Young, single and ready to.....think of the many good reasons there are for being just this!

How I really feel about being single.

I feel good. I feel better. I have no paranoia or anxieties. I don’t get all pissed off and bitchy when the guy I’m seeing or whatever it is these days, ‘likes’ the profile picture of the pretty girl with longer hair than me. I don’t have to make plans that evolve around his plans. I don’t get upset when the plans we make don’t go to plan.  There are no plans, there is no ‘we’. The only plans are my own pressureless plans that I may or may not go ahead with. I don’t have to worry about him not texting me back quick enough. I don’t have to read into said texts without x’s on the end. I don’t feel the need to look my best all the time, or to sneak out of bed in the mornings to fix my hair or re-apply the makeup I wore to bed the previous night. (Gross) I don’t have to worry about what his friends and family might think, what my friends and family might think.  I have fantastic nights out with my fellow non-relationship-ee’s. I don’t have to worry about what he’s up to. I don’t look to the future as much and panic about whether or not we will last forever. I live in the now, in the present and welcome any oppurtunites that fly my way. I am not made to feel silly, insecure or insignificant. I write more, read more, speak more. I have a little more cash to myself. I have a lot more time to myself. A lot of girls go on about the sexual side of things when they are single; ‘I haven’t had sex in sooooo long,’ but ask yourself? Do you really miss it? I think the porn industry has kinda ruined it for us and we just kinda get used; we might as well be blow up dolls the way some chaps go at us. (Sordid I know but so true and perhaps another blog for another time.) But seriously, I don’t miss that. I can live without it, but everyone is different. And different, that’s how I feel being single. I feel different, in a good way. There is so much pressure to make a relationship work in a generation where we too often see them fail, and the removal of that pressure when you become/are single, is such a weight off your mind and heart. Sometimes, my inner voice ridicules my external self; ‘24 years old and you’ve never had a relationship last longer than a year, useless!’ But then I take a look at the list I have just devised in this post, and think – well, it’s not a bad thing. Perhaps it is the type of chap I am drawn to that has got me here today, and I am not saying that all relationships result in some of the disadvantages I have listed, but I am sure, in all of us singletons, there are ways we can celebrate being single. And I don’t mean so we can go out on the pull and take Joey Essex doppelgangers home to our parents’ house for a one night only special guest appearance; I mean for US, and just for us. Being single is not a bad thing, and if I, Miss ruddy Moan-a-lot, can find more than one positive advantage to ridin’ solo as some refer to it, then it must be okay.

University. The best days of your life?

I have been quite unsure about whether to post this. But heck , lets do it.

I passed and that’s the main thing. I remember getting my tarot cards read by a Czech woman when I’d just finished my GCSE’s; me and the popular girls were all getting pissed on alcopops to celebrate the end of school. If I fathomed back then then nostalgia I feel now, and how much I’d love to go back to the ‘good old days,’ I would have been drowning my sorrows. I would have mourned the last day of school. One of the girls, Yasmin, pretty little thing with all the clothes a girl could want – lived in a big three story house. So big, that a lot of the time whenever I visited, there were people from all over the world, from all walks of life living in the top rooms on the third story. On this night of celebrations, sugar rushes, multiple toilet trips, crocodile tears  and bloated tummies, I, in my overconfident tipsy state, went up to the top story and introduced myself to said Czech woman, who was sitting at a desk typing away at her computer. I asked her what she was up to, and she told me about her boyfriend back in her home town, that I still wouldn’t be able to pronounce sober. She was agitated because her boyfriend wasn’t responding quickly enough on MSN messenger. How times haven’t changed. 

I noticed a pile of cards on the desk next to her, and asked her bullishly to read my tarot. A couple of the other girls had traced my stagger and got all excited but also a little uneasy about the idea. She came down stairs, I was up first. She said we were allowed one question each. The fear and anxiety of GCSE results was fresh and alcoholically exaggerated, so I asked how my education was going to be. She turned over a card....’average’ She replied. Average. One of those words which sounds odd the more you repeat it. One of those words which sounds odd if someone utilises it to predict your education. The one word answer and the intoxication of watermelon Bacardi Breezer bought on extreme horripilation and the tears stung my already red with alcohol eyes. I rushed out the room to the toilet, and looked in the mirror at myself. I still do it now, face myself…in disbelief, that that person there - staring back at me in the mirror. Is me. The word average repeated itself over and over, until there was no room for any other vocabulary. I hunched over the toilet, and was sick. Was it the alcohol? Most likely. But perhaps it was also a combination of the fact that I had just been told that everything I had worked so hard for, would result in the word average. And this has stuck with me, this slap in the face that is the word average. 

So University was a rollercoaster ride of ups and downs; arguably a degree in English could have generated a better metaphor but that is the only way I can really explain it.  Three years full of drama, heart breaks, obsessions, possessive people, copycats,  multiple moves, (including a garage at the bottom of my ex’s grandparents garden) CV distribution, letters of resignation, tears, shots, ‘I’m gonna quits,’ and everything else thrown in to the cauldron of University Life.
I like to think I worked hard, but the various situations I found myself in, hindered my ambition and ability to sit down peacefully, with a clear mind and construct, say, a 2,500 word assignment on the use of colour in Jane Eyre.  Examples: After moving out of one place due to suffering some awful depressive stage, after my mum had eventually split with a man I am still convinced is the devil reincarnated, I moved into an old, cold converted hotel. Which sounds like it had the potential to be quite a laugh, minus the cold part, but actually it was the total opposite. It was owned by this power crazy, contradicting, unfair middle aged/class woman. She charged me £100 a week as well as the 14 others, mainly foreign students, who didn't comprehend quite how mugged off they were being. The 400 per month managed me a small room, with no working TV, no heating, no en suite and major internet issues. There was one small kitchen between all of the residents and two small bathrooms with no hot water, showers that trickled down the back of your neck, I would have been more satisfied, and perhaps cleaner, if I stood out in the rain. I also ended up in a room next door to a chap who I thought I was very much in love with, if I wasn't cuddling up to him on the weekend, I could hear him and the next girl at it, while I tried to block out the sound with sad but uterly beautiful and relatable songs by Lana Del Rey. 

Or I could talk about the time I moved in with my ex’s ex. I knew from the very joys of Facebook she was at the same Uni as me, heck I knew a lot more about her than that from that ruddy social network. She sat next to me one day when I was on a fag break at work and made some poor excuse to talk to me. ‘Do you have signal on your phone?’ we live in the 21st century girl, Nokias are a thing of the past. But from that, and my inability to decipher the correct decisions in life, we built quite a peculiar friendship on the basis that we both despised the way we had been treated by our ex. We didn’t have much in common other than that. She was a little peculiar in her ways, very child –like, very pretty, petite and I felt this overwhelming pressure to be responsible for her. She was a little obsessive, and always made odd remarks about things like our differences. One time, she asked me if I wrote a blog. It seemed like a legitimate question at the time, as everyone seems to have a blog these days. I  was a little reluctant to show her at first, but when I did, she giggled like a little girl and confessed she had already read my  blog before we knew eachother. I remember being a little taken a-back, feeling a little stalked and uncomfortable. I mean yes, we all do it, we all social network stalk, but having it being admitted to me, by someone that could so easily relate to some of the stuff I wrote about, made me feel very threatened.

 After a while, I recognised that she had started to mirror the way I spoke and behaved. Perhaps we were just friends with each other to make said ex pissed off. My immediate thought of when we uploaded pictures of nights out together was ‘I wonder what HE thinks.’ And I know she thought it too.I introduced her to a couple of male friends of mine who immediately adored her, which I was just as immediately threatened by. I wanted so badly to get out of the crazy hotel, so we moved in together. Bad move, bad bad bad move. A few days in, I see a text flash up on her phone, she was out of the room and we had her Iphone playing music from a dock. It was from our EX OUR EXXXX! It read 'Twerp? I havent heard that one before! xx' I nearly vomited. She'd called him a twerp! Why is that such a big deal? Why did that piss me off more than the fact she was still texting him? Well, in an odd conversation from the night before, she'd asked me, 'What is, like, a witty name to call a boy for banter?' I replied with the word 'twerp,' old fashioned and mildly insulting. As soon as I said it, and believe me, I just thought it was another one of her odd remarks, I thought back to when I used to call our shared ex just that. I kind of knew they were still in touch, but the clarity made my head hurt. I confronted her about it and she was hysterical, absolutely hysterical. Like a child who has been told no more sweets. I left, losing two of my close male friends, faith in humanity and my mind a little bit. 
Perhaps the worst part of my University experience was moving in with my beloved stoner boyfriend. Who smoked more weed anyone I have ever known. He was his own person and did not ever want to compromise. This meant that his ex-fling was texting him all the time. And he would never see a problem with it. Sometimes, it was to say stuff like ‘Does your girlfried even exist, I haven’t met her yet,’ ( I know your type) which I could kind of deal with but did see straight through it, (c’mon, we’ve all been that girl) but what really ticked me off, was the 2am texts saying ‘You should be here this party is siccccckkk!xxxxxxx.’ Well he’s not at that party, he’s in bed, with ME – and the party can’t be that siiiiccck if you’re stood in the corner texting MA MAN. Anyway, the relationship didn’t last long, it slowly burnt out like the very spliffs he smokes; vanished in a puff of smoke if you like. I was heartbroken, he had the potential to be a hero, but the herb made him egotistical, lazy, and patronising. And it made me, paranoid, anxious and an insomniac. I never smoked it mind, but we were living in such a small space that the fumes went to my head a little. We broke up, for more reasons than the habit and I moved back home again and did a two hour commute to University every week.

Then something drastic happened. I got pregnant. I got PREGNANT. 23 years old, writing a dissertation, no money, no stable home and an ex-boyfriend who I loved and loathed all at the same time. And that wasn't the worst of it. It may not have even been his. After we broke up, I got drunk and very stupidly met up with the very chap I used to cry about when I’d hear him at it with someone other than me in the room next door. Yes him, can you believe it? ‘Love’ makes us do ridiculous things. I’m 90% sure the child could have been his because, well my marijuana smoking ex never managed to get me pregnant. And I was using contraception. And weed doesn't only damage peoples heads.  I told the ‘guy next door,’ and he was scarily and very surprisingly livid. I naively thought he would be cool? He said some real piercing and unmentionable things, thought I ‘did it on purpose,’ and I ‘ruined his life.’ I did not do it on purpose and I certainly wasn't out to ruin anyone’s life. As far as I was concerned, I’d made a pretty big mess of my own. But I am a big believer in everything happening for a reason, and, having previously witnessed a very close friend of mine going through a pregnancy on her own, partnerless, broken hearted but all the while creating a beautiful baby girl – I was, although confused, a little excited about the prospect of having a child. Finally! A human being who would love me back as much as I loved them. Unconditionally. Forever. But after the conversation with the potential father, I felt a new kind of heart break  and was catapulted back in to a very dark and deep pit of depression. I didn’t go through with the pregnancy, and terminated the pregnancy after 7 weeks. Although it does not condone and emulate the guilt I feel still now; I felt/feel like a creation killer. And that is something people will never comprehend unless they are in such a position.

The day of the appointment, I was sat next to a rather unpleasant girl who was boasting about how it was her third termination, and she couldn’t have another kid because her current toddler, although she ‘loved him to bits,’ was an ‘arsehole.’ She was younger than me, and I sat there, alone, questioning how the hell it happened. I questioned absolutely everything, and the remaining 5,000 words of my already crappy dissertation was the last thing on my mind.

A few months after, and I receive my results. Although deep down I knew it was going to be a 2:2, when I saw the grade on my computer screen, I felt sick. I felt like a failure. But I didn’t fail, I passed. And I am very good at finding the negatives, hey, if that was a degree – I’d definitely get a first. I got over it, and then I got my transcript. 2 marks off a 2:1. Which I still haven’t decided whether or not makes me feel better or worse. The main thing is, after everything, I did it. And believe me, the previous story is only half of what happened. The reason I escaped to Bournemouth in the first place is a dramatic tale for another time. I’m working and earning so I can embark on my next, hopefully drama-free, adventure. I read in my mums birthday book that those born on August 13th, are forever confronting difficult trials and tribulations, and that securing a stable career/relationship/ are continuous life goals for these people. And I just have to accept that, and take life as it comes. I have a degree afterall, and I adore writing. And that for me is enough to appreciate that what has happened, has happened for a reason.

MONOGOMY IS SOOOOO 10 years agoooo

I think I have sussed it. No really, I think I have. Monogamy is a thing of the past. It’s old fashioned, it’s out-dated. But WHY? Well, I have a few answers to that very question.

Lately, it seems that all I ever talk about, with my Mum, My best girls, my sister, sometimes people I have never met (i.e.the girls you are best friends with for five minutes when you are waiting for the loo) – is this idea that no one wants to settle down anymore – and everyone wants to screw/each other over. Now, I know there are a few exceptions, well more than just a few. My sister, has been with her man for over a decade – they have a lovely house, a beautiful son and a loving relationship. My best childhood friend also has a husband, a beautiful son and a permanent smile.

However, the older I get, the more and more I see and experience the pathetic excuse that is falling in love and staying in love until you are too old to know what the fuck love ever was.

I am not naïve. I know as well as you do that adultery and fidelity has always happened. Of course it has, it was just different for previous generations. The house wife would be at home all day looking after the children, the man goes off to work and comes home smelling like a woman other than his wife. So does she go crazy? Cat scratch the shit out of the little bastard until he confesses? No – reputations were far more troph-ied in the olden days. She would take a deep breath, and smile, and use the rest of the lard left in the fridge to make him something delightful for dinner. Stereotypical of me, yes, but that was just how it used to be. Maybe the lard thing went too far. But if a man was made a cuckold, he wouldn’t be able to live it down, and if a woman had to leave her beautiful house to move back to her parents’ house she managed to escape from in the first place – how would she cope? What about the children. THINK OF THE CHILDREN.

Nowadays, we don’t seem to give two shits about our reputation. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing – I am all for being you and not caring what others thing, but perhaps this is why we do what we do and get caught. Because everyone else is doing it? I mean, even the media reinforces it. Drake calls us Bitches and Minaj thinks it’s cool to have multiple men craving her boo-tay, those bloody awful reality TV shows promote it to the point where I want to cry a little, even adverts on the TV tell us to ‘cheat on butter,’ (I can’t believe it’s not butter and not forgetting Lurpacks recent valentine day campaign telling men to ‘give her a knob from us…I’m sure like me, you had a guilty chuckle, but then thought…REALLY?!) No bloody wonder.

Not only this, we are a nation of big mouths, we love to stick our nose in other peoples businesses. We are all gossip queens, even the blokes. But previous generations would keep themselves to themselves, it was polite and expected. Remember being told off by the g-rents for being ‘nosey’ and sticking your snout in? That’s because they never did.

The main factor - one you all know I detest but embrace – technology. So Mr Fifty’s husband is out on a business trip, he doesn’t have his girly calling him and texting him, turning a little coo-coo because he hasn’t replied to her. ' iknow you've seen it, my phone now tells me so! They didn’t have all this ruddy technology back then, lucky buggers! Fifties fling calls the house phone and Wife answers, fling hangs up. ‘How strange darling, another one of those blank calls!’ There wasn’t caller ID back in those days. No Facebook profiles to stalk, emails to read, text messages to query! Nothing. So if he was doing the dirty while his wife was doing the dishes, how was she to know? Or him, because I am very aware that it is not just men before we get on to some sexist debate.

So people would have  there fun, get it out their system perhaps, I mean we are only human as the cliché phrase goes. But then, once it was done – it was done, and perhaps after it was these couples grew old together and we call the Grandma and G-Pops.

Then we have this ‘lad culture,’ a chauvinistic, egotistical narcissistic movement that is eating men from the inside out. The ‘plaaayaaahs’ and the new gen wana be Don Juans who don’t want to settle down – unless two of their mates have – who break up with their girlies – because two of their mates did the same. I will say here, that these guys that we all fall for, some more than others AHEM, are just products of their society. So we have to cut them some slack,can you imagine a charming gentleman taking you out for dinner, and greeting you with flowers (again there are exceptions) he would probably endure a lot of abuse from his social group and more than likely be called gay/queer/bender/etc. The guys that wear lower cut tops than we do aren’t interested in the quiet life, they just want to shag. Cause that’s all they ever see eachother and everyone else do. CHEERS MEDIA.

 The other thing. Because we don’t settle down at sixteen anymore. We have baggage. Loads of baggage. Baggage we insist on being friends with. And this drives us insane. ‘We are still good friends.’ Yes but you fucked her and I can’t handle the fact she texts you sweet little kissy messages all the time. Girls do it, my ex boyfriend used to get texts from his ex mess around allll the time, at stupid o clock in the morning (and you know when you drunk text someone they are the wunnnn) WHY? Put yourself in my slippers girl, you’d hate it if I was texting your man at vom o’clock, telling him how drunk I am, and how he should have come out tonight ex oh ex fucking oh.

Stop it, leave eachother alone. We are all putting doubts in eachothers heads alllll the time. One of my best boy buddy’s in the whole wide world, I love him to bits and would do anything for him, but I don’t feel the need to text him all the time ESPESH when he has a girly on the go. I see him out sometimes when he visits the home town and it’s amazing to see him, and we party and we laugh and that’s it. Until next time buddy, catch you on the flipside as the say.

I am not saying we are a nation of cheats, because there are some exceptions, and they are beautiful. But it’s a shame that these perpetual relationships are the exceptions and cheating on each other isn’t.

A Freudian Blip

I abandoned my blog again. I’m sorry. I decided to put all my time and energy into an individual. Look where it left me? Blogging about heart break again. But as I always say, Blogs over Boys anyday, and it’s been reinforced. Again, again. So I didn't really get a chance to blog about my boyfriend of 8 months (record for me, still bummed I didn't reach an ANNinversary) (ANN in capitals as it connotes ANN for ANNUAL, so those of you who post pictures of your boy sending you flowers every MONTH you've been together, 'Our two month anniversary lol' need to sort it aaat.) Maybe I’m just jealous, I would have received at least 8 bouquets, but in saying that by now, they'd all be wilted, or even worse dead, very much like my recent relationship. You know I love my metaphors.

Now, I’m not going to go on a big rant about how awful it was because truth is, we had a good run...kinda. Or maybe I am just doing that thing that us girls do so well by believing 'when it was good it was really good, but when it was bad it was like...really bad. Well...yuh! After previous break ups where I have literally gone a little coo-coo, I thought if this guy and I ever were to finish, I’d never ever be able to cope. This guy was meant to be the guy that made every other bad relationship/fling/bad sexual experience worth it, this guy was meant to help me forget my past and build a future. This guy…

It was quite mutual he break up, and very mature. For all the times I have complained that I have had men say to me ‘My heads not in the right place for a relationship,’ well get this, this time I had to tell said Ex that HIS head was not in the right place for a relationship. And it wasn’t – he had plans to travel and big goals that sometimes I would be a part of, and other times I wouldn’t be. Amazing, wonderful positive days I was a part of, and depressed negative days where he shut me out completely. He also charged me petrol money all the time which really peed me off but that’s another rant for another time.

But this main blog posts motto, is not to dwell on emotions about how I do miss him a lot and how ' I ain't ever trusting no man with my heart again' and blah blah blah. I want to tell all of you NEVER to abandon yourself, your dreams, goals, hobbies etc for anyone else. Ever.  You can maintain a happy relationship all the while remembering that there is only one number one in life, and that is yourself. I stopped writing, reading, my yoga (aka, cheesy dvd complete with extra tight leotard)at one point I stopped laughing, because all of my energy was put into making him happy and making a relationship work. And believe me, I tried everything because I desperately wanted to be with this chap for longer than 6 months (which is not a valid enough reason to pursue a relationship obviously.)

And being single? It is not that bad. Not because I have the double bed to myself again because to be frank, I always curl up to one corner anyway. And not because I no longer have to get up before he does to make sure I don’t resemble a makeupless Medusa. It’s great because I can be me and look out for me. I seem to attract typical mommy’s boys, who seek girlfriends to act like their mommy. Rather Freudian don’t you think. They moan and groan about man flu and how hard done by they are. I’m bored of this, we deserve MEN that will look out for us. With said ex, I wasn’t even granted the hangover card, but if he had a few many beers then ooooohhh giddy did I have to nurse him.

But stop Chelsea, I said I wasn’t going to rant – but I had to have a little say, I mean come on. Going back to my main point of not forgetting was so desperate for my boyfriend to be happy that my aspirations began merging with his and before I knew it, they were no longer mine. It was all on his terms, where in the world we’d go, how we’d live our lives (one time I couldn’t even eat my McDonalds happy meal because of his strong views on the fast food chain) and I became the silent subordinate, who would smile and agree with him to keep him happy. But where was my happiness? It’s like it had done a runner before I had the chance; ‘screw this Chelsea, I’m off.’

Now that we are no more – and because I have had heart upsets in the past, I know not to turn on Celine Dion and mimic our lovely Miss Jones with a bottle of wine and a mascara stained face. I have removed him off of my Facebook (sounds ridiculous but this is one of the things my list of ‘how to get over an ex quicker (stay tuned for blog)), in order for me to not stalk our pictures and become bonkers over new pictures he’s tagged in and unfamiliar pretty faces writing on his wall.) We still speak, very occasionally – but it is mature and friendly, and although I miss him, I know I have achieved so much in the past month that I never would have if I remained in the relationship. I’ve painted my bathroom, begun a tefl course, got right back in to my yoga (I now have a yoga mat that makes my amateur sessions in my living room that bit more pro), I’m reading more, writing more, fretting less. I have had the best weekends with all my lovely girls, and I am reinventing my aspirations and goals. My levels of determination are overwhelming and my self-worth is booming.

Advice to you from me: Don’t let anyone let you forget who you are
Advice to me from me: Blog on!

I am not a cosmo girl

So I have been pretty quiet these past few months, this is due to many reasons. I will take you through these many reasons in my latest posts. Enjoy. 

Firstly, last year I was ecstatic to find that I had been shortlisted for the Cosmo Blog awards 2012. I couldn't believe it when on the off chance checked my twitter inbox, I found a message from a nice lady who told me the fabulous news. I was so over the moon and felt that everything that had ever happened, was for a reason. I became quite obsessive and annoying, getting all my friends and family to vote for me, (and using all the emails I had ever owned to vote for myself, hey, you'd do the same.) The winners were to be based the votes and a judging panel.
I picked magazines up such as Cosmo, Glamour etc it up from time to time to look at the fashion pages, get a good wiff of the free samples and read the embarrassing sex stories. I had always had a quite naive dream to write for one of these magazines but before the awards, I didn't really know much about the magazines message or mission.

So, I decided to do a bit of research. A couple of months before the event in London,  I bought the magazine and read the intro from the editor. I don't remember her name, and I'm sure she won't remember mine or any of the other girls who attended the award, but she was talking about the magazine and how the 'Cosmo girl is a feminist' and the 'Cosmo girl loves men' and all the other commercial twoddle she came out with. I thought, hold up - my blogs don't really follow this criteria. Firstly, because I think the word feminist is outdated, and silly. We will always be 'inferior' to men because it has been installed in us throughout history and media and all that. I'm not saying that I believe we are inferior, I'm saying that the idea will forever be there, jokes, comments, images, media is persistently created to re install it over and over again. But that's another blog for another time. Secondly, my blog doesn't really have a great 'like' towards men. And again, don't get me wrong, this blog will go on to suggest how my views on the opposite sex have changed slightly, and not because I finally have a nice boyfriend ( I know right, I couldn't wait to type it - more on this later) but because I understand that men and boys and lads, are just innocent victims of the generation we live in. Not excusing all their behavior mind.

Anyway, I'm babbling. My point is, I got slightly nervous, no, very nervous in fact about this event. I read the other girls blogs who seemed to fit the criteria of the 'cosmos girl'; the girls who wrote about great sex and orgasms and how to give good blow jobs. They wrote about the importance of men and marriage and nice shoes. I compared this to my sometimes prudish descriptions of what I still and always will call hanky panky. Because well, that's just me, and I am not a Cosmo girl.

The event was in Central London at a club again, I cant remember the name of. I'd only been to London a few times with a theater group back in school. I was an obvious tube virgin if you like; looking around at everyone face down in their smart phones and metros, and there I was not being able to balance, panicing that nobody else noticed how quickly the train was moving.  Everyone was in such a rush. I was made to feel like an amateur for stopping and looking at the tube timetable. Nothing like my home-town where buses come every hour or so, or not at all. I booked into a hotel just round the corner and started getting ready for the big event. All seventy of us were advised to dress formally. I bought a cute little dress from Primark, probably a bit cheap of me, but it looked nice on. I wore black heels for a whole ten minutes whilst stood in the queue. I switched to flats shortly after. As I looked around, and subtly up and down at the other girls (we all do it), I felt a bit crap. My Primark dress had nothing on some of the beautiful outfits these girls were wearing, I immediately felt out of place. They all Cosmo girls? Long hair, thick black specs, short dresses, heels they could walk in, sparkles, glitz and glamour, confidence that could kill. 

I won't dwell on what happened inside the club. I will keep it brief,as brief as the event itself. We were all given sugary cocktails and some fake tan that the x factor contestants allegedly used - as fake as the show itself perhaps. A lot of the girls seemed to already know each other, either that or I was just doing a really poor job of mingling. The editor and another lady made a short appearance, read out the ten names of the winners and runners ups and then left again. I knew I wasn't going to be called out, but I still have a very minuscule amount of hope, that just maybe, just maybe they liked my blog enough to let me win. And when they didn't, I was just as pissed off as I would have been if I thought I had a good chance. I couldn't help but notice that Ms Editor of Cosmo, didn't look as though she really wanted to be there. The superficial smile she had when the phots were taken, was suddenly dropped when she stepped back to the podium to read out the next winner.The magazine editors left perhaps too quickly after the final snaps were taken, they obviously didn't have time to stick around to chat to bloggers who had travelled to London for their pontzy and quite pretentious event.

This may all sound very sore loserish  and bitter, and perhaps I am. But I couldn't help but question whether or not the 'judges' actually read my blog until the votes were in. And I couldn't help but imagine them turning their Cosmo noses up at my rants and raves about boyzzzz and their habits and not conforming to the Cosmo girl world of amazing men and sexy sexy blow jobs. I don't think that's really reality. 

I too made a swift exit from the club. I couldn't be arsed to stand around drinking crap cocktails and listening to the woft about the mahgahzine yar and how the event haaaas been soooo successfuhhhl so fahhh. I  found myself leaving quite tearful. Perhaps it was my enjoyment in reading these magazines and aspirations being crushed and thwarted. As I exited the club I couldn't help but notice the posters they had put up of numerous front covers. Headlines reading: 'I snorted cocaine for breakfast', '10 ways to make him beg for more,'It was almost as though I was in a movie and these headlines were coming out at me, in big bold letters, spinning around, with people in the background laughing and speaking the headlines. Weird, I know. Perhaps it was the sugar rush. But I thought, is that what I have to write about to get somewhere? Because that's just superficial crap. 

So fair to say, I have been a little stunted in adding to this blog - as for a while I thought it wasn't what people wanted to read. But then I thought, who cares. I like to write, and if you don't like to read....then you can click here!

Three things I have discovered since being shortlisted for the Cosmo Blog awards in 2012?
1) If ever I did fancy a tan just like an X factor contestants, I possess the relative apparatus.

2) I should pursue my writing, even if I feel like it isn't what people want to read about, it is what I want to write about that counts most.
2) I am not a Cosmo Girl. 

The Man and The Moon

Julia couldn’t handle the fact He thought she was crazy.

Yes, she stalked his Facebook, tried to hack into his emails and walked through town at 5pm knowing he would be driving through from work, but he didn’t know all that did he? Surely not, he was never that quick to the mark.

For some unknown reason to her, after everything he had ever said and done, or didn’t say and do for that matter, she had developed a very unhealthy obsession to something, someone, that was very bad for her. She was addicted to him like heroin, heroin that made her skin crawl, made her exhausted, ill, an addiction so ruthless, when she looked in the mirror she saw ugliness; she had forgotten how to love herself.

Living in the small town of Marshwood, it was impossible to escape his toxic behavior, her friends were his friends and his mother always insisted on telling her everything he was up to when they bumped into each other at the local Tesco every week. Whether this was pure coincidence or part of Julia’s abnormal obsessive behavior, she’d never admit to herself. Their social lives were unavoidably entwined and the first and last instance she decided to tell her friends she could no longer be a part of it, he called her bonkers.

Luckily for her, Julia was very close to her mother and seemed to have inherited the same mad man magnet gene that even her grandmother possessed. It bought them all closer together, because not only could they relate, but they could also offer their maternal advice.

‘Time is the best healer,’ said her mother as she placed her warm hands on Julia’s shoulders and gave them a sympathetic and motherly rub.

‘Two years, 6 months, 11 hours and 23 minutes since he chucked me on a social networking site, do you really want to talk about the healing power of time Mom?’ Julia felt bad for being so sarcastic, but realized her mother was giving her a stern look, not because of the abrupt remark, but rather for the disbelief that her daughter knew the exact time of when it all went wrong for her darling self.

‘He made her like this,’ Julia’s mother turned to her own mother, who looked up from her book and peered over her glasses, as if she hadn’t been paying any attention.

‘Don’t be so silly dear; she has just forgotten how to be herself for a little bit. Men don’t make us crazy, I blame the moon.’

Julia mirrored her mother as they both turned to each other and rolled their eyes. Julia’s Grandmother blamed the moon for everything, she believed it affected the way everyone behaved – Julia thought it was all nonsense.

Strange, the event Julia looked forward to most in life was getting over Him. Forget her 25th birthday, celebrations, the solar eclipse, promotions at work and all that jazz. She was planning a party bigger than the millennium for the moment she finally saw sense. It was just a matter of when that moment would be.

He had been with several different women since Julia; all of which He’d also left broken, with their heads and hearts pounding. Julia knew she wasn’t the only one, even though much of the time she felt as though she was. The only relationships, if you can call them that, that she had over the past two years were with similar sorts of men; narcissistic, unemotional, sadistic, incompetent, manipulative, you get the picture.

Her friends always said: ‘Get over him, get under someone else!’ This never worked, primarily because Julia’s home town was all gob and secondly, He would always find out about it and make her feel stupid and slutty afterwards.

‘What are you doing with him?’

‘It’s nothing serious.’ Julia would say, knowing well that the tone of voice he used was manipulative, and not jealous. Manipulative, not jealous. It was time she got herself a grip and forgot about Him forever…

…One Friday night, on the odd occasion, Julia decided to stay in and watch crap television. Graham Norton was getting on her nerves and the Real Housewives of Orange County just made her shout at the television. She noticed a bright light shining in from the window, and as she looked outside she was became mesmerised; she had never seen the moon look so full, so powerful and beautiful. It was past midnight, and Julia put a hoodie on over her pajamas to go for a walk in under the bright moon light. As she left her house, she looked up at the full moon and thought about what her Grandmother said to her. She noticed a figure just up the road. She knew it was Him, from the way He walked. He walked carelessly and lazily, ironically, the same manner in which he kissed, and touched and loved. As she got closer to him she could see the reflection of the moon in his eyes. The most life she had ever seen in his eyes since, well, since forever.

As He got closer, Julia could see He was drunk. Of course He was; it had been a Friday night.

She stood there frozen, and waited for him to come closer. He came right up to her, his face inches away from hers, and she could smell the Vodka on his breath. He looked different, unshaven, and rugged. He looked Ugly. Within that forty seconds stood in intense opposition, Julia’s mind flashed with all the awful things he had put her through, the lies, the cheating, and the manipulating.

She looked in his eyes and saw no guilt, no remorse, just lifeless eyes only brought to existence only by the moon. He smirked.

Of all the questions she could have asked him, What are you doing here? Where have you been? Why are you such an arse? She looked in his eyes and saw no guilt, no remorse, just lifeless eyes only brought to life by the moon.

‘I’m not crazy’ she said ‘ you are.’

And she walked off with the weight of the moon off her shoulders.

How long were you together? Ah, just the weekend

A good friend of mine once said to me whilst I was complaining that ‘all men are out to get me’/ ‘ohhhh I will never find a boyfriend/ 'this keeps happening to me' etc;’ ‘ aren't you in a weird way, glad that these things happen because they give you something to write about?’ My answer, oddly, when I thought about it: ‘YES.’ Boyfriend,…or blog?? Boyfriend or blog. BLOG! Almost as easy as the daddy or chips equation.

I met Billy ages ago, when we were in Secondary school. I was a few years older mind, he was in my little brothers year and cousins with a boy in my tutor. That was it. But he got older, and bloomed into this charming, cheeky chappy with a lovely behind and a grin that made me feel like a pervert. Don’t get me wrong, he is only three years younger than me, but the pressures to find an older man in life made me feel uneasy about having the hots for a young fellow who hit puberty the same time as my younger brother. (Sorry but my mind is a strange place and will take into account all odd things such as this.)

When he became old enough to be allowed entrance into the only night club within a 30 mile radius of my small town, I would always catch his eye. Or he would catch mine. Strange phrase thinking about it, I’m imagining a game of catch with an eye ball here. We would hold each others glance for a few seconds at a time shall I put it. But I was weirded out by my inner voice ‘stop it Chelsea he is too young for you...perv!’ There was one night though, where we just danced with each other  didn't say a word, just did this slightly awkward salsa fumble to Sean Paul one Saturday night. It was fun, and I laughed a lot, and he did too.

Time went on, and I had my fickle heart stamped on by many ‘men’ and I never really thought much about the situation. As far as I knew, he had a very pretty long term girlfriend, who had legs up to her chin and long brown hair that she could just put up all messy and disorganised and it would still look amazing. I want to be able to do that one day. One night, at our cheesy town hall resembling night club, we kissed. Or rather...I kissed him. I knew he was single however because he previously had pinched my bottom, and I asked around to ensure I wasn't going to be mega bitch of the century. I kissed him outside, and he kissed back. It was lovely, but drunken and I don’t normally go kissing around, especially at home where people talk too much and in this particular case I was scared I’d be locked up for perversion. 

I didn't really think much of it afterwards. (Shock!) Until! The little beggar added me on Facebook, months after the kiss. I didn't hesitate to accept of course. Then we got talking, a lot. And he made me ‘LOL’ and I’m pretty sure I made him do the same, although a lot of the men I meet in life, try and hide the fact they find me funny. I still don’t know why. We swapped numbers and for two months, every day, we would text and Facebook. I’d mock him for being young, and he’d say stuff like I smelt like moth balls. I am a sucker for banter. There was the occasional flirt, and innuendo made out of the word ‘toddle and I was beginning to really like the attention more and more.  I also believed I was slightly in control as I was older, and perhaps wiser, and I never let him forget it.  

Being at University and him living at home meant we couldn't meet up and rip each other’s clothes off. This was great though as the sexual tension was building as Christmas was coming up and I was due home to visit the family, and attend the ultimate Christmas night out at the local club. The night where old school friends, best friends, ex best friends, ex-boyfriends, girlfriends and long lost cousins come together and drink the place dry. Our texting was going well, lots of xo’s and suggestive texts implying his potential visits to Bournemouth, and how long I was back for at Xmas. He even asked what I was doing for New Year ’s Eve. To my knowledge I had nothing planned, but I perhaps should have been a cooler cucumber and not let him know this, but he did reply with a ‘ we will see what we can do' text,which made my little feet tap.  

Unfortunately, a week before my Christmas return, he turned colder than the ruddy weather, and stopped responding to my texts. Me, I’m crap at this sort of thing, and I should have possibly read the warning sign, the big red flashing light up warning sign, and left him to it. But I asked him, maybe in the third text, I really don’t want to admit to a fourth, what was up. His response: ‘I don’t want to lead you on Chels, but who knows what will happen Saturday.’ SAY WHAT! I couldn't believe what I was reading. There were so many things wrong with this text. The lack of xo’s for one, the complete contradictory tone, the ‘I don’t want to lead you on.’ Bit late for that love, I thought. We didn't text a word for the rest of the week.

Getting ready for the Christmas night out, I looked in the mirror and felt pretty good. Perhaps I had subconsciously made more of an effort because I knew he was going to be there. Subconscious, pah, I am my own subconscious and of course I made an extra special effort’ ‘E needs to see what e’s missin’ kinda effort. All you need to know is, he was the first person I danced with, all night, and the last person I left with. Jaeger bombs definitely got the better of me, and as we were kissing on my brothers sofa (no one was in the room with us that would be weird) I kept pulling away and joking that ‘I didn’t want to lead’ him on. I thought I was being really funny at the time mind you. I think he found it funny too.

The point is, he stayed with me that night. We then got up the next morning and walked into the kitchen,  my brothers both looked at me..’here she goes again.’ I knew what was on their mind, but I liked to think that maybe, maybe this time it would be different, and something could work here. ‘Who wants a fry up then?’ Billy asked. My brothers faces turned from disappointment to adoration, and as Billy later stood by the frying pan, trying to save the eggs I’d just messed up, my older brother winked at me. After making fried brekky for at least ten (my brothers’ house gets quite crowded during festivities) we both snuggled up on the sofa and as he stroked my hair we just giggled and talked nonsense. The nonsense you talk when you are sleep deprived and  perhaps still slightly intoxicated from the night before. The good nonsense.

The evening came, and he was still there, still at my brothers, with me! Looking fresh and composed in all his nineteen years of manliness may I add. The house started to fill again with our merry friends, and Christmas eve eve meant a gathering was on the cards. Billy turned to me and said ‘I really want to stay but I’m still wearing the clothes from last night.’ My lack of response due to being astonished by the fact that a guy had stated he didn't want to abandon my presence just yet, was distracted by my younger brother who offered him a shower and some of his clothes. I couldn't  but I wanted to squeeze my little brother so tight ‘thankyou thankyou thankyou.’ But play it cool Chelsea, play it cool.

The night was very joyous and Christmassy and oh so lovely. I watched Billy as he became more and more confident, probably due to the  more and more beer he drunk but he was really joining in with my brothers and all our friends. He was really enjoying himself, and I felt like I was … well his girlfriend. Rolling my eyes as he made silly jokes and swooning when he’d kiss me on the cheek in front of everyone. It was so odd, but I felt so comfortable. Almost too comfortable. He stayed over again that night and as you can imagine, the vino and the Christmas spirit made us rather raunchy and fruitful, and it was pretty damn fun if I do say so myself. But that's enough about that...

Christmas eve, we woke up, his body neatly wrapped around mine. As I cleaned my teeth he made me a sausage sandwich before his dad picked him up at midday. (So young.) And when he kissed me on the lips good bye and merry Christmas, I knew that that was the last time Billy would ever kiss me on the lips. Don’t ask me why. I just knew.

And I was right. I got a communal merry Christmas text on Christmas day, after having to restrain myself from texting him after he left the previous. I text back a more one to one Christmas greeting, and got nothing back. As time went on, and Christmas passed, I told myself it was gonna be another cold winter. Damn, another year I didn't have the excuse to shout the lyrics from ‘warm this winter’ at the top of my lungs. ‘It’s gonna snow outside, the weather will be cold, but I’m gonna be wa-ar-arm this winterrr.’ Man, I can’t wait for the day that this can happen.

New Year’s was approaching fast, and I heard from a friend he was off to Birmingham for a big house party. I found me a house party in Bournemouth too, but I knew I didn't have a new year like he did. For one, I didn’t have my pretty brunette ex-girlfriend there to kiss me at the count down. This is major irony I guess, firstly because I am not a lesbian, and secondly because it was Billy who was blessed with his ex-girlfriend on New year’s night, and Facebook didn’t fail to let me punish myself over the tagged pictures of him and his ex, who looked quite frankly, really in love.

I tried not to ask myself too many questions. 'How long ago did they split?' 'Does he still love her?' 'Did he use me?' 'Was I a rebound?' 'Did he mean it when he said I was wicked?' (Wicked as in cool, because, of course I am!) 'Am I a total loser?' Instead of trying to seek the answers and make a total fool of myself, I later told Billy that I wished not to speak to him anymore, and that he shouldn't go round hurting girls just 'cause he is hurting. His response was that he was sorry, and he never intended to hurt anybody.

He told me off Christmas Eve morning for reciting the lyrics to this very song, as it was original and had been done before but…

Get outta my head / bed

I fell asleep in your arms tonight,
Without even shutting my eyes.

I normally toss and turn you see,
This dream came as surprise.

And you've had trouble sleeping too,
I've come to realise.

But I can't keep on hiding under
Your duvet disguise.

Dirty Talk?

I need more views, opinions … and maybe advice on the whole notion of dirty talk. Do a lot of women do it? And do they do it well? Do they enjoy doing it? Oh and just a note to family members, I love your support and your praise, but do cover your eyes.

Personally, I have never been no feisty little minx, one time during…you know (I can’t even bring myself to blog the words!!) I was asked ‘What do you like to be called?’ I cringingly replied with my own name…’Chelsea…Chelsea will do just fine.’ Well what was I mean to say? Pussy Galore?? Or Ivanna Humpalot?? I’m just no good! In another instance, (yes there’s more) I was asked what it was I wanted. I never really understood the question because what we were already doing was clearly what I wanted. I said…’this is just fine.’ Silly Chelsea, silly un-saucy non-sexy Chelsea. I was laughed at in the face, and what a unique and uncomfortable situation that was; to previously be having the time of your life but ever so suddenly being made to feel about the size of the orgasm you weren’t now going to have.

I’ve got a bit better over the years; but only non-verbally. I don’t think I’d be able to keep a straight face other wise and at least this way it gives me a bit of time to sit down and think about what to say; rather than blurt something ridiculous out and completely kill the mood. Nevertheless, it always terrorises me when I click the send button because I know that I’m the kind of person who will send a text to the last person in the world that should ever receive it. And I’d still rather not bother; I end up sounding like an amateur porn star who doesn’t speak much English. Why send a text when you can have the real thing?

One craze that I can never get my head around is dirty pictures. Firstly, because lets be honest guys, it is difficult to take a flattering picture of your own aroused selves’ right? And the danger of internet sites, and nosey parkers, and phone hacking…I’d rather not have half the Country knowing my ‘private’ business. The first kinky picture I was ever sent was three years ago and I literally turned nun-like; I couldn’t believe my ex sent it. In fact I didn’t even believe it was his until I recognised the carpet. He had a girlfriend at the time (he being the unnamed man who deserves the lion's share of the credit acclaimed through my blog for invoking such a powerful response from within me) and he asked me to return the favour. Cheating little so and so I thought. So I lifted my arm, and took a sneaky snap of a… Heinz baked bean (I went to the trouble of opening a new tin.) ‘You wanted a bean,’ I replied. He was not amused. I was always brilliant at outsmarting the ruddy rogue.

So, as you can read, I’m no pro at making men weak at the knees with my sexy, sordid ,liquorish whip seduction techniques. I like to have a laugh and not take anything too serious. I’d rather just leave it up to the makers of the Bare witch project or the movies full of the highly imaginative: ‘Oh Mr Plumber, is that a pipe in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? I’m so glad you came…’ So tell me everyone…what are you wearing? I mean…what do you think about it all?

Where's your head at?

So…here I am thinking, holy crap I have been shortlisted for the Cosmopolitan blog awards (just thought I’d throw that one in there,) I best maybe try and mix my blog up a little, and divert away from my ranting and raving about the repetitive mistakes I seem to make with the opposite sex. Opposite being the key word here.

But, truth is, I can’t. I’m good at making these mistakes and maybe even a little better at writing about them. (Being shortlisted for the Cosmopolitan Blog awards ‘n all.) However, when I write these entries, my thoughts are going out to every other female who has to go through the ups and downs of living in new gen! I know I’m not the only one who ballads it out to Celine Dion and shouts at the TV showing yet another comedy romance: guy meets girl, girl falls out with guy cause she was a bet, but guy realises how madly deeply in love with her he is and then they marry on a white sanded beach.

It seems to me that there have been many recent cases amongst myself and my dearest girl friends, where we are warned after at least three weeks of the whole ‘seeing each other’ shebang (ugh what does that even mean,) that they are not after anything serious. No doubt however, they are after a late night ‘snuggle’ to conclude their night out with the ‘lads’. Seems to me, these boys don’t like to sleep alone.

I am master of these speeches delivered by the male generation, without even being one of them. And this is not necessarily a good thing, it means that time after time again I have had to deal with the knock back of thinking ‘ooo things might be getting serious,’ only later then to learn that it couldn’t be further away from serious if it tried. Does this mean it’s all big joke? Because neither of us were laughing last night when we were cuddled up watching rubbish TV, laughing and joking, kissing and talking. To me, when these guys text me and my girls saying how much they enjoyed their evening, and how they wish they didn’t have to leave that morning…I am left puzzled. Is that not serious?

Why is it they wait until we begin to fall for them to tell us that their heads not in the right place, or they aren’t ready for commitment or they are just really confused at this particular moment? If that’s the case misters, then why the dang do you ask our numbers? Most recently, I had another serious case of ‘my heads not in the right place’. ‘I’m not sure what I should be doing?’ he FACEBOOKED me. Hold up chuck, last time I saw you, your head was where it’s supposed to be and you were actually doing …well to put it bluntly…me? This guy is severely confused. Why didn’t you tell me this two months ago sugar pie idiot darling oh my god it’s happened again twirp!!

This is a short entry because I don’t want to have to repeat what I have had to say before. And I’m trying to work on this new ‘don’t keep re-reading the last chapter because you’ll be unable to move onto your new one’ outlook. (An artier fartier way of saying, don’t dwell on the past.)

But men, boys, fellows, lads, stop making up these uber lame excuses that make us girls feel pretty damn crap. You know where your head is, you know what/who you’re doing and if you don’t make up your mind and embrace the things that could actually be pretty amazing for you, then you will lose! Because if you think females are going to wait around for you to find your head, de-confuse yourselves or finish off your experimental phase…there’ll be another thing coming. And it won’t be you.

Love yourself first!

I’ve always been told…'you meet people when you least expect it,’ or ‘they turn up when you’re not looking.’ Now, I’ve always been slightly pessimistic to these almost routine-like phrases. Is it something people say to singletons to make them feel just that bit better about not finding 'the one?'  And surely if I'm not looking and Mr. Perfect walks by, I’ll miss him right? And if we least expect it, does that mean he will walk by at 8:30 in the morning when I’m at the co-op getting milk, braving the braless look, in a pair of Primani joggers with my ‘I have not yet had a coffee’ eyes and ‘I don’t care for hair brushes at this time’ bouffant? Cause believe me, he’d keep walkin’!

Nonetheless, one piece of advice that I am a great believer in (and we all should be in this day in age, where 21st century over confidence and the egotistical generation game can sometimes get the better of us,) is to ‘Love yourself, before you Love anyone else.’ However, I appreciate and understand the difficulty to do just this when we can be knocked down by narcissistics and careless beings who are able to love themselves simply by making others feel like total shit (which of course people, is not the way to do it and may I add…that Karma will bite them in their stupid I love myself asses.) It seems that because we struggle to form strong relationships, commit to one another and respect one another, this phrase is more spoken then acted upon. It seems that within our generation, we skip from one partner to the next and this new norm of guys not wanting to settle down just yet because the new COD is coming out, there are a few things to get out of their system first (pah, there is no other meaning to this then a simple bone-everything), or my favourite and most popular response of ‘my heads not in the right place;’ our confidence and concept of loving ourselves becomes inexistent. As a result of this, our brains seem to run through every single time we have been rejected/put down or dumped over Facebook (yup still bitter.)

But I was told once that our brains are programmed to do just this. Once something goes wrong, in my case the continuous man hunt which always results in me being caught and trapped until the hunter gets bored and moves on to the next victim (strange metaphor but you get what I mean,) our brains begin to dwell on allll the other crap things that have happened in the past.

Recently, and believe me it pains me to type it; I became interested in a fellow who seemed to worship the ground I walked on. He told me how beautiful I was and how nice my eyes were and even though I was a little weird, (meh) he found me very interesting. This is the sort of thing that gives us girls that confidence boost and enables us to dig deep into that pocket of self worth to find that little thing called self love. BUT (there it is again,) of course as time passed and miss-ex-girlfriend begun texting again because she couldn't comprehend with his new found happiness,(it’s not just men,) I got the ‘I love spending time with you BUT, my heads not in the right place at the moment speech.’ And I'm pretty sure that is the updated version of the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ talk that we all try to avoid both saying and hearing...

As much as I was genuinely interested in the guy, it’s not like we had been together for two years (heck 6 months would have even be a record for me,) but because similar events had happened and hurt me before, my brain went into overload. ‘Well Chelsea, this isn’t the only time this has happened now has it, what about in year ten hmmm, when you’re first boyfriend dumped you because you were too scared to ‘get off’ with him’ or in 2009 huh? When Mark decided to ditch you for that lesbian because she was ‘more of a challenge’ (fair play to him, you can’t get more of a challenge than that!) You almost start battling with your own mind ‘hey shut up!’, ‘wait, who told you about that?’

But this is a habit, just like smoking or biting your finger nails and it needs to and can be stopped. If you trained yourself into thinking and dwelling on the past that shouldn’t even matter anymore, then you can without a doubt train yourself back into not doing this. And as much as I have turned this blog into another reminiscent rant about another man-related experience, I say this to all of you reading (all three of you followers;) there is no need for anyone to make you doubt yourself…ever! Unfortunately, as I keep going on like some 80 year old lady who keeps repeating herself…in this generation, things are not simple or straightforward when it comes to relationships. And I think, a lot of the time, relationships fall because we have forgotten to love ourselves. We have to stop thinking about those who have made us forget, because everyone is right when they say to you, they are NOT worth a second thought, or the first for that matter.

Instead of thinking about how bad he made you feel, think about how good something makes you feel. Today! The present! A smile from someone who served you lunch, a joke told by a colleague, or your friends drunken dancing on Saturday night. Instead of throwing daggers (not literally, Shakespeare was good at his metaphors…me on the other hand) at his new ‘bit on the side,’ think about how lucky you are that you are out of that, and she has it all to come. Besides you are better than her anyway! You really are. And don’t think about what happened four years ago, where is he now? Still at his mother’s? Glued to the television, with a spliff in one hand and a poor girl on the other? And now ask yourself, where are you? Exactly.

Find out HOW to love yourself here:

I love...spending time with you

Ooops I did it again. Did I really just open my new post with the undeniably unforgettable chorus line from Britneys'  2000 number one track? Yes. Yes I did.
I have become involved with another indecisive game player. Should I tell you that it is someone I have been slightly heart broken by before? Well, I just did. My best advice ever has to be, don't keep running back to the one thing you should be running away from. I am yet to follow this advice. I also got told, relationships are like going to the fridge, if the milk is bad, you throw it out. For some reason, I seem to indulge in putting sour milk back in the fridge, hoping it will miraculously become fresh and pure again, and nice to drink, and get my metaphor.

'I really love what we have,' you said to me the other night. Our bodies entwined like an awkward but comforting game of twister. People seem afraid to use those three words nowadays. Instead it's; 'I love...spending time with you,' 'I love....what we have...' 'I love...the idea of falling in love with you but heck, who does that these days?' And what is this 'thing that we have?' Seems to me a secret sleepover every night, cuddling up all couple like, talking about our days, the occasional kiss and cuddle to keep each other warm, but not too warm mind, we don't want things to get steamy now do we.

I love it because you keep me warm on these cold winter nights, two pillows are better than one, two hearts beating simultaneously are better than one. 

You love it because when your lovely man arms are wrapped around my body, you can look over my shoulder at your pontsy iPhone and see if that becca girl has replied to your message on  I know this, because...I'm not really sleeping. I have practiced the art of one eye open sleeping. An art I wish I never skilled, because I hate to see you text your ex and plan your weekend antics with 'the lads.'

It is easy for you, I'm in the room next door and I'm not the type of girl (as the blog definitely suggests,) to kick up a fuss when she is being treated like a massive mug. A massive, porcelain, china, pretty pattered one at that. So when we go out and I turn around in the club to see you snogging Mrs up-to her chin legs and down to her bum hair beauty, I can't be all like - 'That's Ma Man BITCH!' Cause you ain't 'ma man' and you probably never will be.

Instead, I politely ask for the keys to the house, pretending I've lost mine, just to get a close up of this 'pull,' and as I think, yeah well done actually, she is schmokin...I turn to you and wait for some sort of response. Maybe a  'Chelsea, oh what am I like, you're the one that I want, I'm coming with you,' or 'Oh this girl has totally just blackmailed me into kissing her, she has a gun Chelsea run, save youself, I will find you, and we will marry,' or a simple 'Ah Chels, you alright?  Keys? Yeah sure, here ya go.' Of course, it was the latter. 

So I fight the tears in the taxi and mumble something to the driver about hating Bournemouth and not belonging here and listen to some soppy love song to make myself feel that bit more worse (why do we do it?)  3 hours later my already thought-interrupted sleep is interrupted by you ringing to let you in. Ah of course, I took your keys. ( The wine that night has made me forget whether I took these keys as a punishment, surely I wasn't going to steal your keys and make you sleep outside?) I let you in and crawl back into bed, you do the same thing and ask 'have I upset you tonight?'  

'No.' I reply.