcohol-free blueberry cider), and stayed up until 4am. My friends didn’t care that I was sober, and I didn’t care that they were drunk. What I learnt? If you have a naturally annoying personality, you can adapt to annoying situations with ease.

I began to think of all the things I’d missed out on due to nursing hangovers. Afternoon walks, bike rides, coffee chats, morning yoga; DIY pamper sessions. I realised that being active is a wonderful way to release endorphins whilst keeping fit, something I’d thoroughly neglected, especially over weekends. I found myself cooking more, reading more; calling my friends rather than texting. I was reclaiming balance, which for me, is invaluable.

 

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One thing I really struggled with being constantly sober, was dealing with the heaviness of life. Things in my personal life were truly weighing me down. I started to focus on all the things I couldn’t fix; things out of my control. Specific incidents were pulling me into emotional turmoil and for the first time, I didn’t have the crutch of alcohol to lean on. I couldn’t drink a bottle of wine to forget the pain and spend the rest of my weekend in bed. I had to face things. I had to accept that life is hard: nobody and nothing can save us, but ourselves.

I began to meditate, I returned to my roots of journaling and every thought and feeling was transferred on to paper.

I was experiencing life, sober.

 

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During my last week of Dry January, I went out for a team dinner. A few of my coworkers said “You’re almost there now – you may as well have one”. But I declined. I drank virgin Pina coladas and watched my team dance and smash plates (in fairness, we were at a Greek restaurant).

After the meal, I desperately wanted to go home. I was tired and full, it had been a long day. Still, my coworkers went on to a bar and somehow convinced me to join them.

And then the unexpected happened.

Whilst the majority of my peers drank and let go, I sat in the corner with another coworker, and we spoke about our feelings. It was the type of conversation you would only have with a colleague when drunk. We talked of our lives, the highs and lows, and consciously lowered our guards.

This moment, for me, will forever be marked as mind-blowing. Why? Because for years I’d believed the enabling of profound, meaningful moments with “strangers” were based on the consumption of alcohol. Turns out humans who want to connect will find a way to do so, without any form of substance.

For me, that’s a really important thing to remember.

We don’t need alcohol to act our inner most desires; to dance, play, talk, kiss, fuck, laugh; cry – everything we wish to do is inside of us, sometimes we simply lack courage.

When I broke my Dry Jan on the 2nd Feb I did it right: with pink gin and vodka shots.I was surrounded by friends, some old, some new, and didn’t feel like I was lacking any sort of control.

 

 

During my cab journey home I sipped water from a plastic cup and watched West London’s glittering skyline from the back of an Uber. The buildings were still and beautiful. Grenfell stood tall, a harrowing reminder of families lost and displaced; a negligent government with no remorse for its citizens: more vacant than the 24 storey building itself.

And then there was me, rekindling with an intense drunken feeling. A feeling I’d missed so much.

I’m not a person who *needs* to drink (quite honestly, I don’t think anyone is), because I’m already mad as a hatter. In fact, I’ve been asked whether I’m drunk or high on so many sober days I’ve lost count now. Since dry-Jan I’ve been unintentionally drinking less. I went for brunch on Sunday and rather than ordering an Aperol Spritz, I ordered a latte. Why? Because that’s what I felt like drinking. When brunch was over my friend and I went for a drink elsewhere. I ordered a ginger-stemmed Kombucha (good gut health, apparently), and my friend ordered a lemonade. We weren’t thinking about alcohol, but simply continuing the conversation.

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Waking up without a hangover is bliss, stealing a strangers spectacles and calling oneself Arthur for the night is also bliss. The physical benefits of not drinking alcohol are immense, but then, so is living on raw broccoli and cauliflower stems.

Whatever makes you happy, I guess.

People drink for different reasons and in Britain, it’s a big part of our culture. So long as we’re not drinking to cope with everyday life and neglecting/forgetting ourselves, I think that’s OK. Dry January helped me conclude that people should live as they choose: with less fear, less judgement and MORE CONVERSATIONS! If you do find yourself feeling low, reach out to a friend before the bottle. A red wine carafe is always better when shared, as is a cold jug of Vimto!

pooey

 

F*&k Me or Get Out

Hello-ho-ho Readers,

I guess the title for this post is pretty self-explanatory: another day, another terrible, terrible I-couldn’t-even-call-it-a-date.

For those thinking “oh no, not another male bashing post”, well, I’m sorry. I can’t help it that I have a vagina and put myself in situations with men who behave like morons. It’s not a reflection of all men on the planet, but it’s definitely still relevant.

If you want a post where I’m singing the praise of remarkable men, I’ll just bore you to death with tales of my older brother, who as a child danced with me to Beauty and the Beast, knowing full well he’d be forced to play Belle. Or, I could mention my good friend Arny, who when told 8 years ago that I “only” see him as a friend, accepted my feelings without pressuring, punishing or eliminating me from his life; embracing me as a person without ever crossing boundaries.

I could even write about my needed-now-more-than-ever male work allies, who’ve understood and acted on what it means to make a woman feel heard, respected and comfortable in the work place. These are the men who never speak over, dismiss or degrade their female peers by making lewd comments, sexist remarks and at worst, going as far as to cross physical boundaries and say “What? I’m only human!” Sorry to say, but spanning my twelve years of work experience I’ve only had a positive male-work experience within the last one and a half. Yikes.

So yes, I can acknowledge that wonderful men do exist, but unfortunately this post isn’t  “Chelsea’s Top 20 Favourite Men on Planet Earth”. This is “F*&k Me or Get Out”; I suggest you keep reading. 

 

After my whole “ghosted” experience, I felt less inclined to be open when chatting to guys online. It made sense to keep to the point and not invest too much in the form of selfies, lengthy texts, daily updates and so on. A friend of mine made a good point, that in this unique dating-app culture we’re in, people are lonely and happy to use a temporary “comfort blanket”. In other words, whilst swipers may be happy to share their lives for just a few days, that’s not to say the person they’re speaking with isn’t disposable; filling a hole open part-time only.

For me, this theory made sense. By the time I was ready to meet *Jimmy, I knew not whether I liked him or didn’t. I had no preformed opinion and felt neither excited or nervous. I was neutral; made less effort, ditched the curling tongs; wore a sports bra – you get the gist.

It was a good first date. Possibly the best first I’ve ever had with someone I’d met online.

We went for cocktails in Kings Cross and we had chemistry. In other words, we held a strong superficial attraction. Jimmy was really nice looking: good build, fair height, strong jawline; smelled like a field of white lilies dusted with coconut shavings and vanilla musk snowflakes – yummy. He was in no way shy and arrived to the date guns blazing: very flirty, arguably cocky and very tactile. In fact, Jimmy was the sort of man I’d kept myself away from in recent years. I knew he’d be troublesome.

And even in that knowing, I decided to ignore the signs anyway. “Treat yourself”, I thought. After a series of turbulent relationships with an aftermath of solitary confinement and holy water blessings, I decided to finally “surrender to the moment”. I sat close to Jimmy and giggled and flirted and let outsiders believe we were a honey-mooned couple: fake it ’til you make it they say. I didn’t quiz Jimmy, or share too much about myself. Instead, I let myself enjoy him in that moment, accepting it for what it was.

We spent a couple of hours sitting very closely together, having a laugh and *deep breath* kissing. There I was, the Sister Mary Clarence of the dating app world, letting. Herself. Go.

 

By the time our second came ’round, Jimmy convinced me to visit his house which was may I add, in the middle of nowhere. Now I knowww what you’re thinking – you’re thinking “whyyyy did you GO?” Well, I don’t have an answer for that. I guess I was bored, naive, curious; excited. I had no intention of sleeping with the guy; he’d offered to make me dinner (but I did wax my bikini line JUST in case).

My body, my choice, right?

Jimmy picked me up from a far out location – a station I’d never been before – on the opposite side of London. He arrived in a black, shiny BMW, wearing slippers and a tracksuit. Cool as ever. Literally.

The first thing he did to cause offense (after arriving at his three bedroom, two bathroom, semi-detached house), was ‘shush’ me during a program. After finally convincing him to play one of my favourite ever shows (Haters Back Off, Netflix), he shortly switched it off and put on First Dates (Ch4), instead.

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Now call me crazy, but I thought when you watch a film or movie at home, it isn’t a crime to speak while it’s on, especially when what you say relates to the content. During one of the scenes, where this painfully optimistic girl dips a fluffy marshmallow into a tub of hot chocolate and says”Mmmmm, SWIRL!!” before shoving it in to the mouth of a stranger, I made the mistake of saying “Wow! Don’t you think her date looks uncomfortable?!”

At this point, my own, epic fail of a date (who happened to be sitting alone on a rotating circular swivel couch), held up a finger, shushed me and said “Please don’t talk, I’m trying to watch”. I wish I’d seized the moment by grabbing a sword and bolting out the door true ninja-style but alas, I just smiled and said “you know, you could always press pause or rewind…”.

Leading up to this event, Jimmy’d actually raised other red flags. In a previous phone call, he’d said that he often stops fancying girls after seeing them naked. As a size 12, with large boobs, cellulite and stretch marks – I convinced myself that I’d misheard. Ding! Winner of the Biggest Fucking Idiot Award goes to me.

After expressing the desire to make “a fresh, light dinner”, Jimmy shoved two breaded chicken goujons in to the oven and halved a potato latke. I’m pretty low maintenance when it comes to food, but I think the romance truly ended when he muttered: “These are going off tomorrow,  I need to get rid of them”.

I cheered up a great deal after being fed. In fact, I actually felt a slight thrill being at this attractive mans house. There I was, being wined (watered) and dined by a universal mystery; Jimmy even invited me to sit with him on the swivel sofa! I accepted, and it wasn’t long before he and I were kissing again: fluffy tracksuits rubbing, sweaty palms patting. As enjoyable as our escapade was, I decided that kissing and caressing were more than enough. I straightened up, smiled and slightly moved away.

Poor, horrible Jimmy.

Have you ever seen someone stare at a moving London underground train? When their eyes dart manically from carriage to carriage? Based on what I could only perceive as a pent up simmering rage, Jimmy’s eyes started flickering across my face – no seriously, he was so enraged he couldn’t keep his eyeballs still – they were going wild with anger. It was a bit like watching a horror film actually. I wondered if he would transform from a tall, tanned “attractive” being, into a limbless, slimy amphibian.

After foaming at the mouth for what felt like two minutes, Jimmy began to spew poisonous venom:

  1. “What do you mean you’re not going to fuck me?”
  2. “I’m not going to spend time getting to know a girl who isn’t even going to be my girlfriend”.
  3. “So, what? You’d sleep with your ex-boyfriend but won’t sleep with me?” [Just to further enhance the absurdity of this comment – I’d been in a two year relationship with a person I’d known for six. This was my second ever meeting with Jimmy].
  4. “I don’t want to sleep with you anymore anyway. I’m over it. Do you see where I’m coming from? I’m so pissed off”. Aaannd my personal favourite:
  5. “You just won’t fuck me today, so you can convince your friends that you’re not a slag tomorrow”.

Suddenly the guy who wasn’t interested in saying more than five words to me had become very, very vocal. My response? “Right…this is awkward…I’m calling an Uber”.

 

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That feeling when your friends share your fire 😉

As I entered his address into the app (which I even more awkwardly had to ask for), Jimmy was frantically pacing the room with both hands on his head. I could see he wanted nothing more than for me to get the fuck out. I decided to wait outside.

I put my feet in my trainers and saw Jimmy, truly repulsed by my presence. He walked toward me like a nightclub bouncer, in a bizarre attempt to usher me out. I had no time to tie my shoelaces or pull the back over my heel, so I just shuffled out the door. When Jimmy saw my laces still untied, he snorted with gratification.

 

Jimmy then slammed the door, literally the second I stepped both feet out. I was in the middle of nowhere, pitch black and my Uber hadn’t arrived. It was all good, I was safer in the dark cold space than the evil clutches of Jimmy’s swivel couch!

I can’t lie – if this had happened to me a year ago, I would’ve been in tears; traumatized. When I called my mum on the journey home we laughed about it, I guess we too have been desensitized.

You know, in my previous post about ghosting – I questioned my level of physical openness. The guy who semi-ghosted me said he didn’t believe I was “into him” and that I was “difficult to read”. I wondered if I should have been more tactile with him on our first date. Maybe I should have subtly tapped his arm, or sat closer to him; made an excuse to feel his fabric linen.

Jimmy’s reaction was so hostile and dramatic, I began to question myself AGAIN: Should I have slept with him? Was it outrageous of me to accept dinner with no intention of actually sleeping with the culinary master-chef? Am I the one with the problem?

Lol.

Being in somebody else’s home, I realised that my body is MY home; anyone who isn’t invited is an intruder. Anyone who makes me feel unsafe gets locked out.

When I’d arrived at Jimmys house that day, he seemed agitated: he gave little eye contact; asked barely any questions. In hindsight, I think he believed his superficial attributes entitled an easy lay.

But what if I had slept with Jimmy? Succumbed to the pressure, caved in; tried to placate him in an attempt to win points – would he have chucked me out the moment we were finished? Would we have had the same ending, just with myself feeling used and humiliated?

I then wondered how many girls he’d brought back to his lair. How many girls had been chucked out the door in the cold, shoelaces scraping concrete.

When two people like each other enough and, know they like each other enough, sex is surely on the cards, right? Is the rush or delay really important? Do people use fleeting physical intimacy to fill the gap of emotions lost?

 

A few weeks after my “date”, I heard a plea on the radio – a mans voice – seeking any kind of information on his missing daughter, Grace Millane. Grace, a 22 year old British graduate had traveled to Auckland, NZ on a gap year, and been murdered by a male she’d met on Tinder. The dire news made me sick.

Whilst I can’t blame online dating apps for such unthinkable outcomes, perhaps there should be both a vetting and ratings system. Users should be able to leave public  feedback regarding their feelings of comfort and safety.

I reported Jimmy on Hinge, simply for the fact I felt unnerved and unsafe. Frustratingly, I wasn’t able to leave a comment stating my reasons why. I also blamed myself for doing something remotely risky and spontaneous when the truth is, women should be able to live freely, without fear.

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GHOSTED

Blog Readers,

It’s been a while but I’ve been thriving, surviving, single and SWIPING.

DATING APPS: what a tragic time to be alive.

You know, every time something remotely unfortunate happens in my *less than impressive* love life – the sensitive, trusting, hopeful girl in me curls in a ball and wants to disappear. The ballsy, no-fucks, abrasive writer on the other hand thinks: I’m so glad he proved to be like all the rest, we about to go innnnn!

Like many other busy, bright and quite frankly AMAZING single women I know, I’ve had a truly unfortunate experience using dating apps. Tinder, Happn, Bumble and best of all – Hinge, are proving to be a fucking waste of my time. I swear, I’d be more likely to develop a meaningful relationship with a bag of frozen carrots than some of the men I’ve met.

I’ve been on several dates over the last two years and have many stories to tell: the guy who tried too much too soon, the guy who claimed to be a millionaire and fleeced me; the one who thought he could buy his way into my bed…or the one who thought his bed would make a good spot for a first date. Then there’s the guy who replied every 48 hours ’til I finally got the message; the funny guy – who in person didn’t laugh once and my personal favourite: THE GHOSTER.

Bare with me readers, I’m just warming up.

I met a guy who on paper was….perfect. No, perrrrffffeccctttt. So funny, so normal, so cute, so nice. Clever. Driven. Engaging. Responsive. All of the boxes were like *check* *check* check*. Even my cynical Mother was like: “Darling, this one seems to be matching you. If you fuck it up, you have problems”.

No pressure then.

Before our date, we spoke for around three weeks. Messaging in the morning, messaging in the evening. Phone calls, pictures, voicenotes – even the occasional drunk call some nights. We didn’t meet straight away ’cause we were both working; traveling – but it felt like we were on the same page, we were opening up; getting along.

By the time our date came ’round it was nerve-wracking: with online dates you never fully know who’s going to turn up: will they be all you’ve hyped them up to be? Will you be all they’ve hyped YOU up to be?

Well, we met and it was…nice. Were we trying to rip each others clothes off? No (well, never, ’cause that’s not really my pace). But, we spent four hours together which – to spend with a stranger, on a weekday – is a fucking long time. I didn’t feel the way I felt with my exes i.e. “They’re so hot and arrogant – I’m so young and unsure of myself. I’m gonna reapply my concealer every ten minutes and then we’ll be together forever”. Instead, I felt at ease. I felt like – this is a person I can talk to, about everything – and he’s actually listening. This is someone who seems shy and unsure….but he’s got my attention. Am I in love with him? No. Am I in lust with him? No. But there is SOMETHING between us – other than this table – worth exploring.

At the end of our date we kissed. I mean, I didn’t know if we would, or whether I’d even like it. For starters, despite my bravado of being open, outspoken and just a *little bit* crazy…I’m like a snail when it comes to physical intimacy…maybe even a little uptight. It’s the only way I can protect myself: making sure his heart is hooked before he unhooks my bra, know what I’m saying? Well anyway, I was glad he kissed me because I liked kissing him. It confirmed I’d wanna do it again.

We carried on talking as normal after that. Well, for four days to be exact. Slowly though, he started pulling back. Less messages. Fewer replies. It got to the point where we went from speaking every day to not speaking for a week and I thought…he’s gonna gradually fizzle out ’til he feels safe enough to disappear completely.

Now, to most people reading this – you might be thinking – what’s the big deal? Well, I guess there isn’t one, if you’re okay with indirectness, lack of consideration; blowing hot and cold; not knowing where you stand, or wondering what you’ve done wrong.

When you reach out to someone consistently over a chunk of time, they’ll get used to hearing from you. When you open up to them about your life, they’ll feel they can open up about theirs too. Or like, if you say misleading shit to them about the future – you’ll pull them from the present.

Ghosting, is like leading someone up the garden path and pushing them into a well of self doubt.

During that week of silence, I went through all kinds of possibilities:-

  • He’s probably just giving me space while I’m on holiday
  • He probably just wants his space while he’s on holiday
  • Maybe he’s playing hard to get
  • Maybe he’s lost his phone
  • Maybe he never had a phone and was borrowing someone else’s
  • Maybe his wife / girlfriend / boyfriend has returned from Nebraska
  • Maybe he just wanted a fuck
  • Maybe he thought I was too full on and that my questions were lame
  • Maybe he’s seeing like four, five other girls

Did I have to send him all those pics of my pasta? Did I need to be so “alpha-male” by steering the wheel? Can’t I keep myself small, so that guys like him don’t get scared of my BIG?

 

Put me out of my misery already. I went against all of my friends advice and messaged him, straight up. His response told me everything I needed to know:

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Text 1: He made an excuse, but didn’t even bother to ask how I was doing. Why? Because he didn’t give a fuck. He was too busy feeling sorry for himself after taking ketamine all weekend. Me messaging him simply added to his self-inflicted problems.

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Text 2: Again, straight up. I simply wanted that closure so I wouldn’t torture myself with the not-so-fun guessing games. Did he reply? Of course not. He was ghosting.

Despite letting all my mates down by not playing “the cool game”, I am so glad I sent those messages. They set me free from myself, the lights went on.

And something clicked.

I believe every woman has that switching point, when we stop giving a fuck about people who don’t give a fuck about us. When we start to reevaluate our relationship with self and realise it’s not even about the guy – it’s about what WE’VE projected onto THEM. I’ve flicked that switch with every man I’ve ever liked or dated, it’s like sobering up from a messy night out and nursing yourself with food and sleep.

Look. If you’ve ever been confused, misled or ghosted – just remember: there are plenty more fish in the sea. That fish you been trying to hook? Set it free into the ocean. Let it get eaten by sharks, or later served on a plate with wasabi.

Just kidding. But think about it: if there are multitudes of sea life in the ocean – don’t be disheartened if you couldn’t reel a tiny fish in. Go for the biggest catch your rod allows and trust me, if your catch doesn’t even hold a *PLAICE* for you? Do you want him in your net?

Socially and culturally we’re urged not to be too honest with men: “Don’t tell him you wanna get married or have kids – he’ll run a mile. “Don’t bring up anything that makes you seem depressed or insecure…it’ll probably be too heavy and he’ll think you’re a psycho. “Play the game by revealing as little about yourself as possible, when he’s finally yours you can show him how crazy you are”.

My bad, I didn’t realise I was a puppet in search of an all-male standing ovation.

After being emotionally misled and then ghosted, I took all that great advice and binned it, along with every other guy who’s ever hurt my feelings.

I stopped appeasing online predators, no longer responding to sleazy one-liners with shy emojis, and started showing them my boundaries.

I started turning down dates to guys “only looking for fun”, giving them clear, honest explanations as to why I didn’t wanna date them.

   

I didn’t realise that being fiends for a chase, such reactions would gage more interest. Typical predators, always seeking a challenge; a conquest.

My ghoster did actually reappear – almost a week later. He listed all my favourable attributes to soften the blow of his rejection. He didn’t realise that labels like “pretty”, “funny” and “awesome” were just another way of reinforcing his absence. He ended something before it began, because I was more interesting when I was two-dimensional.

To be honest, it’s not that deep. I was pretty grateful for the honesty, even if I had already given myself closure.

People are different and where “ghosts” are concerned, perhaps he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Maybe, a ghosts logic is to back out without contact in case they choose to reappear one day. Mayyybeee, a ghost is scared to be seen in a bad light – and thinks that saying nothing is safer than saying something.

If somebody ghosts you: burn some sage and lock that door. Delete their number and any pictures they may have sent, nobody needs to be looking at that shit.

If your worth needs to be validated by anyone other than YOU – maybe it’s time you start giving yourself that much needed love you deserve. Remind yourself how worthy you are and fuck anyone who can’t see you.

Keep in mind that ghosts aren’t real: if they disappear, they were never really there to begin with.

Write My Way Out

It seems like forever since I got lost beneath a sea of words, paragraphs flowing, ideas relentless. 

Writers block: it’s the worst. I’ve had it for what seems like months now and it’s been weighing me down like a mental fatigue. It’s like, every time I have an idea I shy away from it, the lights are off; no one’s home.

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Guilt eats at me with every blip. I have drafts sitting in my WordPress which I can’t seem to revisit. Why do I choose to write? Do I even still enjoy it, or am I determining “success” based on cultural appearances? Are my blogs a creative outlet, or simply used as evidence that I too, am consistent. That I too, have ambition.

That I too, am still here.

In a way, I miss being sad – like sad to the point that the only thing stopping my tears are  words, released. When I’m sad, like really, really sad – I write my way out of sadness. And when I’m angry – feeling the need to protect myself – I hold up words like a shield or a sword et voila, a masterpiece is born….

….OK maybe not, but it’s definitely cathartic.

Seeing short stories I’ve poured my heart and soul into rejected time and time again bruised my ego and made me turn my nose up like, “Well, I never wanted you that much any way”. Maybe, my reason for not being able to write, is the product of an anticipated rejection.

Evidently, I care too much what people think.  It’s as if I’m unconsciously following reported trends, only believing something looks good when everyone else is wearing it. Not feeling good enough in the eyes of the reader, a thought process which hinders not only my creative flow but plays out into everyday life.

I give thanks every day, for all the things that aren’t promised: my mother, family, friends, health, life; livelihood. In a way, this awakened gratitude provides yet another excuse to ditch the word flow. Often, my blogs are an inspired reaction to negative thought. Things I feel I have little control over suddenly seem clear once I’ve written them out.

I guess I haven’t felt inclined to process the heaviness – I’ve been enjoying a content cruise along nonchalance. Even though I still have the occasional daymare about something bad happening; an irrational fear that my headache is a brain tumor, a strong reaction to politics; a memory that no longer serves me: I’ve mostly been lapping up the good stuff. Friends, family, work and PARTIES. And it’s been helpful taking a break.

It’s easy to obsess over the past and future, despite wanting to stay present. I don’t want to think about friends who aren’t friends anymore, or what’s going to happen tomorrow, or what I think I could have done better. I want to just BE, and sometimes sharing my reflective stance prohibits that.

A friend suggested I write about how happy I am: everyone I love is OK, I have an awesome job, life is one big great adventure! Well – I can’t think of anything worse than boring my readers with a conceited prose of optimism. For starters, no one likes a show off (I  have a deep-rooted “like me” complex) and furthermore, I want my words to be relatable – to talk about the feelings we share but don’t reveal.

Making the choice to write is difficult. It’s like setting yourself homework knowing that no-one’s around to mark the paper. I have to proof read my own work, so sometimes I don’t spot mistakes until months later and feel I’ve let myself down. Plus, once I have published something – I’d rather never read it again. It’s a bit like watching yourself being played back on camera – the whole experience can be nerve-wracking, demeaning.

 

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Writing has been a loyal friend to me over the years. As a child, my mother was anti-television and so I had no choice but to create. My brother proved to be fantastic at drawing and can draw almost anything in intricate, precise detail.

I was 5 when I wrote my first rhyme.

6 when I wrote my first story.

7 when I started my first journal.

9 when I received my first publication (a poem, about autumn).

 

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Writing skills surpassing my drawing skills…

Aged 10, I wrote my first book “Angela”. I’d come home every day from school and go straight upstairs to write it. I didn’t care to eat, play, sleep. I was obsessed: a girl with a vision.

 

My mum found the book in a box of old junk and insisted that I read it. When I did, I was surprised. I realised I was a child who embraced emotion and had an outlet to process them. My mother asked if I felt proud and I really did. I’d spent my entire school life in my own world, I had few impactful teachers and was oblivious to my own depths.

 

 

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I’m always consciously transparent in my writing which can leave me feeling open and exposed. That said, I guess it’s perfectly fine to take a break when I need it; to vacate from something I’ve been doing since I was able to hold a pen. Sometimes, the wounds we carry are still raw: before exposing the scars we need to let them heal.

I’m going to end this by questioning one more time, why do I choose to write? The answer is simple. I write, because I can.

Prose for my Brothers

Little brothers,

I couldn’t write this piece without you.

I attempted a detached prose but saw red. Fury. I clenched my jaw and surrendered, cried. Why? I was only able to get the words out when addressed directly to you. My shelter from the storm, you bring me calm; oneness.

 

When I was eight, your mum – my stepmum – asked what I’d like for dinner and in jest I replied: “you’re our slave”. That day, my eyes opened. It was the first time I’d ever seen your mother cry and the first time our father slapped me. When it happened, I wasn’t sure why what I’d said opened such a wound. I hadn’t yet learned about racism or oppression. I was unconscious to a pain mapped so far back and yet with us in the present and well, let’s just say my heart opened that day too.

I want so badly to wrap you in cotton wool but I can’t and it bugs me. I feel frustrated that I won’t always be there to protect you from ignorant behaviors: unnecessary remarks, racist jibes: piercing through your hearts and minds. The fact I will never know how it feels to be a young black male means I write this with objective stance: a mere onlooker. Your experiences will ultimately be your own – just know your sister’s got you.

 

Lesson number one: people are ugly. Not all of them, but a vast amount.

Real ugliness shares no correlation with the physical form, no. Ugliness is found in the depiction of backward attitudes, racial bias; superiority, haste; name calling, privilege. Unwarranted venomous judgment. Sometimes, even those with good intentions, even those you consider your own, will show you something ugly.

I’ve had many encounters with ugly people and I’d like to share some with you. For instance, every time we’d (your mother, myself, Gordon, Dad) would eat out in predominantly Asian, London-based areas – the undercurrents became so tense we found ourselves gasping for air.  We’ve had people gawk at us, slur insults, shake their heads disapprovingly – unable to comprehend how a brown skinned man could marry an East African woman. Don’t fret, Dad has good taste.

You’re part Indian, so it’s important to be aware of Indias’ complex caste system: hierarchical structures, categorizing citizens based on race, religion and class. As a result of this, the fairer you are the more you’re deemed worthy. Cosmetic stores in India are plastered with “Fair and Lovely”, a well known product promoting the gradual increase of lighter skin. I know it’s disheartening – but change is coming. Men and women have finally started to protest condemnation of their skin; taking a stance through progressive ideas and knowledge. You only have to look at our immediate family to know not all hope is lost.

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Sharing the love: My mum & you

But we’re not perfect. I’ve had relatives warn not to date black men; remarks made on the texture of your (beautiful) hair and questions such as “Is your dad still living with ‘that black woman'” hurled at me. You’re probably wondering why I’m sharing all this? Well, the world isn’t free of hateful attitudes. People hold on to the things they’ve learned, keeping themselves small; closed-minded. I don’t associate myself with such people anymore: ties have been cut, relationships severed. And I’m not sorry about it. Anyone who rejects you, rejects me. Besides, what kind of losers wouldn’t want to know the coolest kids in the world?

I saw a bunch of young (mostly black) teenagers waiting for the bus one day and folks were literally jumping out of their way, anguished. The kids were all sporting football boots and gym bags – obviously just finished training. I thought of you immediately and my heart raced – to make a point I stood in the midst of them. I was met with “after you”, as they waited in turn to tap their Oystercards.

The media is largely responsible for racist stereotypes. Biased newspaper headlines and blasphemous articles, racial typecasts and narrow on-screen representations are all contributors to mass brainwashing. We, the onlookers, have soaked up so many limited ideas over the years that it is up to us dissect them and decipher truth. Shows I grew up with fell from grace, as I made note of either scarce or damaging representations.

I also saw my west African friend – barely tipsy – being refused entry to a club. My other friend – caucasian and paralytic – crawled his way in. I challenged management, who gave the whole “Yeah but our bouncers are black so how can we be racist?” spiel. Sometimes, our fear is so far ingrained we condemn ourselves, blinded by denial.

I tense up when people fawn over your hair, even when they do so with admiration. I don’t want you to ever feel like your features make you human exhibitions. I spend much of my time watching how you react to things. Most of the time you seem delighted. Still, if the actions of others ever makes you feel uncomfortable – you don’t have to succumb to politeness. You’re permitted to speak up, or move away with full support.

I promise to work on myself, as I try to do often. If I find myself generalizing – I’ll correct my thoughts. If I make a judgement – I’ll question my reasoning. If I begin to stereotype, I’ll ask myself why. I will constantly acknowledge any inauthentic thought, unconsciously absorbed; unfair and untrue.

Sometimes, I want to cover your ears, so you won’t ever have to hear racist slurs at football matches.

Sometimes, I want to cover your eyes, so you won’t read headlines highlighting race over incident.

Sometimes, I want to march into your school and interrogate your teachers, for advising you not to grow your hair.

Which again, is beautiful.

The truth is angels, one day you will consciously take heed of racism. You’ll acknowledge its existence like an uninvited guest and wonder, like myself, when the fuck it’s going to leave.

Our parents did good by raising us in London. Look around, nobody here’s been left behind. Plus, the majority of Londoners are savvy; they’re open to conversation, which sparks a conscious breakthrough. Not only that, but you have a support system of steel. Exempt from your parents, Gordon and I will be your best friends – you ours.

I imagine when you’re grown, we’ll share political consciousness. I wonder what experiences you might’ve had and how you may’ve dealt with them. Will you communicate your pain or remain indifferent? However you choose to deal and process, there’s (mostly) no wrong or right way.

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Little brothers, your views and feelings count. If you feel something isn’t right, it probably isn’t. And if you find yourselves feeling lost, downtrodden? We’ll be here. Ready to remind you just how perfect you are.

Pretty Woman: Deconstruction

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You know, had I written my 2011 dissertation with the same bitter knowledge of widespread misogyny (both on and off-screen), I’m sure I would have seen that 2.1 into a first. Poor Garry Marshall, it’s a pity I was still wearing nappies during the debut of his 4.6* million box office hit, Pretty Woman, 1990.

I recently sat through 2.5 excruciating hours of what I can only describe as jaw-clenched fury; being an adult, understanding the media’s intention to mass-manipulate and project sexist ideals. Now that I know myself; the role I play both in and out of society; no amount of cinematic technique will have me fawn over men like Edward Lewis.

Vivian Ward did a great job of that though.

My infuriation rose after making the god awful decision to undergo the ‘Miami Backyard Cinema’ experience – basically a room transformed into “Miami Beach”, using falsified sand and props. It wasn’t awful because it was based on the other side of London, or even because it was overpriced and crammed. It was awful because I’d revisited one of my favourite childhood films and realised I’d been duped.

As I sat there, sinking into an oversized bean bag; feet buried beneath a cold layer of sand and balancing a £12 Pina colada bottle, I promised myself I would watch the film again at home, in an attempt to rip the literary shit out of it.

You’re gonna hate me Marshall.

Consequential timing, considering all the Hollywood sickos who’ve recently been named and shamed. Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, John Lasseter, Nick Carter, Ryan Seacrest, Russell Simmons, Sylvester Stallone and Ed Westwick are among the never-ending list of creeps accused of sexual misconduct. You have to give it to them though: these white collared, high-flying, money-driven, ego-centric, sadistic males – so built up by Hollywood they believe they can do whatever they like and to whom. A culture in favor of misogynistic machoism: where women are as seen as inferior sexual objects and treated as such.

Pretty Woman begins with Richard Gere as Edward Lewis, a wealthy entrepeneur undergoing a failed relationship. Finding himself in the centre of Hollywood Boulevard’s red light district, Ed meets sex worker Vivian, played by Julia Roberts. There is a bittersweet contrast of rags meets riches here, with Edward being the epitome of success and Vivian, a struggling prostitute.

After a bizarre first meeting (where Ed lets Viv drive an acquaintance’s car) the pair check into a hotel where they proceed to have a “magical” time. I say magical, in the sense that Ed is the key-holder to extravagance – he offers his guest strawberries and champagne on arrival, which is clearly goosebump-inducing. It is during this scene, that the viewer gains insight to Ed’s pre-formed low opinion: he accuses Viv of taking drugs before realizing she is actually hiding dental floss.

The scene ends with Viv watching a black and white movie, head tilted in delight. It’s clear she has never encountered such worldly opulence – impressed with everything from the room to the refreshments to the company. She then transpires to make a move on Lewis, crawling over to his side & “going down” until fade out. The music and lighting – indicative to romance – is unable to disclose the narratives true seedy undertones.

The next morning, Ed encourages Viv to stay longer. They negotiate from $300 dollars a night to $3000 for six. Vivian is ecstatic – it is clearly the most money she has ever earned in such a short space of time. She feels lucky to suddenly be surrounded by wealth, that “high-quality” people are now paying her attention. The film encourages a belief that wealth marks human value; that people who are “somebodies” should own high-end wardrobes, and know how to use cutlery.

The arrogance which radiates off Ed’s persona becomes quickly tiresome. He is constantly testing, controlling and telling Viv how to behave: warning signs of mental abuse. An example of this is is when he leaves her in the hotel room, calls up and tells her not to answer. Two minutes later, he rings back and states “I told you not to pick up the phone” to which she swoons in delight. I wanted to punch him.

"Stop fidgeting, get rid of your gum".

Ed has the ability to manipulate and control those around him through money and power. Viv, who’s only ever been treated as less-than, is all for it. For instance, the famous shopping scene where she’s rejected based on her attire. The moment Ed realizes his guest has been turned away, he takes her to a new department store and starts flaunting social status, demanding that the clerks  “suck up” to her.

But wait, why has he sent her to Rodeo Drive in the first place? Couldn’t he have asked his driver to collect her things? Aside from what we’d hope to be practicality, it’s no secret that Ed’s embarrassed of Vivian. The moment they initially enter the hotel, he covers her up with his coat.

 

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"Vivian, come back, I am speaking to you". 

Key moments in the film where Viv actually makes an impression, are the ones where she’s “transformed”.  Ed holds little regard for Viv’s inner being, so it’s no surprise that his eyes light up when she’s dressed to perfection. Scenes where he takes her for dinner, or to the opera, where she’s dressed immaculately from head to toe…

…Is the way to a mans heart through a womans wardrobe?

What about the never-ending slew of scenes where Viv dotes on Edward? He comes home and she’s naked with the table set. Viv runs a bath and bathes him with a sponge. He’s in a mood so she bangs him on the piano. I mean, are you sure this isn’t a psychological horror?!

And what about Ed’s creepy lawyer-friend? Philip Stuckey (Jason Alexander), is a character intended to be a jerk. It’s clear from the get go he’s attracted to Viv, so when Ed discloses his date is actually “a hooker”, Phil has a field day throwing taunts at her. But what’s Ed’s excuse? Was it necessary for him to open his mouth in the first place? Why did he bring Viv to a polo game to ignite humiliation?

"I never had anyone make me feel as cheap as you did today". 

"Somehow I find that hard to believe".

 

Nearing the end of the film, Viv tells Ed she loves him. The following day, he says he’s moving to New York, but offers to keep her finances covered.

Vivian feels hurt because he’s assumed throwing money will offer contentment. She reveals this drippy story, about her dream to be rescued by a knight on a white horse. Despite their first meeting, where Vivian appears bold and independent, here we realize she is actually naive; desperate for a mans validation.

"It's a really good offer for a girl like me".
 
"I never treated you like a prostitute".

"You just did".

The most horrific scene in the film shows creepy Philip at Viv’s hotel room, furious at Ed’s change of heart re a business deal. Accurately blaming this change on Viv’s influence, Phil punches her in the face and attempts to rape her. Ed, sticking to his title of hero, catches his friend in time, socks him in the jaw and throws him out the room…

….I guess this is the moment where Ed deserves a crown, right?

Wrong!

Ed comfortably throws his friend out of the room, and then what happens? Why doesn’t he inform the police? Why has Ed allowed a potential rapist to walk free? What’s the message here, that successful business men are condemned to act obscenely and get away with it? That a sock in the jaw is sufficient punishment for a lifetime of emotional trauma?

Fuck. That. Shit.

….And don’t even get me started on Pretty Woman’s narrow representations. Off the top of my head I recall just two black characters during the entire film: Ed’s driver and the hotel concierge. It may have only been the 90’s, but the racial typecasting made my blood boil. The subtext portrayed by Marshall is acutely perverse: where women and black men are inferior to wealthy white business men, and that their place is beneath them, quite literally.

The fact that Vivian is a prostitute gives Marshall freedom to construct his ideal woman. Clever, because he wouldn’t have been slammed for it. It was already her job to appease Ed. That he then falls in love with her, shows the viewer what men really want: a beautiful sex slave, whose emotional needs are secondary.

Once deemed a classic, this light-hearted, rom-com masterpiece is now shown for what it is: a dick flick, and not the stuff from fairytales. No longer a piece I respect or admire; Pretty Woman is a reflection of the ugliness hidden beneath a gabardine suit.  And yes, whilst it may have been released in 1990, the critique for Edward Lewis is more prevalent than ever.

 

 

28 Reasons

Life, a magical field of existence whereby humans try to establish what the hell we’re doing here. Amidst the wins and curveballs, one of the greatest life joys I’ve experienced is having a solid, stable; reliable group of friends. Each one brings something unique and wonderful, however today I’ve decided to dedicate a post just to one…it’s her birthday.

The intention is not to draw comparisons, nor exclude the group I deem close, but as it is her birthday (and let’s face it, bar my mum she is my biggest fan), this piece of writing is in honor of our fully faultless friendship. Over the course of 25 years, she has been what I consider a shelter from the storm; a friend, a sister, a constant…

Three. That’s how old I was when I met her. I don’t remember much about our first meeting, but I do remember spending my first few school years plotting her death. We would fight so much that our mothers would get called in and frequent letters sent home. Understandably, we were advised to stay away from/ignore each other but alas, we could not.

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“You will wear it bitch”.

Joanna: the irritating, blonde-fringed girl with freckles on her face. Invited to each and every one of my birthdays: keep your friends close but enemies closer. Loud, boyish, outspoken and bold – everything about her annoyed me. I used to cry post-haircuts, scared she’d rip the shit out of me, and when she did, I would yell out “BITCH” so loud that all our peers would gasp in shock, labelling me the antichrist.

Had somebody informed me then, that she would prove to be the most consistent, loyal and selfless friend I’d ever have, I probably would have jumped from the climbing frame there and then.

Our relationship changed during high school, because we were dealing with a whole new kettle of bullshit: bullies, boyfriends, rebellion; hormones. Astonishingly, the moment we upgraded uniforms, we upgraded the way we treated each other. Instead, we became each others point of reference, severing not a single fallout. No bitching, no competitiveness, no time for being fickle or hasty – we knew who we were to each other and accepted it – a solid friendship; unquestionably rare.

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My 14th Birthday, hence our great choice of outfits/hairstyles.

If friends were graded, Joanna would sail through every subject from A*, to merit, to distinction. But, as there’s no such thing as a degree in friendship, I’m celebrating her 28th, on the 28th, with 28 reasons as to why she is THE BEST:-

  1. She’s neutral.

I’ve had some nasty fallouts over the years and Joanna’s one friend who’s stayed neutral. Never has she encouraged bad vibes, or involved herself in my battles. Instead, she’s reflected opposing sides without forming any judgement. At times I’ve found this severely frustrating because the ego wants to be “right”. In hindsight, her stance has been most helpful because she’s demonstrated maturity without encouraging childish behaviour.

2. She protects my fragile heart, *violin*.

Six years ago I was crazy in love with a guy who couldn’t spare a flying fuck.  Upon discovering his infidelities with numerous partners, I was so heartbroken I lay in bed sombre and lifeless; unwilling to get up. Joanna was the friend who got me out of bed, treating me to a pedi and reminding me that life goes on. At the time it didn’t mend my broken heart, but it certainly made my toes sparkle.

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Post-pedi, Jo told me I had to wear these paper sandals. As you can see, I believed her.

3. She’s with me for the ride.

Over the past few years I’ve moved house three (almost four) times and she’s been there for every single one. From lifting boxes, to driving, to unpacking. I haven’t even had to ask her – she considers me  a *cough, burden* priority.

4.  She’s a handy-wo-man.

Jo is one of the most practical human beings I’ve ever met – if there’s a problem – she will fix it. From transferring stencils on the wall to unscrewing lightbulbs or climbing shelves –  lets just say I’ve never had to contact one of my exes.

5. I’m her dolly.

Not to be trusted with an eyeliner, Jo does my hair beautifully. French plaits, buns, fishtails – this girl is my personal hairstyle queen.

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6. She’s a comedian.

My. Friend. Is. Hilarious. I can’t recall a single time we haven’t laughed. Even when things have fallen apart around us, when we’ve felt stuck, worried, frustrated – laughter’s prevailed, the best remedy for anything.

7. She’s effortlessly thoughtful.

On my 21st birthday I took some friends to Bournemouth for a messy weekend. Whilst in the shower, Jo decorated our room with banners and balloons, going out of her way to make me feel special. #AwYouShouldntHave

8. She’s always there.

I had a nasty, invasive procedure last year and despite her own commitments, my girl booked the day off and took me to the hospital. She even went as far as to bring me home and spend the day with me, making sure that I felt fine. </3

9. She loves my mum.

This probably sounds like a weird one, but the relationship between two of my leading ladies is 100% sincere. They have their own special unique bond and it warms my heart up. Plus, mama knows best and if she says Jo is gold, she must be.

*If you’re not down with my mum, you’ll never be down with me.

10. She keeps it real.

I don’t have to worry about Jo talking behind my back ’cause if I upset her, she’ll tell me. As difficult as it is telling people how and if they hurt you, there’s something relieving about being able to talk, listen and making the choice to move forward.

11. She’s always on time.

And I don’t mean in terms of “let’s meet for coffee at three”. If something big is happening, negative or positive, I know exactly who’ll be there. Hell, this girl is there for all occasions, helping me to swim through life. #Teamworkmakesthedreamwork

12. She’s got bottle.

During secondary school I was constantly being harassed by older girls – I can’t lie, they were scarily evil! But I remember when the bullies tried to “befriend” her, Jo made it clear with her tone and face that she would never be interested – she never licked ass based on her own principled loyalty. #ByeFelicias

13. She’s kept all my secrets despite having a big mouth.

Much like myself, Jo finds it difficult to contain newsworthy information. I in particular am a renown over-sharer (the proof is in the blog), so when it comes to each other; our pain and our regrets; we keep our lips sealed. #ThanksBoo

14. She’s never left me in a vulnerable state.

Fourteen years old – just discovered vodka. We were on our way to a house party and I chugged it down with no concept of units. To this day, I can’t remember how we got home, I just remember waking up with vomit in my hair and a missing phone. Still, somebody got me back safely – somebody tucked me into bed.

15. She’s charitable.

The charity case being me of course (although she has done frequent runs for cancer). The amount of hairdryers, chargers, phones and clothes Jo has thrown my way over the years is staggering. I mean, she could have easily sold that stuff on ebay but nope, here I am, free-balling.

16. She’s accepting.

Jo doesn’t get mad (albeit surprised) when I “borrow” something of hers and wear it in front of her six years later. To be fair it wouldn’t fit her now anyway, girl’s got the body of a goddess.

17. She listens.

And I mean really listens. It doesn’t matter how trivial the issue, if I need to vent, I know I have a nonjudgmental, equally honest ear on standby.

18. She checks in.

If I’ve had a bad week or day, she’ll make it a point to check in and see what’s up. Bare in mind this is a person who works full time, has a child, a head full of tasks and yet still, spares several thoughts for me. She even feels guilty when she feels she’s been “slacking”. #YouGottaStopDoingThatBoo

19. She acknowledges my inner child.

Back to my 21st: I was secretly eyeing up this massive pink unicorn and Jo did everything she could to win it. At the time I was certain her efforts were to appease her daughter – which they were – only Jo won two which means I got one! #HipHipHooray

20. She’s inspiring and smart.

No really, she’s one of the cleverest girls I know: quick witted, sharp; practical. Aged sixteen, Jo was the first to go out and got a job. She was also the first to pass her driving test and basically, the first in our group to demonstrate initiative.

I am proud of the way she communicates with people – she’s direct, humble and straightforward – the sort of person who inhabits natural leadership. #YesBadGyal

21. She’s supportive.

Jo has read and shared practically every single one of my blogs under zero obligation. I never expect my friends to read OR share my work, but over the past two years she’s emitted constant support and exposure. As a writer, I can’t tell you how invaluable that is  – all we want is for our words to reach people – and without shares that can’t happen.

Her feedback, encouragement and genuine interest are all attributes which make a fucking supportive friend. #ThanksForBelieving

22. She’s inclusive.

I swear I’m her honorary adoptee. I get invited to all the big family dos, even Christmas sometimes! #ThanksBabeButIGotMyOwnFamilyToSpendOn

23. She’s thoughtful.

This girl just kills me with it. I came home after traveling for eighteen hours once and Jo had snuck in beforehand to make sure my fridge wasn’t empty. *FYI she didn’t break in, bitch has a key.

24. She shares the limelight.

This is definitely where we differ. My birthday’s in October – hers September – and I always plan the celebrations wayyyyy in advance. Arguably self-centered, Joanna is regardlessly happy to hear my plans with enthusiasm – even before considering her own.

25. She’s not a hater.

You can really see if someone’s happy for you by looking in their eyes. That stab of jealousy, or even disbelief. Personally, I think it’s normal to have twinges of envy. For instance, if I were £500 into my overdraft and a friend revealed they’d won the lottery, damn right I’d feel that stab. But not Jo. Every success I have is received by her as if she were my mother: full of pride and excitement. Sometimes I downplay victories to others because I don’t want to evoke discomfort; but not with her. With her, I can speak in every little detail about something I feel proud of – and her eyes light up with delight. #SheIsJustSoCute

26. She hates being a burden.

Not that she could ever be one. Still, like chalk and cheese, Joanna is not the kind of person to vent her plight – she is private and a problem solver. Most of all, she hates the idea of people worrying about her – and in that sense she is utterly selfless.

27. Her kindness soothes my soul.

Joanna is the epitome of health, but has never once made me feel bad about my body, nor compared our physical differences. Over the years I’ve had friends discuss whether or not they find me pretty in the morning (I mean, can you name a person who is?), whether I look nice without makeup (better than your mum mate) and multiple jibes about my size.

Thankfully, I’ve never had to worry about all that shit with her. Why? Because she’s comfortable in her own skin, and that makes ME feel comfortable. And if I do ask for advice? Constructive and helpful – never harmful. In my mothers words, “Joanna is a breath of fresh air”.

28. We have snuggle time.

Okay not really, although I totally would if she let me. When we do have sleepovers (yes, these still happen), her partner gets sent to the sofa and guess who bags the double?! Not only is this more comfortable, but it also means I get to hear her sleep-talking. Sleep-talking…possibly her only flaw.

Man that was easy, I should have written this post aged 40.

I realised something extremely important about our friendship over the years. Not only have I taken her friendship completely for granted – the same way you would with your siblings/parents, but her qualities have provided something real and sustainable. I couldn’t fail the test of friendship with Jo because I’ve mirrored her; she brings out the best in me.

Also, when analyzing men I’d fallen for, they’d never been my friends. Drive, money, looks, charm –  shallow attributes – substance barely there. And then I realised – if I sought a partner who had even 3/4 worth of Jo – I’d find a mate for life.

But, who cares about all that when you have a friend like mine. Knight or no knight, I’m counting my blessings in the form of twenty-eight.

 

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