Taking the piss (moan, moan, whine, whine)

Ok, before I get started in any way I’m gonna make it very clear that this is a complete pathetic girl whinge. I don’t like to do it, but hey, I’m a girl with access to the internet, what else to you expect me to do? So get a sense of humour and carry on reading, or stop reading right now, your choice. Though I know many will far prefer to read on and make a snidey comment, that will probably make me laugh, so that works for me too.

 

I’m not the kind of girl who does a HUGE amount of whining. I have a selected few lucky fuckers who get to hear my moaning monologues, but in general, a girl who starts telling me exactly why her ex boyfriend was a bellend and how he broke her little heart makes me wanna eat my own face. I mean, maybe if you stopped using your mouth for moaning and used it for some kind of sexual activity he woulda stayed yeah? But even a stone cold bitch like myself sometimes needs to force some pathetic-ness onto anyone that will listen. So I’m sorry if you do end up consuming chunks of your face, at least it was a free meal (see I’m still thinking positively).

 

My teeny tiny niggle, which is maybe making me want to kill people a little bit, is quite a common one in my life, its recurrence gives it the extra edge in fucking me off. So my moan, to put it simply, is people just take the fucking piss, don’t they? And more annoyingly, I tend to let them. Believe it or not, under the sarcasm, the cynicism and my normal behaviour of being a cunt to absolutely everyone, I’m actually a little sweetheart. I mean it, ask me to jump and I’ll probably knock myself out on the ceiling trying to get high enough for you. However, I think people have worked this out, which is why I am frequently left in a situation where I am running myself into the ground, to the point that molten lava is burning through my pretty shoes, to help other people. But, as you can imagine, those mothafuckas asking me to get a little closer to the equator to help them out, wouldn’t even bother running themselves to the depths of the earth suitable for a hamster grave for me. It really fucking sucks.

 

I am aware that people only take the piss if you let them, so I’m not expecting any kind of sympathetic ‘you deserve better’ speech. No one deserves anything, in my opinion, you get what ya fucking well take. No one presents you with a golden platter of goodies because you did some nice stuff, you have to do the nice stuff and then go and make someone else do nice stuff for you. Like when you lend someone money, you’re a dip shit if you think they will just give it back, you have to nag and perhaps threaten to cut off one of their fingers until you get it back. Kind of rich coming from me as I would be a hell of a lot better off if I actually made people who owe me money pay me back, but once again that is my problem, I let people take the piss. So it seems pretty obvious that the way to solve this problem, and to stop any future pathetic girl whinges, it to tell people to jog on when they ask me to give them my month’s wages, or my kidney, or something along those line. But, that is not my nature, my deep seated desire to be the best doormat in the world prevents me from using that magic ‘no’ word. So nothing is resolved. Which is why this is a girly whining rant, as the answer is obvious, but I’m just going to moan and do nothing about it. I hope you have enjoyed discovering what a stereotype I am, it’s been pure shits and giggles for me.

I’m a material girl (living in a world that makes me feel bad about it)

 

Before I go into this, I don’t want anyone thinking that I’m so material that I have 10 maxed out credit cards in my overpriced purse and debt collectors knocking at my door trying to steal back all my pretty things. I work fucking hard for my money and don’t spend more than I have worked my arse off to get. So I don’t want anyone saying to me that the reason people try and bite my head off for buying a new bag or 3 pairs of shoes is because I’m gonna get myself into trouble. There is a brain under all of this bleached blonde hair and that brain allows me to manage my bank account.

I understand that many people think capitalism is the big bad and that I’m a naughty girl for buying into it. But, being a philosophy student I have studied a lot of Marxist theory, and I have to say, I just don’t see it working out guys. Great beard mate, not so great on the theory though. I could go into an in depth essay on exactly how Marxist theory doesn’t work, but I am currently writing a large coursework essay on this, so if you’re really that desperate to know my reasoning behind why I think communism can only exist in lala land, then I will let you have a gander at that when I get round to writing it. Besides which, despite all the protesting going on at the moment, we are fucking living in a capitalist society, so just chill out and buy an I Phone.

But, the main reason I get grouchy with people deciding they are the judge of my life, is that they seem far more concerned with perfecting their tutting technique on me than realising that perhaps stupid, unnecessary, overpriced, materialistic shit, is what make me fucking happy! If you’re so self righteous, surely you can let me have my new dress without the free gift of a guilt trip, if you know it is making me feel good? Why it makes me feel so god damn dandy? Because the new fur coat I just bought and the boots my daddy just bought me have not once made me feel bad about myself. My coat hasn’t turned around and told me I’ve put on weight, or should be working harder or that my tits are too small and that I’m living my life just plain wrong. It sits on my coat rack looking beautiful and when I put it on it makes me feel just as pretty. When people let me down, a new top brings me back up again. It is my coping mechanism, some people scream and shout and cry, others go and visit their friend the therapist, I just say ‘okay’, pretend nothing happened and go shopping.

And, at this time of year, probably the most materialistic time if you’re not into the Jesus stuff, I don’t see why you would waste your time trying to do your best Scrooge impression when you can just go and spread some of that materialistic love. I mean, can anyone really say that when they open an absolutely banging present they don’t feel pretty good? I mean you also get to know that someone has thought about you when buying the present, so surely that is double good feelings? Also, you get to share the materialistic love with other people by buying them stuff that they want. I don’t see what there is to complain about when materialism is being used to make people you care about happy. So people need to stop trying to make their lives the modern ‘A Christmas Carol’ and buy their mates shit loads of presents.

If you are one of those people for whom materialistic goods just don’t do anything for you, then well done you, that’s fantastic, have a cookie. But, I’m not one of those people, so don’t try and make me feel like the dog poo on your cheap minimalist shoes just because I just bought some really nice undies that are going to make me feel fly. Because, if I’m honest, if you do make me feel excrement-esque, I am just going to pop down to Oxford Street and buy something else to make me feel better, so no one is helping anyone. Everyone gets their kicks in different way, so you have your world changing views, and I’ll have my three wardrobes full of clothes, everyone is happy right?

Blunt. (Everyone get in your JCB)

I am a little bit blunt. I don’t like this bush people talk of and I like even less that so many fuckers seem to be beating around it. Plough through the bush with a JCB, that’s what I say. But, apparently, my bulldozer methods are inappropriate and seem to make people run away screaming. I understand maybe put a hard hat on, because the straight forward truths I like to blurt out aren’t  always pleasant, but a complete site evacuation just seems a little like pussy behaviour to me.  However, the amount of shocked faces I’ve seen staring my way has led me to believe that either a hell of a lot of people are pussies, or there is some little social booboo that I haven’t managed to force through my little head. And, if it turns out there is some kind of social taboo that I haven’t yet grasped, I just think it is a silly one that has been solely created due to the general pussy behaviour of people.

It isn’t that I am rude to people, I just don’t understand that if you think something, something that is completely harmless and doesn’t incite any of that nasty hate venom stuff, why you shouldn’t just feckin say it. For example, shite loads of people will walk past a girl with the label sticking out of her dress, yet no one says anything about it because they think they will be eaten by some monster of embarrassment or something along those lines. But, if you were to say something the girl would probably be grateful, she isn’t going to turn around and bite your left ear off or anything scary like that.

Yet, I am treated like some kind of ear eating monster because I do release into the world the contents of my little brain box. This means that I get all the dance moves of life wrong and tread on everyone’s toes. The toes I tread on the most are the ones in my love life. Don’t get me wrong, I am definitely not one of those girls who runs around with that terrifying ‘L’ word, scaring every breathing bloke off by booking the church for a month after the first date and thinking of names for the twelve future babies. It is more that, if I think someone is bang tidy I will just say it. Surely that should be simple, no? The conversation should go:

‘I think you’re bangin’

‘Oh, I think the same of you’

‘Cool, d’ya wanna hang out on a regular basis in the future, sometimes with, or sometimes without, our clothes on?’

‘Yeah sure, I’ll just take my pants off’

DONE. Though it seems I am gravely wrong in thinking this is how one’s love life should work. Apparently, when you fancy someone the thing you should most focus on doing is making them think you don’t like them. Bit fucked up if you ask me. However, this backwards approach does seem to get higher success rates. Those who do the cutie little coy act (which I firmly believe just masks some kind of evil relationship chess game) end up all happy families because they both played by the stupid indirect rules, until they were both manoeuvred into the right positions to actually start getting the shags in.  Whilst, on numerous occasions, my approach (which would save us all so much time) leaves me trying to decide how many cats I want to get and which Adele lyrics are the most suitably depressing ones to learn.

I think this may be because people get the wrong end of the stick. They seem to think that just because I have said I have a soft spot for them and would like to see what they look like naked, it means that I am ready to start taking my wedding dress measurements. When, in reality, I just mean what I have said. No hidden intentions or huge master plans, just the fact that I find the person attractive and thought it would be good if they knew. I’m sorry if it comes on a little strong, I’m sorry if I stomped on the metaphorical bush, I just don’t see the point in the silly social games. In fact, I think life would be a lot easier if more people actually did have the balls to say what is on their minds. Human life isn’t all that long, so why spend months playing a silent chess game when you can be a gobby cow and get it done in 30 seconds? It is just time management.

So, in the future, if any of you bastards are run over by one of my verbal JCBs, just take it for what it is. Don’t run away scared because you think my honesty is going to crush you into a sticky man pancake, cos I can promise all the serious bits scare me too. Just get into your JCB and it can be like some kinda verbal monster trucks. It would be way cooler, and once you start blurbing every thought that goes through your head, you realise word vomiting on everyone is very satisfying. Also, after a while my verbal diarrhoea stops being stinky and offensive and seems more like a cute little bit of social retardness. Which is endearing. I hope. If not I really am fucked.  

Dating Advice (every woman must get married and have several babies)

Out of pure curiosity I recently borrowed one of my best friend’s dating books. It has increasingly become one of those reads where you despise yourself a little bit more with every page you turn, and yet cannot stop turning said pages. I’m like a rabbit stuck in the head lights of literary crap. It is fascinating. What is most fascinating throughout this book is the assumption that all women must be on the hunt for a hubby, and therefore must act in a manner that will lure a man into the marriage trap. Ironically, the book suggests that a woman should not change her behaviour to make a bloke love her, but then proceeds with 300 pages of nothing but demeaning behavioural adjustment. Lest to say I won’t be recommending this book to any of my girlies, but if you don’t mind, I shall rant further.

Many who know me will be ever so aware that relationships are not my forte. I have a low boredom threshold at best and am adulterous at worst. I think many dating books would agree with me that this is not the behaviour suggested for a lady trying to get a ring on her finger. However, I do find it difficult to truly find fault with my love life. Why? Because I have fun. It is so widely assumed that every girl is out there to find ‘the one’ or their ‘soul mate’, or some other lovey dovey bullshit that I think a lot of girls forget the main point of having a fella is to enjoy yourself! So what if the bloke your seeing isn’t gonna be waiting at the altar for you? There is nothing wrong with having a laugh, getting some shags in, and then learning from your mistakes when it all goes tits up. Everyone’s happy right? (Well except for the heart crushing, soul shredding break up period, but we’ll ignore that for now).

What baffles me even more is that I think a lot of girls actually believe the pathetic dating advice thrown at them by unwittingly chauvinistic (male and female) pig writers. Women seem to think they need to lap up the liquid shit squirting from these authors’ pens, and that they will be better off in their love lives due to this diet of excrement. Taking these kinds of writings as gospel is not only demeaning, in my view, but also really fucking silly. I know I am often the first to start waving my feminist flag, but honestly, hear me out on this one.

Firstly, any of this dating ‘advice’ seems to assume that every woman is spending her whole life looking to get married off so she can start shooting out the sprogs. Fuck the career, your own hobbies or interests, and even self respect – just get shacked up and knocked up, then you’ll be truly happy! I think not. Maybe I should have been born with a dick, but I truly believe that doing things for your own well being and success is far more important than having someone on your arm. If you do get a nice hubby, that’s a great extra, but it shouldn’t be some kind of freakin’ female nirvana.

Secondly, there seems to be very little advice on how a bloke should be acting to make you want to be his wifey, or is it just assumed that a chick will take any dickhead as long as he’ll get down on one knee and has strong swimmers? Some would call me fussy, but I have a few more requirements than that. In my opinion, some crucial advice that should be given to ladies is that if he isn’t treating you like a princess then you should tell him to get the fuck out your castle – NOT that you should let a man treat you like you have the grand value of an Asda Smartprice product, as long as you get your dream wedding.

My final criticism (well not quite my final one, but the last one I am going to bother you with), is that it actually makes me kinda sad that there must be a market buying into this rubbish in order for people to be writing it. I mean, surely we have come along far enough for a girl not to feel her whole life needs to be validated by a man? No one should have so little faith in themselves that they feel they need to be validated by another person, whether they are male or female. Sure, other people are great, I love it when someone makes me feel pretty, or smart or ever so slightly special, but I kinda think the most important validation is from yourself, not from other people (that sounds ever so slightly fluffy for me, I know, so I’ll stop now). So yeah, you should be looking in the mirror and saying ‘fuck yeah, I’d smash you back doors in and then marry you too!’ not going out your way to make someone else say it to you.

I am fully aware that this probably does make me sound like some bitter, cynical bitch, who wants to spend the rest of her life alone with shit loads of cats, but this is not the case. Of course I like having a boyfriend, and one day I would like to get married and having some kiddies, but for now I’ll have a bloke because I want one, not because I think I need one. Especially as I am painfully aware of how young I am, how many more men there are out there for me to test drive, and am absolutely terrified by the thought of child birth (please someone explain to me how it is going to fit!?) So the only dating advice I can give is to do whatever the fuck you feel like that makes you really fucking happy, and a decent bloke will probably fall into place from there. I don’t think that kinda guidance is going to get me a job with Cosmo or the like, but oh well, I’m quite content giving my shitty little titbits on life out for free.

The Rat (exterminating your problems)

‘Rat’ is a vile word. We associate it with disease, dirt and any other unwanted problems. If you have a rat in your house you immediately want to poison the little fucker and throw its corpse in the rubbish. However, actually finding the rat is the tricky bit. Often we know it is there, and its little path of destruction is all over your lovely home, but finding it is as unlikely as your bus being on time. But when you do eventually find it, there is no doubt that the disgusting creature is getting its head bashed in, and it will feel goooooood.

I’ve had somewhat of a rat in my life recently. I’ve been aware for a while that there was something in my life that was more than undesirable. There have been little poop pellets left on my days, but I haven’t been able to truly put my finger on where they were coming from. But now I have, my finger is right on the rat ready to squeeze its little brains out. Of course, the ‘rat’ is the problem in my life that has been dragging me down a fair amount. By dragging me down a fair amount I mean I have felt like I’ve been pulling round the shackles of Marley from ‘A Christmas Carol’, and as he explains, they are rather heavy. I just haven’t been able to identify what it was in my life that was making me feel so utterly shite to be able to deal with it appropriately. But all has been revealed, and I’m calling in the extermination team.

The thing is, often the part of your life that you don’t want to be the problem ends up being the one thing that is nibbling into your happiness. You are so determined for it to be a cute harmless mouse that you can’t see it for the disease ridden vermin it is. This is probably why so many of us live in discontent. We can’t find where the rat is in our lives to even begin to think about how to kill it off. Then, if we are lucky enough to have a small epiphany and work out who or what is eating all the happy food from the fridge, having the guts to actually go in there and grab the fucker by the throat is another mission all together. I don’t think there is an answer on how to make it easier to grow the balls to face the rat out, but I know you just have to find some way to do it. Otherwise, it will just keep on shitting everywhere until it becomes almost impossible to clean it all up, and no one likes cleaning up shit.

I would much rather kill one little rat than spend every day sweeping poop off the carpet. So, I’m whipping out the traps, the poison and the knives until the vermin is successfully exterminated. I had so wished that the nasty sewer rat was just a friendly little mouse I could share some cheese with, but I suppose reality has to hit us all in the end. However, I know for sure now that it is this rat that is spreading its disease everywhere, and I would far rather live a disease free life. So it has to go. Bye bye ratty. Oh well, apparently you are never more than a metre away from a rat, so I’m sure there will be another one for me to foolishly share my cheese with soon enough.

Temper Temper (wearing your heart on your sleeve)

I’ve tried a little experiment recently. It has been interesting to say the least. I started out with a hypothesis (as my GCSE chemistry taught all experiments do). My hypothesis being that life would be a great deal easier if I did not, fundamentally, have my personality. By no means am I being a shitty little emo screaming that I hate myself while carving my favourite ‘My Chemical Romance’  lyrics into my wrists, I more mean that there are aspects of my personality that probably cause more harm than good. The main one being that I am beyond shit at hiding how I feel. Admittedly, there are very few things that can affect me emotionally, but if you do manage to set me off the only advice I can give you is to run. Fast. I will let you know exactly how I feel and then I will make it very clear that I will not stop fucking with you until I have made you feel exactly the same way, and then a bit more. If the upset you have caused me is the equivalent of a cake, then your cake will be exactly the same, but with some sprinkles on top.

This fighting spirit may not seem all that bad at first, it means my friends are always well defended and the arseholes of the world are deterred from fucking with me. However, just as much as I show my temper off in all its raging glory, I also show my love and affection off in the same manner. Lovely at first, of course, but when your heart is on your sleeve it is far easier to aim for than when it is locked away in an iron chest and buried six feet underground. Being so vocal about who I am lovin’ on and how much lovin’ I am willing to give to them leaves you, to put it in the simplest way possible, really fucking vulnerable. And that, without a doubt, leads to tears, tantrums and that crazy temper of mine. All because the majority of people, when presented with your little, cute, helpless heart choose to throw it down on the muddy ground, stamp on it, spit on it, cover it in petrol, and then set it on fire before using its ashes for a litter tray. Thus, I decided to get out a shovel and start digging a deep hole in which I could bury my weakness before anyone else decided to use it as bog role.

At first, everything went really well. I felt all powerful and like I could make anyone bow at my feet. This was until one of the people who has that magic ability to affect my mood came stomping along to piss on my heartless bitch parade. On the positive side, I did manage to maintain my cold exterior for a little while. Deep breath, count to ten, and all those other anger management tips. I imagined anything that stirred any form of emotion being put in a little box, which I then put away in the back of a cupboard to be dealt with at a more suitable time. Like a proper lady would do. But I don’t know whether I have a very small box to store things in or if the people who get to me just love fucking with me, but I began to run out of emotional storage space extremely quickly. I felt like everyone around me was Pompey and I was Mount Vesuvius getting ready to blow and cover them all in molten lava. And I did blow. Magnificently. Now those affected are more than a little pissed with me because they got rather burnt by all that lava I decided to throw around. Oops.

All good experiments draw some kind of conclusion; my conclusion here is that I am just not the kind of person with enough self control to suppress my feelings. I’m just a tad bit too honest. If I love ya, I feel no shame in screaming it out my window, but if you piss me off get ready for your life to be ruined – or at least to get a verbal arse fucking. To pick up the pieces of my little eruption I could probably do with reigning back on those feeling things again, but I worry I have an inability to do that. If you are one of those people who has the amazing ability to neatly store away your emotions in a filing cabinet, then please, any tips would be helpful. But, for now, I’ll just be me and throw my little heart around like volleyball. Please don’t burst it, because if you do, as far as I’m concerned everyone is entitled to my opinion, and oh my will you get it.

Turning into your mother (or father)

I am always told I am like my mother. From my natural ginger tinge to my taste for red wine. However, lately I can’t help but think that I wish I really was turning into my mother. There is not one bad bone in her body – not even a tiny toe bone has a touch of evil. I’m not saying she is a perfect person, as there are times when she has told me the same thing 3 times in the space of an hour, pushing me to the point of screaming, but her slight senility can be forgiven due to her fundamentally being a wonderful person. Many seem to make the mistake that this is another similarity between us, but I can warn you now, compared to my mum I might as well be a mass murdering paedophile who pushes old ladies into the road. Those who think they know me well may argue with this, and to them I issue another warning, I am a brilliant liar.

Instead, I seem to be turning out exactly how I promised myself I wouldn’t, like my father. However much I love my daddy, he really isn’t made of role model material. When you think of an adulterous, self absorbed, image obsessed solicitor, you don’t then think about how much you hope your kiddies turn out with these same charming qualities. But, alas, I seem to be becoming more and more of a bitch with every day that passes. I’m not saying that I am completely a bad person, as I do have some redeeming qualities, but I’m not exactly an angel either. This is a bit of a shame, as I swear the sun used to shine outta my arse, but as time has gone on things have gotten kinda stormy. But shit happens I suppose, and I really don’t have the energy at the moment to turn my life around, especially as I seem to be spending so much time hung over, and everyone knows it is impossible to get anything worthwhile done when you are feeling worse for wear.

Whilst contemplating what a dastardly villain I am becoming, I have begun to think that there are very few of us who can say we are becoming the people we really want to be. Some of us just seem to be more aware of this fact than others. I am fully aware that my child hood pledges, such as never to smoke and only to have sex with the man I marry, have gone up in flames larger than if you poured a can of petrol on the fires of hell. I reflected on this whilst I smoked my 8^th cigarette of the day, having just texted a random bloke who gave me his number in a bar the night before. But, at least I can admit this is not the behaviour my inner child is rejoicing about. And admitting your faults gets you half way to dealing with them right? At least that’s what they say to anyone trying to get over an addiction and such like.

Whilst I know that my halo is far more than a little wonky, I still feel I am allowed to pass judgement on those who are acting in a manner they would have formally been ashamed of. Being judgemental and hypocritical is another one of my father’s tasty traits I seem to have inherited. But, as I have said many times before, being caring is my main redeeming quality. So, while I may silently judge those who are acting in the same shameful way as me, to those who have shared their fantastical dreams of perfection with me, I am constantly concerned that reality isn’t turning out to be quite so perfect. What’s more, they don’t seem to have come to the same admittance as me that they really are just being a bit of a dick. But my dog is more likely to learn to shit in the toilet before these people listen to what I have to say, so I have resigned to quietly fretting rather than actually saying anything. I just hope that they too have a little epiphany at some point soon, and prove to be a far better person than me (which isn’t hard) and actually do something about it.

However, I strongly doubt that my faulted friends are any better than me. It is beginning to become clear to me that my father isn’t a bad person; he is just a very normal one. And normal people are a bit rubbish. But, normal people often have something about them that is good. So, even though my mates and I all seem to be competing for douchebag of the century, I can know that none of us are ever going to win. We all have a little something that makes up for the naughty things we do. Whilst I may be my father’s daughter and never hold down a healthy relationship or accept not getting my own way, I know there is a little bit of my mummy still in there. This hope is what helps me sleep at night, because I know before I go to sleep, at least I lie there worrying about the people I love. And this makes me more like my mum than any ginger hair I find in my fringe.

Emily Smith

Behind every great man is a great woman (I’d like to be appreciated now)

I am the kind of person who will often jump into shit creak with someone I care about to see if I can fashion them some kind of paddle. I have never done any less for the bloke who, a long time ago, told me that I was the ‘great woman’ behind him. Since, I have often pondered the phrase and thought that its feminist sentiment and seemingly complimentary tones are somewhat questionable. I by no means think this phrase is always true; as I am sure there are many wonderful men who have had no woman bombard them with supportive clichés whenever life is looking a little bleak. However, I know this has certainly been true for me, and has simply left me wondering, if I am the woman behind a bloke, who is behind me?

As you may have seen in earlier blog entries, I go out of my way for anyone who makes the mistake of becoming my friend. And, I have always found that when it comes to the ladies in my life, with whom I have spent far too much time baking brownies and watching chick flicks, the favour has always been returned. However, I have found in relationships with the male species that this is not always quite the case – for me at least. The story seems to start with complete and utter appreciation, I am placed on a pedestal and worshipped. Then, slowly but surely, my pedestal is chopped down and replaced by a hole in the ground. I am then made to sit in this hole whilst it is used as a stinking long drop by the bloke who previously peeled my grapes. Being taken for granted. It sucks. In fact, I would say it sucks to the point where it really begins to affect a gal’s self esteem.

The thing that I think is only realised by ladies who have been forced into taking under appreciation as a part of their life’s work, is the affects it has on the way you think. Before I jumped into the world of relationships, and promptly began to drown in it, I was a fairly headstrong and confident lass. Some would go as far to say a little bit of a bitch. And now, the slightest tea spoon of rejection from the right fella, and I will waste the next few hours of my life standing in front of a mirror crying because my nose if too big, my tits are too tiny, my eyes are too slanty, my stomach is too fat and my nipples are too pink. It will continue until I have successfully found fault in every part of my body, and have decided that it is another month of solely eating apples and seeds, whilst saving my spare money from lack of grocery shopping for my boob and nose job. This may sound extreme, but I know that I am not by any means the only girl who does this. I also know that it is nearly always man induced due to the latest thoughtless words or actions he has taken, which have successfully wormed into the girl’s mind and planted the crazy seeds.

I am fully aware that letting the innate thoughtlessness of men have this effect is completely ridiculous. But, combined with the under appreciation, that induces psycho girlfriends, is the lack of support a woman will get due to being taken for granted. This brings me back to my main concern when I am told ‘behind every great man is a great woman’. As, I will virtually go as far as licking the shitty arsehole of the bloke I am supporting, and yet when on the occasions where perhaps I just want a well done or a little something to say they are grateful, I am instead met with responses that bring on the sensation of having my teeth kicked in. I know I should not be doing nice things with the expectation of getting something back, and of course I do look after people because I love them a little too much, but is it so much to ask for a gesture of thanks here and there? I mean maybe a new dress? Some flowers? A meal at McDonalds? All would be just as special to me just because of the gesture behind them (plus I really like chicken nuggets). But, even more important than chicken nuggets, would be the feeling of being supported. It is amazing that you can have the support of everyone you know, but you will still feel more alone than you would in a padded cell, because the one fucker you want to show you how bloody fantastic you are refuses to do so.

Since starting the absurd and wallowing rants that I call my blog, I have been inundated with praise from all kinds of charming people, and I have been eternally grateful for you giving so much as a giggle when reading it. However, after being behind one ‘great man’ for a few years now and hoping for him to back me up on this one, instead these posts, that I throw my shrivelled and damaged heart into, were branded as ‘overwritten’ and ‘jibberish’. Words strong enough to make me want to slice off my fingers so I can never type again. I’m not saying I can’t take a bit of helpful critique (though I may sulk at you before taking it), but it would just have been nice to feel like there was a nice big crash mat behind me.

Perhaps that is why saying ‘behind every great man is great woman’ is so very feminist, because it is the blokes who need a lady to kiss their boo boos when things go tits up, and women can just scrape themselves off the pavement and stride on in their six inch stilettos. But I don’t think it makes me any less of a strong woman for wishing that there was a nice fella to help ease me up when I am all splat like a pancake on the roadside. This may not ever happen, and I may spend the rest of my life feeling more let down than a week old helium balloon, but I know I will carry on giving pep talks ‘til my voice is hoarse. And maybe all this silly upset just shows that my bloke is on his way to becoming a great man, and needs some hand holding all the more because of it. It is possible one day the lightning bolt will hit him between the eyes, and he’ll realise that throwing a bone to his nagging bitch of a lady is more than necessary. And, in the mean time, I suppose I will just have to be an even greater woman than I thought.

Emily Smith

Apologies (I know you can’t stay mad at me)

I am painfully aware that to have an opinion is to disagree with, and sometimes even offend, someone else. It is implicit in jumping off your comfy spot on the fence that keeps you fine and dandy in everyone else’s books. Although I am usually very dismissive to anyone who gets their little panties in a twist because I’ve stated (probably rather bluntly) an opinion that isn’t going to go down well with everyone, I do understand my perception of where the line is can be a little skewed, and render an apology necessary. However, it is not often that this apology is given, as most the time I’d rather swallow a dog shit sandwich than my own pride.

Despite my hesitance to utter, without a trace of sarcasm, a five letter word beginning with ‘S’, I feel it might be worth giving it a go in this post. It has come to my attention that one of my previous blog entries has caused a fair bit of offense, especially to one person whom features heavily. To this person I am deeply sorry. However, it is well known to those that are close to me that when I do have an opinion on something, I go straight for the kill and there are no prisoners. I’m like a dog at a bone, and I am completely aware of this less desirable attribute of my personality. Because such merciless barrages of opinions are so much a part of my personality, I refuse to retract what I actually said in the post. But, this does not make me any less apologetic for getting so caught up in my bitter and self indulgent rants, that I upset not only someone I care about, but someone who has encouraged me to write for a long time. I can only compensate by saying that anyone who has, or will, feature in this blog, whether is it in a positive or negative light, are only present is my posts because they have been important enough to inspire me and coax some emotion out of my ice queen facade.

Being someone I genuinely care about is an exclusive group, and I don’t intend on losing anyone who has managed to get in. I know most of them could forgive me for anything up to murdering their whole family, just as I would do for them. Though, on both parts, forgiveness can take a while. In the mean time, I tend to find it very hard to have people throwing strops at me, it usually just inclines me to run for bitch of the year award (and win). So I will take this opportunity to apologise to anyone that I choose to completely soul destroy, whether it has already happened or is going to happen, just because you have dared to disagree with me. I suppose you are entitled to your wrong opinion.

And, to whom this post concerns, and those it may concern in future, I hope eventually you can be flattered that I am able to write such hateful material about you, as you know from me this is the greatest form of affection. But, if you are unable to see passed my razor sharp words, at least have a giggle at my humorous and whimsy writing, which is solely inspired by you. However sorry I am though, I still think you need to grow some balls. It is just a silly girl’s blog you dipshit.

I hope this can be a reference to anyone who means enough that I choose to write about them. Just something to make you laugh, and remind you that the more of a bitch I am, the more I am thinking of you.

Emily Smith

The Passion (this has nothing to do with a film about Jesus)

I am brilliant at procrastination. This post in itself is a form of procrastination as I am currently supposed to be editing rather an important essay (pfft it is only one module!). Around this time of year, my Facebook stream frequently reminds me that I am not alone in this problem. It seems that whenever it comes to some sort of revision or coursework every student seems to suddenly find that even taking the dog out and cleaning up its shit is more desirable. But, just because a problem is common doesn’t make it any less detrimental. Just because the majority of people I know smoke doesn’t mean their chances of getting cancer are any less, and other peoples’ procrastination doesn’t mean I am less likely to fail my exams due to lack of revision.

However, now I have started procrastinating I may as well continue. Especially as my ramble may help me get to the bottom of the issue (one can only hope). I recently had someone very close to me say that I don’t seem to have any particular passion for anything. Everything I do, I will do to the best of my abilities but, I will never get hugely excited about it. This comment did come from one of those lucky fuckers who actually loves their degree and is ‘following their dreams’. I think such lucky fuckery probably makes it far too easy to preach to us plebs who picked the best degree we could, just to give us another few years to work out what we actually want to be doing. This lack of passion could be the reason why I procrastinate from anything related to my work, as really, I’m not interested in the slightest.

Despite this, I don’t think it is exactly true that I don’t have a passion for anything. I just think the things I am passionate about are the kind of things that get taken for granted. Whilst I may put off a bit of studying here and there, I will never put off the people I care about. I’m always the one holding someone’s hair back while they fall face first into a club toilet and always the one who uses up ridiculous amounts of overpriced petrol to give lifts to any poor pet that have got themselves stranded. Acting like this may not be the behaviour that is heading towards some master plan that results in mass material gain, but it is what makes me happy. I’m not saying I am putting myself through such an intense degree without any hope of monetary reward, as I really do hope one day to be successful in my career, but for now I’m pretty happy to simply be a nice person. Well not completely nice. If you do get on my bad side you’ll probably find out pretty quickly, but very few people end up deserving the full extent of my wrath, so that little blip in my personality can be ignored for the purpose of this post.

I’ve had a lot of criticism from my nearest and dearest about how occasionally I do something for myself. Sometimes I have been so nagged I have really started to question whether I should just become a selfish douchebag, the kind of person who would completely and utterly get on my tits. But, after a little consideration I tend to realise that there is nothing wrong with making a proper job out of looking out for the important people in your life. Besides which, the favour will most likely be returned at some point. Ya’ know, karma and all that unicorns exist type shit.

Even when I have decided that I’m not suddenly converting to the church of dickheads, I still wonder why it is that the ones I care about get such five star treatment. I think my mother may be the one to thank for this approach to life. When I was first born she had an extremely successful career and was raking in the doe. However, she later developed cancer but luckily survived. After her recovery she completely reassessed her life and decided to leave her job and dedicate the rest of her life to her family. Since then she has been everyone’s guardian angel and many are in her debt. Growing up with your main influence being such an angel, you can’t help but be influenced to duplicate such behaviour. And, I’d be pretty happy to turn out half as well as my mother, so once again I am at a loss to explain as to why my doting behaviour leads to large rock of criticism being thrown my way.

In the end, I don’t think I should be getting quite so much shit hurled at me for being most passionate about caring for others. Perhaps, yes, I should spend a little bit more time doing things for myself, so I promise I’ll go and get my nails painted the next time I get paid. But, any more than that isn’t going to make me feel much better about my life and, in fact, will just make me feel like a bit of a dick. So, deal with it. If you are one of the lucky few to fall into my little circle of love you are just going to have to put up with someone giving a shit about you. And if that kind of dedication to something isn’t having a passion I don’t know what is.

(I do see the irony of this post compared to my url!)

Emily Smith