Fast food fast love

Today I found myself in McDonalds, alone, scoffing back a quarter pounder meal with chips and a diet coke. Whilst scoffing, I looked around to see if there was any other solo scoffers and was disappointed to find that, nope, it was just me. I couldn’t quite bring myself to count an old man who was hunched over his crossword and crap cup of coffee.
I’ve been doing this for years you know, eating Mcdonalds on my todd, looking around at the couples and the families, not sure if it is guilt I feel for eating at this media slated, vegetarian hated franchise or, complete despair that I am on my own in a fast food restaurant, gobbling up salt ridden chips and slurping sugar mounted cola like there is no tomorrow (is that why they call it fast food? No one really takes the time out to appreciate the authentic and exquisite taste of a big mac meal with gherkins…)

I am on my own in a fast food restaurant. Again! What am I doing? That’s what I think to myself. But then if we delve deeper into the supersize cup of ice and diet coke…why am I on my own?
Well, for starters. I have this new thing where I just lie to guys I meet out. I can’t tell the truth, about anything. Not in a sinister or malicious way. It’s all rather jovial and informal and in most cases quite sarcastic. If they ask my name, I say it’s Sheila. And when they laugh at the seemingly outdated, old person related label, I pretend I am insulted. I loved Drama class in school and I relive my love for it through these boozey nights out in the variety of pubs in Bristol. I can keep a straight face better than most, some fall for it and persist to call me Sheila for the duration of our, most of the time, short acquaintance. Those who don’t quite fall for it, are persistent to learn my real name, in which I respond something bitter such as ‘why would you want to know my real name?' Or 'what do youuu care..' Other lies include, being Czech, being much older than I actually am, or ending up in Bristol after a tragic boating accident, leaving me stranded on the harbourside and working in one of the bars, and I don't tell them which one.

Most of these chaps I am either not attracted to, or smell from a mile off their  stench of chauvinism, narcissism, egotism, Lynx etc. The ones that I do quite fancy end up being victims of the 'pretend to have met them before' act where I become insulted at their bewildered faces, showing confusion, sometimes guilt, because they don’t know who the ruddy hell I am.
Most nights end with the guy’s bidding Sheila farewell and I end up alone in a taxi, wondering if Maccy D’s is still open, talking to a foreign taxi driver about the hopeless romantics of this generation.

Said taxi drivers follow on from this to tell me I'm a good girl, and that I will meet the right man soon. Kudos taxi drivers.

So why then, this alter ego, Sheila? Sheila Tequila if we are at the bar and I am trying to get a free drink. Well, maybe I just don’t want to let anyone in. Perhaps I am just a very bitter and twisted single female who has resorted to this behaviour because nothing else has really worked for me. Maybe i'm just plain crazy. Whatever the theory,I think, I am quite HAPPY with it. Because normally I am stood there with open arms shouting ‘ COME ON POTENTIAL BOYFRIEND, I DON’T LIKE YOU MUCH, AND VICE VERSA, BUT WE COULD GIVE IT A GO!’ I quite like pretending not to be me; when I actually managed to get a barman’s number out of it the other day, (and that was all Sheila, I've  never had the confidence to do such a thing before) after three or  four texts I became irritated and bored of him twisting everything  I said into some sordid suggestion, so I deleted the damn thing. And it felt good to not bother replying one Saturday night when he suggested I smoke something illegal with him and check out how 'sick' his room is.
For once in my single life, I’m actually having fun. And not the type of fun I would regret if I were to roll over to find something other than my stuffed owl teddy bear, someone who has made  my room smell of breath and lynx.

 One thing that has helped me not want, is the fact that the very chap who evoked the ‘powerful response from within me,’ the fuel and the trigger for much of my blogging and blogworthy life experiences, has actually had a child. He is now a dad. When I first heard the news, or rather saw the news because a dear acquaintance of mine thought it’d be appropriate to show me the scan via snap chat screenshot. post tequila, I cried like the little baby to be born nine months later. I was in a pub back at home, it was Christmas and I cried like a spoilt brat would if Santa had put a satsuma in their stocking. And NOT because I wanted to be carrying his offspring, no no no, but because I was sad that he got the family and the partner and the house and instead I was childless, partnerless and mortgageless, moving to yet another city to see if it could offer me more than my previous residencies ever had. P.s. i dont want a mortgage really i was just being spoilt.

And Bristol has offered me much more. So thank you for that Bristol.

For the first time in 6 years things between us went quiet. No late night drunken messages, no break up rebounds, no gossips from the small town residents who told me everything he ever said, did, didn’t say, didn’t do. I thought the father to be had finally stopped being a little boy.
Then one month ago, a month before his newborn was born, I had a message from him.
‘I hope alls well with you.’

Now, that’s not even a question. Thats a rhetorical statement that said to me that he expects me probably not to be well because I’m always messing about moving places and things.  I replied, of course I did. And I’m not proud; it’s a terrible habit of mine, like biting your nails or drinking too much. We then got talking, a little more than we should have been. And he asked me If I ‘had a fella yet.’
 When I replied, 'a boyfriend? Me? Don't be silly,'  (I always put myself down around the likes of him) he asked if I had turned lesbian. Some sort of pre-baby fantasy perhaps, or more likely checking if he still had me there on that threadbare bit of string. Then again both scenarios are as likely as eachother.

A  couple of months later, Facebook notified me of the baby's name, weight, birth, fathers resemblance, mothers rapid loss of baby weight etc and admittedly I had a little moment in Asda when Pixie Lott came on. I had to stop and  look down at the single woman remnants of my shopping  basket, because tears were stinging my eyes. I soon got a grip and told myself to grow up, and to put back the wine and chocolate and baby grow that I wanted to sharpie  ' My daddy is a twerp' on and pop in the post. The latter was an exaggeration. After I got over my initial crazy lady moment,In my head, I wished  him all the best and his child all the happiness, and I think this is now  where we draw the line. Of course, there will always be the slight bitterness stinging these positive thoughts, but I'm only human eh?

And why has this all helped me? Because I never want to go through that again. Which is a bold statement because who knows what could happen, but for now, I want to be risk free, and I want to feel in my heart, mind and soul that whoever I chose to share more than one drunken night with, is worth it.

I.e. the right 'one' if you like, and I do have much distaste for the phrase, will be the person who I won't introduce myself to as Sheila.

And if I was to bring a metaphor in to this, because you know I  love my metaphors, I guess, my relationships are a lot like a quarter pounder meal. I know they are bad for me, and yet I still go with it, thinking it's tasty and fulfilling (no innuendo intended)! They don't last long, and shortly after it's over, I get a funny sickly, regretful feeling in my stomach. So, from now on, I won't be eating in McDonald's on my own, pondering my single life. Instead I will wait happily and patiently to be wined and dined, in a nice gourmet restaurant, with real food, and a real man ;)

Why Helen Fisher is my new found love...

I watched a Ted Talks the other night by Helen Fisher and she pretty much made it all make sense. when it comes to love.

Which is nice really, because love really doesn't make any bloody sense at all. At least I don't think so. I strongly recommend her talk 'Why we love, why we cheat,' as it gives love a different kind of spin on cheating rather than 'you complete aresehole, how can you do this to me,' and looks at it in terms of biochemistry and evolution.

I won't go into too much detail, that's for Helen Fisher to do, and for you to find out but I do want to write down what I took from it.

Helen, (I don't want to call her by her second name because this isn't an essay and it seems a bit rude) begins her talk by introducing three different love states. These are :

-Lust - the ole hanky panky (yep, still referring to it as that)
Romantic attraction - i.e romantic love
Attachment - deep feelings of union with a long term partner. the 'i'm ready to make a baby with you' kinda love.
Her talk goes on to discuss how we can experience these different states of love at different times, but also dangerously at the same time. Which is where cheating comes in...perhaps because we experience these rushes of want for another, new or different type of love, we seek it in other people. We are so far in the attachment stage, which is lovely of course, but what happened to lust? Where the heck did that go the frigid little prick...

It also explains why casual sex isn't casual, and perhaps why sex should never have been tarred with the brush that is 'casual.' This is where the interesting biochemistry part comes in; Helen describes the hormones released during hanky panky (I'll get there one day) such as floods of oxytocin and vasopressin, the hormones linked to feelings of attachment. Helen reckons we can naively fall in love with someone we thought we were just having casual sex with. There. I said it.

So what do I think about this? Well, I think AMEN! I have been battling it out with my own brain and hormones for years (see pre-posts): why can't I find someone to be with for a long time? Why do the people I meet and hear about seem to lie and deceive? Why do I find myself being attracted to a whole range of different people, only to end up back at Celine Dion and cheap bottles of Rose?

Because I am HUMAN. That's why. Are we genetically programmed and evolutionised to just meet and stick to person? Perhaps not.  We are in a sense, in love with lots of things, places, food, music - of course it is different with people - but we love our family, we love our friends - surely it's difficult for us to love just one thing. I like pasta, but I am not just going to eat pasta forever.

Okay okay, so there is a big difference between pasta and partner choice, but what I am getting at is that, perhaps we need to take the pressure off things a little bit in order to figure out what it is we really really want. What it is our minds are telling us.

*Please note, I am not saying everyone is a cheater, I am not condoning cheating, I am not saying you should cheat. If you want to messabout with lust while you have already formed a committed attachment with someone else, then you should not be attached to that someone.

Tradition, media, films, books, history has all taught us a way of life, trying to reinforce a tradition that was perhaps never really there in the first place.  To have one partner, to marry and settle down with a chap you fell in love with when you were fifteen. Only to get to fifty and think WAIT A MINUTE THIS MAN BORES THE SHIT OUTTA ME.

Okay, so I may be going against some things I preached about in my earlier years of blogging, where I completely fall head over heels in love (or so I thought) with someone, where my on going man hunt did nothing but fail me. Desperate to find'the one.' only to find three that were quite similar. But as I get older, and witness not just my own experiences, but those around me. The pressure of finding this perennial relationship is overcompensated.

Another side note ( I have to make these because else I am completely dropping myself in it,) for those who are in long term relationships, married, children etc - hats off to you because you are showing us it can bloody be done, and it does work. But, as I said in my previous post, you people are the exceptions. The exceptional exceptions and I only wish we could take a page out of your photo albums - because it is beautiful when it happens.

To conclude, I like Helen's idea of the three states of love. It makes me feel a little better about myself and also more forgiving toward those past experiences of mine. (Again not condoning cheaters.) Another thought of mine, quite linked to this idea )and perhaps a feature for my next blog) we should appreciate the variety of people, flings, relationships, flirts, crushes we form in our life time. They give us experiences and grant us the privilege of being where and who we are today...If one doesn't work out? We had the experience, we had some good times, the bad times made me stronger and here I am today going on a date with someone I perhaps may not see again? But the food was great and I learnt about the off-side rule. Silver lining and all that.

Bridget Moans

So I moved to another City to embark on a new adventure that will take my mind off the crazy past of mine. A past that I do no longer regret or reminisce upon, because it has happened - I can't change it, and I am quite grateful for it because amongst the quite absurd times, there have been some brilliant times. Times that have made me who I am today, and times that make for a great story/blog.

One thing I have learned, and have somehow managed to do, as you can perhaps tell by reading this blog - is not take it too seriously. Learn to laugh. Learn to love, yourself.

I started working for a new company two months ago and I was introduced to a gentleman, a bit older than myself. He was handsome and tall and wore nice shirts. I said to myself, 'No Chelsea, don't start, you want to be you, you want to be single, and you are not to get involved with someone you know nothing about just because he has nice shirts!'

One lunch time, he sat next to me and asked how I was getting on with the new role. The fact he came up to me and initiated conversation when the only stimulant involved was coffee made my mind start ticking about what it would be like to be with him. Crazy, I know, but I also know that I am not the only one. The Ch sound of his name made my name and his compliment eachother.

Then came the Facebook friend request and the drunken messaging commencement on a Friday evening. He was at a stag do and I was out in a bar near where he lived. Please bare in mind I did not stalk him to find out where he lived, I am bad, but not that bad. He'd previously told me where he resided in a conversation about how well I knew the City:  not very well at all, which he so supportively reminded me of later on during our fugacious acquaintance.

Red flag (1) - I asked what he was getting up to for his friends stag do. His response: 'we are at a strip club now, I can't stand them, looking at poor excuses for women makes my skin crawl!' First of all, yes you do like strip clubs you MAN and second of all, strippers are poor excuses for women? How very misogynistic. I think they are more woman than some , with their voluptuary assets and ability to shake it. Perhaps he thought I'd agree, I wish I disagreed a bit more, instead I just pretended I didn't read that part.

In one of his messages, he did suggest that I come and watch him play football one weekend. Now, I'm not going to pull a red flag here because it was nice to chat to a guy who was so passionate about something other than himself or say...pot. But let me tell you now- I cannot tolerate football. And this isn't a queue for some feminist rant or to complain about their pay rates.  My name is Chelsea for Petes sake, believe me I have tried, but it just doesn't interest me. I thought I best put it out there early on so he could decipher whether he wanted to carry on chatting to a girl who hated football so much that she refused to speak to any bloke that would call her 'Arsenal' or 'Man U' for a barrel of laughs. ' Unfortunately, I'm not into football but if the sun is out I'll be happy to take a stroll down some time.' Keep it cash, keep it cash.

Eventually, in amongst are to'in and fro'ing of Facebook frolicks, I was asked out for a drink. My mind ignored the fact that he hadn't been able to make me do a trusty lol yet and instead focused more on the fact I was being asked out for a drink, in a new city with a guy a bit older than me took over. And I said yes, without hesitation. I traveled across the daunting city to meet him after his football match.  I stood at the bar he recommended for fifteen minutes with two pints of cider, remaining chirpy and positive after receiving a text that he was running late and finishing his pint with the lads. Gentleman.

He arrived and I found us a seat, and we spoke about him for two hours, and me for none. He told me everything about his ex girlfriend, (red flag x 3), where they had been, why they split up, how they met, how long they had been together. He also spoke a LOT about football. My mind wondered occasionally back to film I had recently watched the Jack Nicholson in. But still, I remained assured that this could be something, this could be it! Silly aren't I.

The night became hazy after we polished off our numberless cider and headed to a cocktail bar, bad idea. I woke up the next day with a sore head and even worse, him sound asleep next to me. Now I know, nothing happened. I mean, yeah, we kissed because my lipstick was now more his, and we must have kissed because as I got up to find something to wear that wasn't last nights clothes, he grabbed my arm to pull me back down and left a nice wet alcoholic breathed lipstick stained smooch on my lips that were glued together with sheer awkwardness. Sounds like a new shade.

I made us both tea but I couldn't finish mine. Perhaps it was the fragility of my stomach after the previous nights binge. Or maybe it was because I couldn't stomach any more talk about his ex-missus or the fact he moved on to ask me if I'd ever been in love before. A question that bewilders my mind so much that I become agitated and nauseous. I shrugged and asked 'Are we really talking about this right now?' Like there was a possibility we could revisit the conversation in the future.

Luckily, and unsurprisingly , he had to leave swiftly for training, of the football kind, so he didn't stick around too long that morning. He asked if I would like to come and watch him play. The first time I have ever been grateful for a hangover.

Work on the Monday wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be, we said good morning in a professional manner and exchanged 'are we cool?' glances across the office. Something felt terribly unsettling about the weekends events, but again, my inner old romantic tried to fight its way through telling me 'this could be it, this could be it, give it some time.' It even went as far as thinking I could be the new Bridget Jones and that an office romance could be the best thing for me.

So for a couple of weeks, I tried it.

It was more like a really shit version of Bridget Jones. As the days went by it just got more awkward. He wouldn't catch my eye at the right time, instead I'd look up and seek his as I was picking the winter infused dry skin off my left nostril.

Not only this, the cold weather meant that  I didn't come into work all dazzling in my short skirt or sexy office dress, it was far too cold for that. So two pairs of leggings and an oversized charity shop cardigan later, Mark Darcy wouldn't look twice at this scruffy cow.

I don't wear heels, my legs are too lanky and I resemble an intoxicated bambi when I have ever attempted the devils footwear. I wear the same old pumps every day, one of them coloured in with a black sharpie because I dropped the tippex pen on them. Classy. So when I caught him as analysing the crap out of the new starter as she walked by; the Romanian beauty with her daring inched heels, perfectly plucked brows and more hair than a horses tail, I'd just end up feeling a bit shit.

One time, I thought I'd try and entice him with a cheeky bend over motion as I filled up my water bottle at the water dispenser (to be quite honest you don't really have to bend down, it's easily accessible at  arms length but what the hell.) However, the water bottle didn't seem to quite fit underneath the nozzle, too busy focusing on my stance, I didn't realise how much water went everywhere. Everywhere. Instead of turning around to those who may have witnessed my utter error, I just got up and walked away.

He later on confronted me about this event, and I went red faced, denying all knowledge.

Red flag x 1 - Perhaps I should have called it a day here, when the in the office flirting was chaotic, lifeless and difficult. But noooo, inner old romance wanted me to have a boyfriendddd.

All in all, Bridget Jones, Smidget Shmones. Surprisingly, I was asked out on another date. But, I say date. He actually text saying 'I'm pretty tired tonight, shall I just come round yours and we can chill and watch a film?' CHILL!? WATCH A FILM?! What are we married? No, I want dates, lots of dates, preferably ones where you turn up on time and I don't have to pay for our cider!  (red flag x 1)

I persuaded him that we should go out for some Pizza, I knew a restaurant near where I live, (being very aware of his middle class affirmation (I know red flag!) I  ensured that it was well researched beforehand. And it was lovely, the food, the drinks, the restaurant. The two hours I spent with him talking more about his football and his ex? Not so lovely. I felt like saying 'If you're ex is so great why don't you just marry her,' but instead, I smiled and nodded and fed his already large ego with more then I'd eaten pizza.

We came back to mine again, snuggled on the sofa like couples do, and he kissed me and said he 'REALLY' liked me. 'You don't even know me,' I stated between kisses, to which he replied 'Well let me get to know you better upstairs' (red flag x 1 for added sleaziness.)

NO-said logical me, No no no this cant happen. You don't even like the guy that much, he is obsessed with himself, football and his ex, Which is enough to nip this in the bud right now. I complained I was tired and putting myself to bed. He followed and stripped down to nothing but his ego, my shoulder could not have been colder, I reached for the light switch and mumbled something about work in the morning (conveniently I was working overtime) and I was wide awake until I heard him sleeping.

When he left the next day, I kissed him on the cheek and told him I'd text him that evening. I did. I said I had moved up here to get away from complications and didn't want to start something that could potentially lead to more.

Now call me vague, but I meant that to mean more ... complications. Mr EGO, on the other hand took it to mean something completely different. His response?  'Hmm, sad news. You're right it could definitely lead to more, but if you're uncomfortable with it I understand. You've just moved to a big city and everything's new so I get that. Don't worry about it Chels, I'm a big boy and I'll get over it, it's a shame as I thought it could have been something really good.'

So in two weeks I got to know quite a lot about this chap. I managed to make him REALLY like me by not saying much at all. I managed to start something and end something in a very short space of time, realising that I let it go on for longer than it should have. BUT, for me, it is a record,I normally hold on to things and people so tight trying to kid myself that it is real and worth it, that it's going to make everything that has gone on before worth while. And that's not a valid reason for getting to know someone, to 'help you forget' or 'move on'. You should get to know someone because you want to, now, in this present moment.

Another life lesson in the crazy mixed up world of relationships, if you don't feel it from the start, then you probably wont ever feel it.

Another life lesson - You are not and never will be Bridget Jones.

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 opportunists and opportunities 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 tarot cards on the desk next to her, and asked her bullishly to read mine. A couple of the other girls had traced my stagger and seemed uneasy about the idea. I went first. She said we were allowed one question each. The fear and anxiety of GCSE results was fresh and alcoholically exaggerated, so I asked about my education. She turned over a card and paused. She wasn't smiling, in fact she looked sadfor me....’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, the 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 than anyone I have ever known and did not ever want to compromise. This meant that his ex-fling was texting him all the time and not only this, they'd meet up for a smoke everytime I was visiting home and I never got to meet her.  He would never see a problem with it. Sometimes she'd text him and say say stuff like ‘Does your girlfriend 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. Side note, yes I did read his texts and yes I am a crazy little daisy, but read on! Can ya blame me? 

Anyway, the relationship didn’t last long, it slowly burnt out like the very spliffs he smoked; merging like fumes with the other failed flings I have experienced throughout my young years. 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 and I couldn't sleep. I'd just over think over thinking about us, how we ended up here, on a sofa bed, in a converted shed.

Eventually, 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.

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.