Intrinsic Ideologies

A Trollope in the Making

2011-07-18T16:21:00.007+01:00

So aside from being published, migrating 160 miles to a slum in London, moving into a new house, getting a 1st for my second year at university and bankrupting myself, it's been a relatively uneventful few months.

I've been frantically searching for work, filling in online job applications and posting CVs at 2 in the morning and after weeks of near constant frustration, I finally get a response that isn't

'Sorry, Mr Hogue but you are unfortunately overqualified for this particular position'.

I was awoken by a phone call this morning announcing that as of a week today I start paid training for a new restaurant opening in Lincoln, which means for the first time in weeks I won't have to travel home every few days to work 1 eight hour shift and practically beg for tips.

More importantly, I can finally relax. I've been beating myself up relentlessly about not being good enough, not being dedicated enough, having no work ethic, but finally something has gelled and I have something to focus on other than the pressing need to start my dissertation.

So now I can sit downstairs, in my new house on Trollope Street and read through my first of many professionally published pieces in the August issue of Gay Times magazine without an indeterminate urge to check the University Jobshop yet again.

I suppose I should really be more proud of myself for these last few months. I went out on a limb, proved myself a capable writer and journalist, as well as taking radical control of my finances and drastically re-thinking my priorities.

The result?

My first double page spread, on pages 106-7.

My second double-page spread, pages 160-1. The GT 'Vault'

Seeing words I crafted sat physically in front of me, in all their glossy glory in the UK's longest running gay magazine (or 'fag rag' as it's endearingly termed) does seem to reaffirm my childhood desire to be a journalist and my constant craving to prove myself a big fish in an equally big pond. More importantly, it shows that university is paving the way for a rewarding future and not just a series of agonizing hangovers.

As GT's Editor, Darren Scott, tweeted earlier this month:

Yes I'm biased but the upcoming issue of Gay Times is really bloody good. Everyone who worked on it equally as bloody good.

Mind you, my favourite printed page is still Suzy's coy cover of 'The Daily Strumpet': a treasured birthday present that sits proudly on my noticeboard.

Cover courtesy of print guru Suzy Aldridge

With the support of friends like Suzy, I'm happy knowing that I can easily be everything that I want to be: a journalist, a waiter and a veritable trollope in the making.

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Gay Times indeed

2011-06-16T13:16:00.005+01:00

The last few weeks have been more surreal than Godga's recent conversion to all things teal, but, much like the change, they've been a refreshing alternative to the otherwise increasingly mundane. (Nothing against gaga, of course, I just have an attention span shorter than my respective legs.)

Just under a month ago I was sat in my living room casually tweeting opinionated nonsense, as you do, when I posted something about Gay Times magazine, just in passing (but secretly hoping to be included in the 'Inbox' page as a nod to their latest issue).

@GayTimesMag How am I meant to read your articles when each page is practically erotica? Even as a journalist I'm left drooling at the pics! - May 20th 2011

A few moments later I receive a reply from the Mag's Acting Editor, who asks if I'd be interested in work experience. Two things immediately sprung to mind:
a) 'You had me at Porn Issue' and
b) "Shit, where why have I lost signal?!"

About 15 minutes and 6 attempts to furiously press 'send' later and I reclined in my cheap plastic chair, mind agog with rose-tinted montages of me traveling on the tube in a suit and brandishing an indomitable grin.

Fast forward a month and my off-the-cuff comment has landed me an extra accolade for the CV, a new circle of friends and a few features coming out in upcoming issues. Excitement is not the word.

The latest issue of GT: See my tweet on page 8 :)

As I write this I'm under the influence of caffeine and suppressing the urge to dance to Heavy Metal Lover, so I'm sure a strangely insistent glee will permeate all I do today and I'm utterly thrilled by it.

I've met some lovely people in London, had the privilege of meeting some talented and dedicated journalists (Danny, Jamie and Darren among them) and FINALLY transformed my perception of the Tube from a cryptic labyrinth a la Poe, into a viable and efficient mode of transport.

I'm itching to leave London now, I admit, as I've endured as much distance from Adam as I can tolerate without being cryogenically frozen, I miss my customary lie-ins and my socks are wet, which is enough to put dampener on anyone's day. (Sorry).

But having to function in a genuine newsroom environment and work in a set time-frame, something as yet virtually alien in the land of university where a late night and a few off-the-cuff quotes can land you a 1st, has made me proud to be part of this line of work. I thoroughly enjoy journalism and I like people; writing to, writing about, speaking to... people.

One more day of work and I will have finished my 2 weeks work experience here, and I couldn't utter a bad word about Gay Times if I wanted to; it's hard not to be content in an office littered with life-size cut outs of porn stars and Ugly Betty characters!
But Eee By Gum - it'll be nice to be back up North.
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Sexuality: a feral incursion

2011-04-22T17:02:00.008+01:00

I've spent the last hour reading through my old booklet of poems I created back in 2003, searching for a pleasant yet suitably shocking quote to turn into a tattoo for my 20th birthday.

And reading through them, I notice they're rife with sexual imagery that, at the time, I can only assume was subconscious.

For example, this is a small stanza from a poem I wrote called 'The Unholy Siege of Heaven':

"The fiendish dome does dilate so,
Bulging forth with monstrous force; to Heaven's virtue impede,
Quaking in discordant shrieks,
And ruptures. To overbrim, its loathesome contents freed."

Taken out of context, you might assume this is a poem about rape or 'unholy' sexual conduct, and you'd probably be right. Originally, it was on the subject of demons invading the Kingdom of Heaven and I distinctly remember being proud of how I'd made it so blood-curdling and violent, but reading back through it, it strikes me how very easy it is for my inner-feelings to seep into my 'art', without my knowledge or understanding.

At the time I wrote this, I imagine I would have been in Year 10 or so at Secondary School, and it was a confusing time when my sexuality seemed to be going through changes I vehemently ignored, choosing to work tirelessly instead. Well, to steal another line of the poem's seemingly ambiguous imagery, this was "straining the now weakened veil." Or 'pushing it a bit', as you less anally-retentive folks probably say.

I'm just a little shocked that at a time when I remember being so very focused on learning and so very determined to block out urges of any kind, they appear to have invaded my subconscious with an almost feral incursion.

For those of you who enjoy melodrama, read the full 33 verse poem below...

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The Unholy Siege of Heaven

By Jamie Hogue (2003)

Infused with rapturous serenity;

Truly so is such a place of hallowed tone.

Entrancing sweeps of burnished cloud

Emanating light in lustrous streams of Sun's own.

Lofty turrets of dear glimmering mist,

Wondrous in their crystalline purity,

To take to yonder boundless skies

And be by mystic airs so kissed.

A space amassed in empyrean forms,

Each buoyant of their own accord,

In chiselled semblance of our peerless God,

And such blissful rapport on all adorned.

Unity here embraces His world,

Every being so bathed in collective affection,

Cultured radiance does this equal, assured,

And acts to enhance the known righteous connection.

Yet, on this day, a strange sensation does present,

Unease to taint such divine scene,

Ill grown distress does ail these skies

To compel His loved domain unclean.

From tarnished air arouses grave dismay,

Doctrines lost in pained revolt,

Seraphs mill about in troubled gloom

As prayers do come to unknown halt.

With this, dear minds are spoilt in time,

Dreaming visions of such frightful death,

To search the scene for signs of breach,

Seeking so in waning breath.

Attend, what afar is promptly spied?

Once winsome cloud pulsates with deathly haste,

Stained a vile vermilion vein,

To exude leaden fumes (in foul distaste).

Heralds now do dash apace,

Urgency widespread so swift,

Highest order to proclaim aloud

The peril posed by inverse right.

They sanctify fermented ground,

But all to no avail,

Curdling clouds repel their ventured charms,

Straining their now weakened veil.

The fiendish dome does dilate so,

Bulging forth with monstrous force; to Heaven's virtue impede,

Quaking in discordant shrieks,

And ruptures. To overbrim, its loathsome contents freed.

Such horror! The sacred threshold is crossed anon,

Wry winged silhouettes surge ahead, do spew into view,

To circle wickedly above

And besmear this darling sky anew.

Rigid cobalt eyes impale,

The prospect that before them lies,

Their sullied gaze corruption spawns,

To set alight the angels nigh.

Alarm so stems, does escalate in grievous wails,

Throughout the realm a shrill bell peals:

A cacophony to forewarn all

As, in the ever-mounting heat, saintly ashen flesh congeals.

Scorching flames of lifeblood climb,

Charring those of the Lord's abode,

Angel's flail in suffering; such other-worldly anguish,

Seen to perish... soiled charcoal torsos about so sown.

The steely demons overhead do strike,

Storming downwards in grim tiding flows,

Barbed jagged limbs do claw at forms below,

Stilling their now jaded foes.

But for all this ruinous demise,

Few heedless angels stand aloft (in valour fierce),

To call in noble, richened key

"Come force, dear Lord; Malign shade pierce!"

Yet nil transpires to liberate the flock,

In truth their lives are jeopardised,

Such tumult does betray their place

Of hiding in anarchic skies.

The cold aggressors thus enclose,

Prowling forth in ghostly strides,

Judging their intrepid prey...

And draw nearer. To surely collide.

But scowling onwards without fright

Seraphs holds their so blessed site,

To glare fervently through honoured orps

And rebel against unearthly night.

"Your efforts are in vain," they utter so

True to faith, utterly austere,

"We trust the Lord without reserve,

He shall deliver us from fear."

Wheeling skywards, arms outstretched,

The central figure takes to air,

Surfacing unscathed from coral blaze

And does the Lord embrace with flair.

Eerie silence follows so,

Does enfold mack'rel sky entire

Until an epic strength is sensed

To fortify this wronged empire.

Fearsome thunderclaps resound,

Reverberating with exalted life,

To clamour so in ancient lore

And purge His children of this strife.

"Oh, Satan's flighted heartless beasts,

Hear me, I declare!

Forswear thus futile strike at once

And vacate this cherished plain

Or else be slain...

Dispute if though dare!"

Though this savage throng does not adhere

To the Father's thus pressing command

In bred contempt they do so sneer

At those erect my His right hand.

Gaunt frames themselves propel 'to air,

Airborne in feral swirls

To screech in hollow mortal cries

And bodily disdain unfurl.

Trumpets blare at once, in tune,

To make known demons' lives forfeit,

Announcing Heaven's vital deeds...

"You've made your choice, then so be it!"

A howling gale of blistered chill

Assails such sinful souls,

Lashing at the spectral horde

And fragment them in callous blows.

Splintered segments litter all,

To spiral earthwards in honed zephyr's wake,

Thus carried by God's potent breath

And expel such black shattered flakes.

The beasts are liquefied to naught,

Cast back from whence they came,

Hence cleansed are yonder boundless skies,

Dousing remnants of Hell's flames.

Saints arise from such nightmarish haze,

Gleaming as they do ascend,

Born afresh in silken self, so pure,

Thankful for sour bedlam's end.

Cloud-banks lighten in faith's growth,

Golden hues free nether gore,

Soft tender aura does return

To Heaven's majesty restore.

In the past, in the closet.

2011-03-14T23:56:00.006Z

The vision of a freer, unalienated sexual world powerfully survives as an antidote and alternative to the restrictions and oppressions of the present. We have the chance to regain control of our bodies, to recognise their potentialities to the full, to take ourselves beyond the boundaries of sexuality as we know it. All we need is political commitment, imagination and vision. The future now, as ever, is in our hands.
- Jeffrey Weeks, Sexuality and its discontents (1985)

I always feel strangely upset reading accounts of closeted life, before society deemed it socially acceptable to be gay. The inherent hardship, the need for discretion, suppression, regression beneath your own skin.

Somewhere in the contents of my reading list for my latest essay I grabbed a few choice titles that was meant to shed a little light on the Gay Liberation Front, and instead it's thrown me back into decades of denial, despair and disappointment.

It's just strange for me. Granted, I'm not known for my objectivity when it comes to LGBT issues - I'm about as neutral as a vat of hydrochloric acid - but whenever I read about something so poignant, I'm always left with my heart on my sleeve and a tear on my cheek.

I wonder if I'd have had the courage to come out of the closet if I lived in different times - in a society where it's OK not to be the poste- boy for white heterosexual male supremacy. And before you get ahead of yourself, no. I wasn't always as queer as a bag of kittens. Once upon a time my most prominent quality was my intellect, not my neckline.

I personally see two possible outcomes, and given my propensity to immerse myself in the 'all or nothing' ethos', they're two VERY different scenarios...

1) I would have closed myself off from my sexuality entirely (I did it for 18 years, why not longer?) and dedicated my life to become an angry but occasionally brilliant journalist/teacher/lecturer with severe alcoholic tendencies. I'd have thrown myself into my work in much the same way as I did as a child (for example: I remember reading 72 books in Year 7 of school and continuing to edit my English GCSE coursework even when it had been given 100% - purely because I felt it wasn't quite... 'there' yet).

So, I would have been unhappy, but intellectually occupied.

2) I would have become a vocal gay rights activist, and probably have been brutally beaten by some narrow-minded predecessor to the 'chav' movement due to my size.

Anyway, before I suffocate under the weight of my own narcissism, I'll get to the point: I can imagine myself being part of that world, that underground realm of meeting in park toilets and leaving my wife and the baby for hours whilst 'working late'... and I can imagine how incomplete I'd feel.

I'm not saying being gay is who I am (uh-uh, gurrrrlfreyyynd!), but it is an intrinsic part of my identity. I can't begin to fathom the depths of my unhappiness in a world where every day was a constant battle to look and act 'normal'.

I have an immense respect for any gay or bisexual person who was unfortunate enough to exist in a society as intolerant as the past.

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Recent articles I've written on LGBT issues for Bullet Magazine:

Gay blood ban creates "false economy"

Students petition against gay blood ban

2011-02-07T01:35:00.003Z

It has been a pleasure to watch you grow up and develop such a talent for language. You have so many talents - you should have a richly rewarding life.

A short note of encouragement from my primary school teacher, Miss Jewsbury, to my 10 year-old self . She started it all. She made me realise I wasn’t worthless.

Thinly-veiled Vanity

2011-02-07T01:12:00.003Z

I realised something today.

Something I haven’t been able to pin down for years.

Sitting on Hazel’s bed as her avatar journeyed around the pixelated realm of Fable III, she commented how strange it was how I like to watch people play videogames. And she’s right; I do enjoy it.Watching - never playing.

I like the sense of detachment, the inherent feeling of safety, somehow comforting, whilst still getting the ‘thrill’ of watching the plot develop. (I have a point, other than proving that I’m a loner, I swear.)

Now, I’m not a gamer by any measure. This isn’t the ’90s and any lingering dexterity that defined a childhood avidly clutching a PS1 controller and screaming at Tekken 3 has long since faded.

Well, apparently it’s unusual to enjoy simply watching, rather than playing games… I suppose the process is passive enough to begin with.

And Hazel’s casual comment just made something click, something that, to be perfectly honestly, I haven’t had a fucking clue about for years.

I’ve always wanted to be a journalist. Always. Kids on the playground would always entertain absurd fantasies about becoming a pilot or some other deluded bollocks, but I always found myself saying the same thing.

“I want to be a journalist.”

And you know what, I won’t lie; before university, I hadn’t the faintest idea what it involved. All my thoughts revolved around the feeling of seeing your name in print and that insufferable pride that surfaces as it stares back at you with a steely resolve. But I finally get it - it is more than just thinly-veiled vanity.

I always assumed that I was a ‘doer’ but I enjoy nothing more than watching things develop, from a controlled closeness. For once I actually believe my own UCAS statement.

I finally realise why I wanted, why I still want, to become a journalist. It’s that feeling - the strangely erotic thrill of forming a sentence, as though the words fall from your fingers like a line of semen running down your hand; the only visible, the only lasting remnants of the creative process.

And (now be honest) how many of you ever REALLY read the name of the writer sat atop an article? Exactly. That’s it. It’s the appeal of the enduring word-smith, the invisible author and the silent critic.

I finally remember why I want to spend my life typing away - because from the youngest age, words have been my closest and most valued friends.

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I know have a Tumblr too

Follow me at http://intrinsicideologies.tumblr.com/

Underfoot Fireworks

2010-11-29T01:37:00.006Z

Ignoring the biting chill of the cold as my fingers lose all sensation and snot runs freely down my numb face, a part of me does love winter.

Partially because of the abrupt transformation from humid autumn nights to brutal, frosty mornings that make Lincoln look positively incandescent...

But mainly because I get to wear my long black mac without looking like a pervert who just got back from the park.

And, yes, as much as I detest the icy conditions and the fact that every movement is torture in my fake converse that have less grip than an OAP with acute arthritis, I love the feeling of fresh snow under the tread of my trainers.

That sound as it crunches underfoot - like a tiny firework sparking in and out of life at the human touch. God, I love that sound.

Mind you, it's only that one day I like. The first appearance of snow that renders all teenagers and children alike into mindless, crooning morons - that's it. The day after, when the entire world becomes a living homage to Total Wipeout pisses me off more than Jonathan on one of his utterly pointless rants which are more reliable than the fucking transport system, or when I see so called 'friends' who have NO concept of how to apply foundation. You know who you are.

Still, that first day, where the snow (and the innate fascination with anything new) is fresh and novel, fills me with a certain glee.

But that was Friday, and when you see me dragging myself out of my warm bed to battle the elements and arrive snotty-nosed and blue-faced for my law lecture later today, don't be surprised if my whimsical fascination with the snow has turned into white hot hatred for the cold.

Plus, the ice made my Hazel fall and cut her knee on her way back from the Vintage Fayre! You're dead to me, Winter. Cold, dead and unnecessarily stylish.

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Winter Sun (or lack thereof)

2010-10-21T09:43:00.004+01:00

I'd forgotten how much I despise the cold.

Walking to university this morning, huddled in my hoody with a relentless, chilling wind searing my bare skin and shuffling over an apathetic expanse of grey, I realised why it is I detest the winter so much.

Oh, I don't know. I'm probably just in a moody because my BlackBerry is royally fucked for absolutely no reason, I've had 3 hours sleep and I'm precariously balanced on the fence of yet another approaching argument - oh, no wait - two. Only one's potentially life-changing, and the other is just the idiosyncratic ramblings of a whiny bitch (to clarify, not me).

I just feel as though the wintry claws of October tightening around the city only make today seem all the more ominous.

I'm currently sat in a 3 hour workshop on HTML and wed-design in which the tutor is ridiculously meticulous about everything except the actual act of teaching us how to design things on the web, and I'm wondering whether a coffee would worsen my strange sense of hyper-awareness, or whether the familiar warmth will calm my nerves.

Oh, there we go! 'Warmth'; just saying the word makes me tingle.

Perhaps it will give me some sort of focus: my mind doesn't know which was is up now.
If this blog seems strangely disjointed and a little incohesive, then my apologies - but it's just doing it's darnedest to mimic my mental state.

Today's the last day we can opt out of learning shorthand, and as I almost burst into tears in yesterdays lesson in which the tutor appears to just randomly changed all the rules, I'm probably going to try and sneak out of this workshop so I can do the following:

1) Get Coffee
2) Fix my BlackBerry (and probably do a little dance is it's ok)
3) Quit Shorthand
4) Attempt to blindly mitigate arguments I really don't have the time or energy to get involved in. Hurrah.

On that uplifting note, I'm going to log off and pretend I've not just sat here venting all my menial frustrations into cyberspace. In fact, no - I can't lie in type.

I'm going to go and repeat exactly the same trivial complaints to my friends, only I'll make an effort to adopt a mildly concerned tone so it appears to be at least fleetingly relevant to their lives.

Until the shit hits the fan, I gots me a plan.

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Down Dark Alleys

2010-10-12T22:04:00.009+01:00

I think we were followed.

It's possible that it's all in my head, but I don't think even my mind is quite that acerbic.

Walking with linked arms, Hazel and I hobbled over the flyover, past the university and above the black waters of the Brayford. It was already dark and the lights from the occasional passing cars created the illusion of safety.

The flyover, only much lighter

Photo: Jonathan Gill

Laughing and joking as we walked (as I'm sure people who know our respective personalities will understand), Hazel jerked her head over at a trampy old man a few feet behind us.

After telling me to look and then scalding me for actually doing it, we realised he'd been behind us for good few minutes and he seemed to be getting closer.

Trying to lighten the mood, we starting chatting about idle bollocks (as per usual) and without really noticing, tuned out for a moment.

When we were jerked back to the present by a set of headlights driving past us, I noticed he'd gotten much closer and was only a few feet behind us now, shuffling his unkempt self towards us.

Hazel grabbed my hand (for all the good it would do!) and we started walking a little faster, until we reached the steps that descend down the side of the Costa Del Architecture, where bolted down the stairs, feverishly glancing behind us until we were under the reassuring glare of the streetlights.

As we walked back to Pavs, we kept looking at the foot of the stairs. Although Hazel said she saw him come down the first few steps, he never arrived at the bottom, which to me at least, is a sure sign that he was indeed following us.

I know, I know - we may have been imagining things and the entire episode (however jarring) may have just been the product of chicken-induced delirium (i.e. my third trip to Nandos in almost as many days), but I don't think so.

I just have this unshakable feeling in the pit of my stomach that he really was following us. Hoggy and Hadel might be close friends, but the last time I checked friendship wasn't entirely successful as a rape deterrent.

The whole thing's just shaken me a little - especially as I'm nursing a post-Carnage hangover that makes me feel considerably weaker than my normal chipper self.

Sober, vitamin-flooded me is feeble enough, but add a nauseating hangover into the mix and I'm more likely to wake up in Sam's bed than I am to survive a mugging, or even a strong breeze for that matter.

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Germination

2010-10-11T01:01:00.006+01:00

It occurred to me a few hours ago that during my time at university, I've seen a number of beginnings.

The beginnings of future power-struggles, indomitable biases and future foes.

People who run for positions of power now are likely to follow the same path in years to come, people who lie in bed all day now are likely to remain equally as sedentary in later life (albeit in a crappy job with a boss whose hatred for them is only surpassed by their own self-loathing) and people who hold grudges now will only get more bitter and cynical as the calendars change.

I know I'm only thinking like this because the house is silent. Ellie's upstairs in her onesie and Jonathan's probably dreaming about jazz and posh salmon, so for the first time in days I find myself sat in my own house in the early hours of the morning and not embracing the liberal lifestyle that's arguably synonymous with university.

I guess what I'm saying is that whatever a person is to become, they sow the seeds at university.
If you can't be yourself at a time when you have virtually limitless freedom over your own life and likes, then I'd say you're a mid-life crisis waiting to happen.

But then, I say a lot a things.

I just wonder if people who choose a 'side' at this early stage in life are going to end up being victims of their own self-imposed bias. And, of course, being a person (and not a pixie, contrary to popular belief), I fall within this all too real restriction.

Still, I have hope. I've always walked the fine line between the optimistic and the delusional.
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Oh, and I know I've not blogged in a good few weeks - for that I'm sorry, but blame Bullet Magazine for keeping me occupied and happily scribbling away.
You can see a list of my articles for the magazine here.

A Finite Fresher

2010-09-19T14:01:00.007+01:00

It's strange being on the other side of the looking glass.

It genuinely seems like only days ago I was moving into Court 13 and meeting all my new flatmates.

The liberation of being away from the confines of 'home', the financial independence to control your own journey down Shit Creek and the freedom to do whatever you damn-well please, including wake-up in your own wet-room and proceed to wonder what day it is.

It didn't really sink in until I was walking home from Pavillions in the early hours of this morning and I saw Freshers falling over themselves in a cringe-worthy battle to clasp onto consciousness, that I'm a 2nd year.

I felt so boring, clutching my hoody around me and calmly listening to my music as the new arrivals and their midnight merrymaking surrounded me.

It's just made me suddenly aware that one year has already past in nothing more than the sleep-deprived, alcohol-induced flickering of an eye; I only have two more years of being simultaneously adult and yet completely irresponsible, when the occasion demands it.

I'm looking forward to this approaching term - I really am.

Already the tone has been set for a productive year and every time I click on the University Magazine's website I get a small flutter of excitement when I see my name sat proudly at the top of a page.

Yes, it might just be a few fragments of html coding, but it's my coding.

Good old Bullet.

And, easily the most reassuring thought of what is essentially this myopic monologue, I won't spend the majority of the year surrounded by false friends. In the last 12 months, I've met some truly wonderful people who I can't imagine not sharing the rest of my life with; I've met intelligent, quirky individuals who share the same spark of innate insanity as myself, and I wouldn't be without them. But, as with any clichéd adventure, there is the other side of the coin. I've also met some truly repugnant people whose presence I can only describe as intellectually suffocating.

In the words of Carlos Ruiz Zaffron:

"In the advanced stages of stupidity, a lack of ideas is compensated for by an excess of ideologies"

In short, I know who my friends are, and I won't spend the next year surrounded by incompetent twatbags.

Yes, being a Fresher was fun, but it couldn't last forever.

I can't wait to live out the next two years of my life with the same friends, the same optimistic naivety, and hopefully, the same boyfriend.

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Sickeningly Simple

2010-09-01T15:08:00.005+01:00

Today I woke up covered in my own vomit.

As someone who's recently become borderline OCD when it comes to cleaning, I should have freaked out, I should have blown a gasket and surrendered myself to hysteria.

But no. I was utterly convinced it was just a dream. The vile, visceral product of a teenage mind, but a dream nonetheless.

So I grabbed my cushion and snuggled into my previously pristine pillow.

When I did eventually wake up, around 4 hours later, the look on my face was beyond words.
It was the kind of expression I'd never have dared pull as a child for fear of the wind blowing, and setting my features in a permanent gurn.

It's sods law that the day after I relax my stringent cleaning regime I'd need to bring out the big guns.
I feel
a) utterly disgusted, and
b) sorry for any innocent bacteria that was casually living out it's life in my room.
I have just burnt your family off the face of the Earth with what is no doubt a chlorine-inducing concoction of potions.

As the washer spins excitedly for the fourth time today, I console myself with the fact that this atrocity wasn't my fault, at least.

I had an incredible night out, starting in Trebles before winding my over to Cubes with Rob and my fantastic flatmate, Ellie. I drank in moderation and danced off the feral euphoria that follows.

It's just so strange.

At the end of the night, I walked home, calmly washed my face, moisturised and brushed the remainder of hairspray out of my hair before climbing into bed. A perfectly normal night.

The only difference being that instead of waking up to find sunlight bleeding lazily through my blinds, I find myself confronting the contents of my stomach.

I have only one word to say to this: kebab.

So, while my mattress protector dries on the washing line (and that old women next door probably thinks I'm incontinent), I realise that one of my biggest worries in life can, quite simply, never happen.

I can never become my father.

One brief encounter with his favourite food and my body is having none of it.

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Domesticity

2010-08-31T15:59:00.005+01:00

Obsessive, compulsive domesticity.

As I type this, I'm eerily aware of the bottle of Dettol poised expectantly just beyond my reach.
This is the first time in days I've put my antibacterial arsenal down and not felt acutely uncomfortable knowing that my room could be just that little bit cleaner.

Just a scrub here, a wipe there, a spray there - what could it hurt?

Well, after days on my knees frantically swiping at the skirting board and smearing newsprint across my mirror, it occurred to me that I had one very simple choice: sanitation, or sanity.

The problem with me is that I devote myself 100% to any course of action until it's done and dusted; when writing articles for the University's Student Magazine or sending important emails, it's a very useful trait to have... but when it transfers over to trivial things like whether or not that's a coffee ring or a wood-pattern on my desk, I need to remind myself that you need to let some things go.

I'm a student at university, I own enough clutter/crap to organise my own car-boot sale and we have our house-warming party in just over a few weeks; my house is going to get messy, and I can't prat about with this Kim and Aggy routine indefinitely.

My shrine to sanitation, but for how long?

Even without the crazy cleanliness, I can see my BlackBerry sat a few feet away, whirring incessantly like a child that stubbornly insists on soiling itself. As Adam would say "the baby's crying again."

I can safely say that staying at home cleaning for the past few days (and nights!) has warped my outlook almost enough to turn me into a Justin Bieber fan... A few more bottles of Domestos and I'd be ready to launch into a chorus of "shawty is en eenie meenie minie moe lurrrva"

... Christ, as if I know the words.
I have only one thing to say to that:

I belieb that solvent abuse ruins lives - it's a waste of time, time, time, time, time.

__________________________________________________

Inside Jokes

2010-08-23T16:54:00.003+01:00

It occurred to me yesterday that approximately 90% of the words that fall haphazardly out of my mouth are ill-advised inside jokes.

When it's just me and Adam, that's all well and good. But when you put me in a room full of my fellow Lincolnites, it's understandable that he apparently feels strangely alienated.

For a while, he's been saying that he feels "awkward" (and various other synonyms of a negative nature) when we go out with my friends; it makes sense that when we're sat there practically seething with sarcasm he doesn't know what to do with himself.

So, when I find myself surrounded friends and enjoying a frivolous Sunday Cocktail in Dogma with Adam laughing along with the rest of us, I felt strangely reassured.

I'm relieved that the atmosphere isn't as toxic as it was the first time they all met; the days of being saturated by silence have apparently passed.

I suppose it helped that the bar-tender grossly miscalculated the strength of my drink and filled a single cup of Long Island Ice Tea with as much rum as a pitcher. For a supposedly brown beverage it was perfectly clear, with only thin veins of colour streaking through the ice in flowing tendrils... so it was no small wonder that I spent the next hour giggling away like an air-headed school-girl on skunk.

Mind you, after a long day, I can't say that I didn't enjoy my trip to Long Island.

Incidentally, if you're advised not to mix drinks and cocktails are composed primarily of different spirits, are they designed purely to get people pissed?

That sounds like an awful marketing ploy.
But they wouldn't do that... would they?

Hmmmm, perhaps I should back to Dogma to 'investigate'.
_______________________________________

Meteors

2010-08-15T21:26:00.003+01:00

Lamp-posts are blinding.

Ordinarily, as a light source they're roughly as reliable as the phone reception in Doncaster Interchange, but when you want to look at the night sky they're infinitely more reliable... You can count on them to render all celestial bodies virtually invisible.

Something of a nuisance during a Meteor Shower, then.

Standing in Adam's garden at 1am and wrapped in a jacket that could easily have doubled as a duvet, I squinted up at the stars, trying to see anything other than the ubiquitous haze of street-lights.

After a few minutes, it was obvious that this plan was doomed to a fate worse than Woolworths, so I adopted a new approach. Hugging Adam, I managed to manoeuvre him into place at just the right angle - thus creating a 2-in-1 human blind and radiator. As my nan used to say, I was "snug as a bug in a rug".

Skin-crawling imagery aside, it worked and after a moment I saw my first shooting star, swiftly followed by another; little streaks of secrets searing the night-sky.
Oh, nature, your self-harm is truly enchanting.

Among these masochistic sparks were my own closely nurtured hopes. And you'll be able to see for yourselves whether they come true - the first of which should be obvious in around 300 days... Or much fewer if it back-fires.

And if the last few hours are any approximation, that's entirely possible.

Eee, I don't know. Whether my wishes are the product of circumstance and hard-work, or the faculty of some celestial being dwelling beyond the stars, I can't begin to fathom.

Like you, I'm very much in the dark.

Straight to Voicemail

2010-08-01T21:53:00.007+01:00

Anger.
Tumorous, malignant anger swelling in cancerous cysts.

This is (apparently) the automatic reaction to me not answering my phone.

To build on my most recent post, I now have a BlackBerry. While it's a useful tool, it does have it's drawbacks. The most obvious being that it WILL NOT SHUT UP.

So, when I turned my phone off this weekend to go get some shut-eye, I did not expect to wake up and discover that the very act of submitting to unconsciousness had made my Dad well and truly flip his lid.

Bloody Nora.

I'm used to waking up to a scalding cup of milky coffee; not a barrage of missed calls and text messages calling me an "incompitant PRICK"

My first thought? Learn to fucking spell.

I'd felt a little ill for days, and I simply couldn't face going to work
For most people this isn't a big deal - we all have those days when getting out of the covers is, quite simply, a traumatic process.
But with my Dad's irrespressable anger, I decided to drag myself out of my miserable hovel and catch a train to Wolverhampton.

Creeping down backstreets to avoid being seen, I made my way to the bus-stop, before bolting towards Wolvs for my second visit of the holidays.
With my heart-pounding in paranoid palpitations for the duration, and a feeling of nausea tugging at my innards I realised how childish the whole situation was.

I'm 19 and I shouln't be shying away from my father in the shadows.
I realised on that train ride that I'm not scared of my Dad (even if his voice can shake buildings with its defeaning reverberations), I'm scared of the fact that you simply can't argue with him.

You may have heard the saying "You can't argue with a fool."

Well, I think that's a particularly apt summary.

Of course I love the fool - he's family - but when he gets an idea in his head it clogs his thought process like a particularly vicious poo clogs a toilet... and with much the same degree of subtlety.

There's a time to think of others, but I'm starting to see that every now and again there's a time to be selfish, a time to stop incessantly worrying about what other people think about you.
This is my time.

So, for the time being, I'm back in Wolverhampton, spending my days crippled by hysterical laughter at the nonsensical musings of my favourite ginger.

And I'll be here for a good while...

...Which leaves plenty of time to dislodge any mental blockages that might be lingering around.

Actually, I'm pretty sure there's some Mr Muscle under the sink.

Infused with Information

2010-07-26T17:28:00.014+01:00

There it is again.

That incessant whirring; filling the room with disembodied tutting and sending pleasant pulses down my thigh.

How I managed to blindly grope my way through life without my new BlackBerry, I can't imagine.

I've spent the past few weeks eagerly caressing it like an extra limb... And don't pretend you don't know the feeling.

I have Hazelano to thank for forcing me to part with my old mobile: an ancient Samsung D600 that should have been allowed to gather dust long ago. And all it took to coerce me such a decision? 4 days of whining. Constant, unbroken, perennial whining.

Oh, alright - I suppose you could substitute the word 'whining' with 'constant abuse'. And 'could' with 'should'.

But 2 weeks later and I'm pretty pleased that around Hazel my will is about as rigid as a bendy ruler (anyone else having flashbacks to Year 8?).

Pros: I can check my emails daily, and avoid that horrible feeling of panic (like most people get when you grope in your pockets for your keys and find nothing but cloth).

Cons: I have to turn it off every night or risk getting 'pinged' at 4am and receiving "Your mother sucks cocks in Hell" as a voice message. Again.

Image: www.nataliedee.com

If being on the phone to Orange has taught me anything, it's that you can't argue with a one-way conversation.

...But you can swear at robots. So it's a win-win.

____________________________________________

PS: If you've got a BlackBerry, feel free to add me as an instant messenger contact.
BB pin: 2226E7B2

____________________________________________

Sleeping in the Shed

2010-07-11T18:33:00.009+01:00

I know, I too was appalled.

When I think of the term 'shed', I'm overcome by images of dusty lawnmowers lying unwanted in a rotting shack.

So, to say I felt uneasy about sleeping in such a place would be an understatement.
Even thinking about such a cobweb-ridden heath, my discomfort is almost physical.

But when I arrived in Wolverhampton on the good graces of Hazel Merrick-Miller, I felt a sense of relief wash over me as palpable as the sweat streaking down my forehead (did I mention the 2 1/2 hour train-ride must have gone via the Sun?).

I emerge from the dreaded 'shed'

As you can see, the 'shed' was less of a rotting carcus of a building and more of a private chalet, complete with bathroom, a little kitchen, a television and a Bally Bingo machine.

Happy, happy Hoggy!

So, taunts such as "hahah, put the northerner in the shed" was like water off a perspiring duck's back.

My time in Wolverhampton has been like one continuous photoshoot, punctuated by the occasional screeching of the soundtrack to Glee by myself and the gregarious ginger.

When not clasping a camera or bellowing "'cause you're having my babies!" at the top of our lungs, I was introduced to the nightlife of this foreign city, which I found to be incredibly colourful.

Although, it may have been our dual intoxication of alcohol and hysteria that acted to colour my perception of the town itself.

After Hazel decided to share her recently consumed beverages with the seat in the cocktail bar 'Babylon', we made our way to Oceana, where we essentially danced to pop music and pelted strangers with polystyrene balls.

Me and Hazel, with the drinks her body decided to reject

In the days that followed (and nursing our phantom bruises), I was introduced to the whole family. I impressed even myself by not only tolerating a hoarde of screaming children, but finding them to be genuinely uplifting.

I've always said I wanted children in my future and after sitting through a family barbeque and having youngsters milling around my feet (I'm old enough to say that, right?), I stand by that decision. Even if it is more of a fleeting appreciation of youthful exuberance than an actual 'decision'.

Still, my time in the city of 'Wolvs' has been a thoroughly enjoyable one.

As I've been living with my Grandparents for the past few weeks, in relative silence which is broken only by the occasional sound of the kettle boiling or that man from Bargain Hunt having an aneurysm over the price of some old tat, the incessant din produced by Hazel and the family has proved surprisingly refreshing.

I will genuinely miss the seemingly perpetual motion of the house, the excitable trills of Hazel, and her mum pottering around to provide me with a constant stream of beverages.

One thing I will say, however, is that I've grown that accustomed to her 'excitable trills', in which every statement sounds like a question, that I fear my otherwise impressive idiolect has been severely damaged.

"I mean, what if I can't stop talking like thi-is?"
___________________________________________

Neapolitan Pancake

2010-07-07T20:14:00.016+01:00

Sat, idly thumbing through a pub menu, my eyes rested on an image of a taste-bud tempting desert.

With Hazel nattering idly away into my ear, I couldn't help but notice the parallels between the creamy morsel and her multifaceted relationship with love.

I've not envied her convoluted relationship with Ashley over the past few months; it seemed something that had once been so sweet and refreshingly cloying was now melting away, to reveal a sickly, bitter undertone.

After a five year relationship, it's easy to understand why she became so unstable after the inevitable break-up. Her melancholy was so pervasive that it began to directly affect my own actions.

From the heart-wrenching phone-calls in the early hours of the morning, to Crystal finding her collapsed in her hallway wretching into a bucket, it was difficult to stay strong, when I saw how weakened by sorrow she was.

She's admits it's the lowest she's ever felt in her life:

"It was every emotion. Every question I wanted answering. I couldn't understand.
Why was I in love with him when he wasn't? I felt ugly. I felt used. Most of all
I felt I'd lost my best friend and that upset me more than anything."

She was losing that delicious sparkle that was so enchanting.

One thing I will say, is that I didn't judge her - I couldn't.
As the earliest entry in this blog will prove, I've been in the exact same position myself.

After Adam brought our relationship to a close in late June (albeit temporarily), I constantly found myself of the verge of hysterics.

I remember sitting on the floor in the kitchen, holding my knees to my chest and crying. Just crying, for hours. (for anyone who says the amount of moisture in the human body is finite, I bed to differ)

She was perpetually distraught, and it pained me to even look at her.

Show me your teeth

Photo: Hazel Merrick-Miller

But look at her; she's not the same, broken girl anymore.

In the past few weeks, she's surprised us all. She's starting to realise that she was a whole person before Ashley came along, and she's no less of a person in his absense.

It's times like this when I'm proud to call her my friend.

As she releases her emotional baggage, she's finding more and more space within herself for acceptance, for change.

"Now I feel happy. I'm glad it's happened. I feel beautiful, comfortable in my own skin. I feel like a butterfly."

As you can see, everything about her has brightened. Her skin isn't the same dull grey is was before - she has her luminescence back, and she is positively glowing with optimism.

Best of all? I've got my friend back.
(and thank Christ for that. Good gingers are hard to find!)

But, like its culinary counterpart, her condition isn't perfect.
She still has that lingering, sour aftertaste of a failed relationship.

"I am obviously bitter. It's left a bitter taste in my mouth,
but at least now I can remember things fondly without getting upset."

The lesson? Life isn't perfect, things do decay, they do change.
All you can do is enjoy the moment, and savour the taste of youth.

Now, if you'll excuse me, all this delectable word-play is tortorous.

While Hazel sits, absent mindedly-fondling her hair and contemplatig the future, I'm going to lunge for the biscuit tin.

Can anyone say 'Choco Leibniz'? No, me neither.
______________________________________________

Woeful in Wales

2010-07-05T19:44:00.006+01:00

Hallelujah!

I return to the land of the living.
However, that's not to say that my holiday in Wales wasn't enjoyable, so much as characterised by a distinct lack of animation.

While the laid back pace of life was initially very relaxing, it eventually started to grate on my nerves, like a symphony of seagulls lulling me into a gentle coma.

A rather lovely Welsh beach

Photo: me. ahaha.

Yes, it was refreshing.

Yes, it was picturesque.
And, yes, there was a notable abundance of sheep.

But still, after living in a hive of activity like Lincoln for the past year, where so much is crammed into such a small space, I began to loose my mind in a place where the only 'tweeting' is the shrill cry of a gull as it swoops in the devour the remnants of my chips.

It's not that I'm reliant on modern technology (well, no more so than the rest of you), but removing my principle method of communication made me feel increasingly uneasy.

While it may be something of a contradiction, without the net, I felt trapped.

I still haven't dare check my emails.
Oh my Christ, what a daunting prospect.

I'd consider heading back to the beach to ward off such a sundry task, but even now, after just a few hours, I'm once again ensnared by the intricate enticements of the web.

Well, that and I'm not sure I could endure another 5 hour car journey.

After 8 days in Wales, the only Welsh I have managed to accumulate is: "Araf", meaning "slow".

Mind you, with my computer, I'd say it's an apt summary.

____________________________________________

Banking IS(A) Bastard

2010-06-14T20:59:00.005+01:00

What a bloody palaver.

As you may know, I'm a bit of a personal paradox when it comes to social interaction; to my friends, I'm the amiable yet direct friend who isn't afraid to prove a point (only yesterday I hit someone rather too forcefully with a frying pan for unfairly mocking me), and yet to strangers I'm a tentative creature who's irritatingly polite smile is only overshadowed by his complete inability to stop apologising.

Well, after 2 arduous months stretching by without the receipt of pin-numbers for my new debit-card, the latter me was finally smacked by the now-metaphorical frying-pan of the former and forced to take immediate action.

Thank you, impatience.

Tasks I cannot perform, # 67: Withdrawing money

Photo: Daniel Stone

After weeks of idly asking questions, I marched into my local Abbey National branch (I refuse to call it Santander) and demanded to speak to a manager.

*bangs rather too loudly on reception desk*

Receptionist: "Can I help you, Sir?"

Me: "Yes, I'd like to speak to your manager."

Receptionist: "Is it anything I can help you with?"

Me: "If the rest of the staff here at anything to go by, then I highly doubt it."

This is when my anger started to wane a little, and I had to make a very conscious effort not to laugh at her bewildered expression.

But twenty minutes later, and following much impromptu ranting on my part, I leave the Lincoln branch feeling better than I have in weeks.

I'm assured that my pin-numbers will arrive by Friday at the latest and I even learnt that you can consolidate all your accounts onto a single bank card, which will no doubt save me the usual frenzied tearing through the contents of my bag for my ISA card.

Now, all I have to do is sort out a £900 overdraft to pay next year's rent and swallow my pride.

I have a feeling it will be the most viscous substance I've swallowed in a while...
_________________________________________________

Off the wall

2010-05-31T15:48:00.006+01:00

... but very much on my mind.

Last night was one that contained very little sleep. And, contrary to what Mr Westall may think, it wasn't entirely the work of rampant sexual endeavours.

At about 3 am my mind started ticking away, possibly spurred on by the quiet yet determined ticking of my clock, possibly by the sagacious ramblings of the previously blonde Monsieur Briscoe de la Jamesy.

Either way, a few moments later I find myself stood in the centre of my bedroom wearing nothing but an Easy Jet fluorescent vest and staring intently at one of the many surreal posters plastered to my wall.

Having eventually found his glasses, James shuffled over to join me.

Being the vocal soul that I am, I found words spilling from my mouth in a manner completely uncharacteristic of the hour. I'm amazed that in my almost-comatose state I was able to stand, let alone critically analyse one of my favourite pieces of art: Entre Les Trous de la Memoire.

Entre Les Trous de la Memoire
Dominique Appia

I know I've mentioned it once before many entries earlier, but it serves as a consistent muse.

Every time I look at it, I find myself questioning my outlook, reconsidering my options.
Its unique rendition of the concept of perspective is nothing short of captivating. So many meanings mixed amongst the madness; an heir to insanity, a phantom of delight.

And delight me it does. With my impossibly intelligent muse before us, we proceeded to have one of the most profound conversations I have ever had.

I won't bore you with the details (particularly as the details are now rather fuzzy), but suffice to say that I feel my eyes were opened somewhat... strange, as at the time they were trying so forcefully to close I briefly wondered if they were on hydraulics.

I love conversations that create closeness between two people, and especially those that take you beyond the limitations of the ordinary.

Admitting fatigue and coiling up on my bed, I eventually awoke to discover my old binder full of poems opened purposefully atop my desk. I remember reading it, I do. It's something I rarely share nowadays.

But flicking back through its glossy printed pages, I can't help but smile.

There are no new words to describe how I felt last night, sat on my bed in the twilight engrossed in conversation, but hopefully some of my old words can do the situation justice.

Demented Manifestations

Most humans are from virtue blind,
Very few are the exceptions,
Their loathesome thoughts buried deep inside the mind;
We are forever known as a race incapable of redemption.
Yet, do out private thoughts remain where we think?
Or do they escape: causing commotion?
They are stolen before the eye can blink,
Is there such thing as human emotion?

Is existence as we know it purely a fraud?
All knowledge and facts malicious lies?
Are we the spawn of Satan, growing as his ward?
But this evil we emit we fail to realise.
So is this world that we are seeing,
But if life as to us so seems?Are we merely the thoughts of higher beings?
... Their repulsive nightmares and distorted dreams.

_________________________________________________

Sex, Sin and Soulmates

2010-05-28T22:25:00.010+01:00

I'm very happy with life at the moment.

Yes, I thought that might shock you.
Rather than my typical rant about all the wrongs of the world or my multitude of drunken misdemeanors, this is a post adorned in pleasantries.

I've spent the better part of the day in the company of one of my closest friends, who coerced me into seeing the Sex and the City sequel.
I use the term "coerced" lightly, as it's not that I didn't want to see the film (I did!), I'd just rather save my bank balance the indeterminate stretching that I usually reserve for my derriere.

But, yes - the film was a lot better than various stylised youtube trailers led me to believe.
After a tacky start marked by a series of outlandish and overbearing plot lines (Liza Minnelli, anyone?), the lavish Hollywood veneer started to peel to reveal another, more multifaceted message.

Carrie, looking radiant as always
Photo: South Park

Amidst all the otherworldly opulance of Abu Dhabi we discover that the luxurious lives of the 'girls' are straining to cover their own shortcomings: a failing marriage, a mother's desperation to be free of her children and the struggle to cling to the youth that once united them.

The polished jewels and ornate embellishments surpass cliched Hollywood glamour to create a stark contrast between the real and the imagined, with raw human emotion becoming painfully obvious against a back-drop of materialistic indulgence.

I admit that I almost cried when Charlotte admitted she felt she'd failed in her duty as a mother, but luckily the comedic adventures of the faaabulous foursome kept me grinning through the pain. Whether pure coincidence or not, I couldn't help but note the irony of the situation.

Sitting outside the Tower Bar with Hazel a few hours later, sipping a cold drink, I realised that I am actually happy.
I have everything I could want at this stage of my life:
good friends, an active social life, academic success (hopefully!) and a bit of the old banter!

The aforementioned friends. =)
Photo: Jenny Newton (I think)

Films like this (and only last week, Million Dollar Baby) have a way of putting things into perspective.

I'm 19; I need to stop deluding myself into thinking that the world's ending at the slightest sign of change.

Change is the one thing we can't escape (well, that and bizarre Formspring questions apparently).

If I grow up to have the same wealth of opportunities afforded to me as the SATC girls, I'll be ecstatic.

If I grow old to have someone respect me for the intelligent, albeit slightly socially inappropriate person that I am, I dare say I'll be happy.

... Frankly, if I grow (up) at all it'll be a bloody miracle.

_________________________________________

Such Practiced Procrastination

2010-05-20T22:24:00.011+01:00

What's that, Media Law? You want me to revise you?

But it's so very sunny!

My exam might be five days away, but it seems the karmic forces of the universe are hard at work. Their sole aim? To keep me so deliciously occupied that revision remains but a distant dream.

And considering the habitually erratic nature of my dreams, I intend to avoid it as adamantly as I avoid my flatmates when I sneak into the kitchen in only my boxers.

The past week has been so much fun.

Whether it be waking up in York after two hours sleep and a house party in which a glorious union between antibiotics and Vodka was sealed, or skipping whimsically through the verdant greens of the Arboretum with Siobhan amidst the scalding heat of summer, I've enjoyed every minute of it...

Lauren's Birthday in York. Clearly another 'glorious union'
Photo: Steve Sweeting

Me and Siobhan shortly before our whimsical skipping.
Photo: Dave Whitehurst

But, yes, revision has always been just out of sight, looming over me like a black cloud over a summer's picnic. I have done some revision: I should clarify that. But nowhere near as much as I should have.

I will start. Tomorrow.

Oh, I know that expression. Tomorrow, you say? The universally ubiquitous mark of the procrastinator.

But I will. The act will be as real as me sitting here, twiddling my hypothetical moustache and gazing wistfully out my window.

... so transient, and largely indeterminate then.

Either way, I shall force myself to endure my own Jamie-sized portion of the cultural phenomenon sweeping through the nation's schools: academic bulimia.

Simply put, this is:

"The act of cramming a large amount of information into memory over a short period of time and then regurgitating the memorized information onto a test. Just as the bulimic retains very few nutrients from the food he or she purges, shortly after the exam an academic bulimic retains very little memory of the regurgitated information."

Thank you, Urban dictionary for that delightful cameo.

If I can somehow regurgitate the entirety of Quinn's Law for Journalists, I will be relatively impressed.

Not to mention very, very sore.

_____________________________________

Fractured Realities

2010-05-14T23:29:00.010+01:00

I love train rides.

I love sitting there and watching the world dissolve past in a frantic blur of colour and shape.

It always amazes me to zip through small villages and towering towns alike and catching fleeting glimpses into a world I'll never know - a reality that I'm not part of.

A primary school set on a swathing expense of green,

a small independent business,

a bizarre avant-garde chip-shop; they're all so like sights we know, and yet a world apart.

It makes me realise how limited our respective view of reality are. We identify with the familiar, and (for the most part) are rigidly opposed to change... if the recent election's anything to go by, that is.

All these thoughts flicked through my mind as I dozed off on the train from Newark North Gate to York. I found myself intrigued and relaxed in equal measure, until suddenly I'm awoken by the force of my own face hitting the man next to me on the shoulder.

Suave suit, sharply cut grey hair, a curiously shrewd expression... yes, he wasn't best pleased when I moreorless lulled into unconsciousness and flopped against him like a damp tea towel.

6 hours later and I'm sat in Lauren's plush living room sipping on a mug of sweet tea and glancing intermittently at the congealed red hair-dye on my hands.

40 minutes of dragging pillar box-red colourant through her hair, followed by a good 10 minutes trying to scour my skin of the cursed stain and I still resemble a leper.

Tomorrow will be a good day, and a damn good party ... that is, providing people don't think I've been struck down by the Masque of the Red Death.

"No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous... The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men."

Charming. As if it isn't difficult enough to have a civilised conversation in ye olde Jorvik, now I've got the added burden of constantly having to explain my phantom determatological discolouration.

____________________________________

Cubicles, Crack and Consciousness

2010-05-12T18:18:00.005+01:00

What a bizarre few days it's been.

The process of going back to university after my week of staying at home really jarred me. Whether it was my absence from the once ubiquitous bubble-bath, I can't say.

But something chose this time as the perfect opportunity to mess with my head.

All I know is that in the space of two days, I developed kidney pain, swelling in my neck, Tonsillitis and stopped being able to digest sugar and protein entirely.

Understandably, I felt more ill than I had ever thought possible. I spent the first 36 hours of my illness completely unconscious, and every time I tried to sit up I became so disorientated that I felt nauseous... so I went back to sleep.

After two days encapsulated in the cell that is my room, I was coaxed into attending a night out for Hazel's birthday.

Me and the birthday girl =)
Photo: Hazel Merrick-Miller. Apparently.

Whilst a fun idea at first, my antibiotics meant I couldn't drink, so pre-drinking was dull. And the Engine Shed is much less fun when it isn't a mess of swirling neon colours.

After an hour of being the only sober one there, I downed a (truly putrid) cup of champagne and started to enjoy myself.

That is, until I was escorted out of the male toilets by security and accused of taking crack.

I can asssure you, my body was a cocktail of that many other medicinal drugs that adding to the cauldron really wasn't necessary.

To clarify, don't use toilet cubicles that don't close properly and spend the best part of ten minutes attempting to wee whilst balancing the door closed with your foot.

It a) can get messy and b) apparently takes such a long time that people assume you are inhaling something other than that nauseating toilet smell. Fun.

Oh, and certainly don't ask your friend to hold it shut. It looks looks hilariously sexual, doesn't it, Levi?

I respect that the security team were just doing their job (and that it must have looked very odd), but still, when I set out to make a name for myself this isn't exactly what I had in mind.

Security frisks aside, I did have fun. I met some very sexy new people and it was nice to escape the confines of my room for something other than a transient trip to the kitchen.

"Hogg Hogg Hogg"
T'other Jamie, Levi and me
Photo: Hazel Merrick-Miller

However, it did mean that I got virtually no sleep and eventually woke up covered in cold sores and mouth ulcers because of my fatigue.

All I want to do is sleep! This illness takes away all my energy.

I can only thank Chris Hughes for bringing biscuits to the LGBT Committee meeting yesterday, or I'm not sure I would have remained conscious to help construct the LGBT Society and Committee's academic calendar 2010/11.

I'm actually really looking forward to next year, planning lots of exciting socials and political campaigns and maybe even penciling in some uni work. Just maybe.

It may just be the delirium talking, but I can't wait to be a second year.

__________________________________________________

Check out the University of Lincoln LGBT Society's website at www. ul-lgbt.org

Naked Truths

2010-05-04T03:03:00.004+01:00

It's my nineteeth birthday, and I'm lost in thought.

It's the second time today the thought process has proved too much for my quietly curious mind, although now I'm not beneath my bathwater; staringly questioningly at the bubbles above.

I am, however, sat at my computer completely naked. Doing a load of washing and then checking to see what other clothes I had available was, in retrospect, a bit of an "uh-oh spagettios" moment. Bollocks.

Quite literally.

For those of you who know me (and aren't too mentally scarred by that image to continue reading), my turbulent relationship with my Dad will be no secret. Well, lately his kind nature has been surfacing a lot more or, rather, I'm not so completely blinded by my own anger that I can actually see it now.

Still, he chose earlier to start a rather convoluted conversation. What started off as making a sandwich somehow became a deeply disturbing debate about how my sexuality will inevitably make my life infinitely more difficult than the hetrosexual alternative.

I can't help but wonder if he's right...

" Will being gay present me with a perpetually immovable obstacle to overcome for
the rest of my life? "

I honestly worry it will.

If that past month has taught me anything, it's that:
A) I should have my waller super-glued to my thigh for my own good, and
B) There are a lot more unseen prejudices than I would like to think.

We can suger-coat it as much as we want, but there will always be a certain stigma attached to the LGBT community.

Whether it be the (completely ficticious) belief that we're all philanderous monsters, or the view that we're morally reprehensible, it often troubles me to think that even today there are still people who view me and my friends as being less of a human being than they are.

Well, you know what? I've spent nineteen years worrying about what other people think of me - I'm not about to spend another nineteen doing the same.

As a good friend made me realise just a few minutes ago, one of my biggest weaknesses is that I'm too eager to please. but I can't please everyone.

At the risk of becoming lodged up my own rectum, if you don't respect me, I truly couldn't care less what you think.

Granted, I might be shorter in stature than most (unless of course, you're in year 7 and your biggest worry is whether there will be enough Chocolate Concrete left at lunch)
but I can assure you, it only makes the vehemence that much more concentrated.

I won't let thoughtless individuals dilute my determination.

In a reference that only a Little Monster will understand:
"Take my picture Hollywood. I wanna be a STAR!"
__________________________________________________

Searching for speed

2010-05-01T01:36:00.005+01:00

I admit it: before yesterday I was a theme-park virgin.

I had never so much as even contemplated stepping foot inside a pit of screaming adolescents hurtling past me at God knows how many miles-per-hour; it had struck me as being some form of futuristic creche.

And yesterday's trip to Alton Towers with the University of Lincoln LGBTs confirmed exactly that... AND I LOVED IT!

As someone's who's admittedly a control freak, to be able to just strap yourself in and literally buckle-up for the ride before being propelled through the air at skull-shattering speeds was so exhilarating.

Photo: Dave Whitehurst

I became so immersed in Dave's world (for it is indeed his realm) that I found my constant craving for tea temporarily superseded by another, more daring pursuit... the need for speed!

While I admit that I may have put on a bit of a brave face on for Oblivion, there are no words to describe the terrified trills of one Mr Jonathan Holmes. I think it's safe to say that the Liberation Officer was well and truly liberated.

Oh yes, it was a much-need respite after a very hectic week... if you can class careering around corners at blinding speeds as 'respite'. But anyone who's had to endure the mind-numbing horror that is television editing will attest to the fact that you can. You bloody well can.

But despite getting a mere three hours sleep (which is a full 7 hours less than I need to function with any human degree of coherence), I managed to drag myself out of bed at 5am and put my face on.

Note to self: there is absolutely NO point in preening meticulously when about to go on a roller-coaster. NONE.

The perceived practicality of taking my Elizabeth Arden make-up in my satchel became nothing more than a nuisance, and I quickly lost all hope of looking like anything reminiscent of a self-respecting human being when Mikey scavenged the last few squirts of my hairspray.

Photos: Dave Whitehurst

As if my magic (the weather is magic, you will not convince me otherwise), it chose now to start raining. Torrential, incessant raining.

Hence why a few hours later I could be found crouching under a hand dryer at Tesco in Uttoxeter desperately clawing at my hair in a frenzied (and final) attempt to look like anything other than a drowned rat with a cold.

Ah well. Caramel latte in-hand, I followed by fellow gays onto the train, where we proceeded to have extremely loud and incredibly inappropriate conversations about anal sex, gay saunas and the many convoluted set of intertwining coincidences that we call our lives.

Hours later and I'm still buzzing.

One thing is for certain: while theme-parks may be excruciatingly exciting, they're not solely for immature idiots.

Photo: Dave Whitehurst

They are also for extremely gay, wet, immature idiots. ♥

____________________________________________

Contrast

2010-04-18T13:46:00.008+01:00

What a difference a week makes.

This time last Sunday, I was sat sipping cocktails on the terrace at Dogma surrounded by some of my closest friends, basking in the new-found sunshine of spring. Today, however, I awake to discover that not only am I now lacking any form of identification, but I also managed to sleep through a university fire alarm.

For anyone who is lucky enough to never encounter this screeching monstrosity, imagine a feral cat trying unceasingly to claw its way up a blackboard. Annnd amplify.

So, to summarize, I:
a) Can no longer prove who I am
b) May have come eerily close to not being a person anymore, but a mere statistic.

Not bad for a night's work, ey?

Until these awful realisations dawned on me, I have to admit that it was yet another cavalcade of colourful costumes to take The Engine Shed by storm. Whether it be in the form of Jonathan's unwitting 'Laughing Cow' impression (sorry, but it kinda was), Derricott's startling similarity to a Roman Emperor, or even just that girl's 'cave-man-crossed-with-frantic-sex-in-a-bush' hair, it was another great night to punctuate the horrifying drudgery of actual work.

Me JoJo. Me big cave-(wo)man!
Photo: Kayleigh Taylor

Had I not lost any and all forms of identification (and access to money) in the process, I would've really enjoyed it (how could I not, with escapades such as THIS!)

Photo: Kayleigh Taylor

However, that I did, and a horribly abrupt thought has just crept into my consciousness...

It's my 19th birthday in just over two weeks... and I have absolutely no way of going out to celebrate it.

Wonderful.

Ordinarily, I'd say that this is the sort of scenario that would require a good, stiff drink...

Hmmm. It would seem that my obsession with flaunting my legs a-la-GaGa and becoming completely immersed in the world of costume parties yet again claims something other than my dignity.

Me and the birthday girl :)
Photo: erm... I somehow doubt this one was Kayleigh

Oh, well. I suppose I shouldn't let myself be dragged down by mishaps (however major).

While I face the prospect of a few weeks off the bottle, I thank my sexy cave-mistress Kayleigh for making my last night of drinking for a while thoroughly enjoyable.

Or, as cave-man Jamie would have said: "You pretty. Me like."

______________________________________________

Lesbians on the Lash

2010-04-05T20:53:00.009+01:00

I've never been to Leeds before.
It's been one of those places that I know of but that I simply don't know.

On the invitation of my favourite ginger (hmmm, or maybe my second) I decided to investigate.

How the city looks by day, I can't say, but by night it's a bit of an urban jungle; a canopy of glowing lights punctuating a blanket of blackness... ideal for masking the congealed vomit on the floor then.

Starting somewhat innocently (although certainly not innocuously), I find myself sat in a modern bar clutching a pint of Strongbow and Black and being introduced to one of the most beautiful creatures I've seen in a long time.

Two frantic circuits of the clock later and we're sat upstairs, about to order a drink when two lesbians (whose haircuts were eerily similar to that of my Jamesy) plant themselves next to us with all the drunken bravado of a prostitute at a cross-roads.

Photo: James Andrew Briscoe

In their disorientated state, they kept trying to force myself and James to kiss - and (surprising as this may be) even I have social boundaries; even if it's only at that stage of sobriety.

In an effort to silence their sordid slurring, Mark (the aforementioned creature) slid a toned arm around me and chimed into the conversation with impeccable timing.

Just as I was protesting that I have a partner of two years, he grinned at the trollied pair and calmly asserted that we were together: thus fashioning himself as my fake boyfriend.

Photo: James Andrew Briscoe

Who would have known it would have made such a hilarious theme to the night.

Every time Mark rose to get a drink, myself and James would pretend to kiss to freak out our new guests. This yielded looks of confusion, 'realisation' and, my own personal favourite, disgust.

And, I'm pleased to say, firmly flicking the V to convention, I'm one of a very select amount of people who can actually remember what happened that night.

Isn't that right, lesbians?

I said ISN'T THAT RI - Oh, never mind.

Lost in (head)space

Photo: James Andrew Briscoe

_____________________________________________

Ageism in Action

2010-03-25T16:16:00.004Z

Yesterday I bought my first copy of Attitude.
And I was surprised to find that it wasn't the conformist cliché that I had expected.

Amongst the enticing images of young men (I may be in love with the Richard Windsor and his 'Glorious Glutes'), were a number of hard-hitting features that addressed real cause for concern among the LGBT community.

One that really caught my attention from the self-proclaimed 'older issue' was an article examining an astounding form of prejudice faced by gay men and women everyday: ageism.

It seems that homophobia isn't enough of an obstacle to overcome, and a large proportion of the LGBT community are essentially eroding away the bridge between the older and younger generation with a thoughtless vanity.

I admit that I'm hardly embracing the ageing process; strewn across my bed at this very moment are a veritable concoction of lotions and potions all designed to help resist the passage of time. But, more so than almost any other certainty in the world, we all age.

You're ageing right now.

As Nick Maxwell expresses on page 68:

"There are no social mechanisms in place whereby older LGBT men can mix with younger LGBT people. Within families, grandchildren mix with grandparents and so learn some sense of growing older. No such interaction exists within gay communities."

Older men who approach young people or are 'scene queens' are invariably perceived as being predatory; but this is unfair. This 'double prejudice' is a sad concept for the LGBTs around today.

It's an awful thought to think that we will be discarded by our own community and cast aside for newer, more socially acceptable models of ourselves.

Yes, aging scares me.

In the words of our Lady, "I am as vain as I allow", but that doesn't mean I'm unrealistic.

With no children to take care of us when we get older, we should be careful not to ostracize ourselves any more than hegemonic ideals of conventional sexuality already do.

___________________________________________

Kaka, Oooh La La

2010-03-21T22:21:00.007Z

I woke up this morning thinking it was any other Sunday:
wrestling for a scrap of the covers from Adam before being kicked out of bed and marched to Chicken Cottage for his delightfully different concept of 'breakfast'.

Leaving my flat, however, I was assaulted by the most foul, repugnant odour ever to storm up my nostrils.

A few (understandably tentative) steps forward reveal that some wonderfully polite person had projectile-vomited over the balcony of floor two, systematically splattering sick over every floor before landing all over the tiles near the main entrance.

When I finally reached the ground floor, I was equally shocked and disgusted to find the front door ajar and a solidifying pile of human excrement on the ground. Lovely.

Suddenly the phrase "born in a barn" bears a whole new, and infinitely more twisted, meaning.

In an effort to escape the putrid mass, I ventured out around the streets of Lincoln for a rare and quite refreshing bit of urban exploration with Jenny.

With the sun shining and all the time in the world (because, let's face it: I can always start my essay tomorrow) it took just about all of my self-restraint to fight off the mental image of the two of us enjoying a cool pitcher of Pimms sitting outside a remote pub somewhere.

(Mind you, After my unsuccessful trip to the Police station, though, I'm not that eager to spend money I don't have).

2 hours and 4 very tired legs later and we head back to the flat, turning on my computer as we sat down with a steaming mug of tea.

I couldn't help but note the incredible irony as a recent Youtube tab sprang back to life; filling my room with as much sound as it's malodorous counterpart.

Keyless. Clueless.

2010-03-20T17:00:00.009Z

After a difficult weekend, I've spent the best part of five days waiting for Friday to come to give me some fleeting chance at redeeming myself.

Granted, it's now Saturday afternoon and Adam's soundly asleep on my bed as I try to type this in silence. We're back to our usual selves, and I once again have a boyfriend who's also my best friend, a cross-dressing psychopath and something of a dab-hand at this Xbox malarkey.

Trying to put the memory of last Saturday behind me, and waking up to find myself drenched in massacre-soaked tears in the kitchen, I decided it might be fun to pull on my green tights and give my Peter Pan costume another outing.

Luckily, my journalism friends had arranged the perfect pairing: a fancy-dress party starting at the Tower Bar, before leading us all around town on our merry way.

In principle, a fine idea. In practice, however, it wasn't quite so straightforward...

Starting at Jonathan's flat, we all enjoy commenting on each others' costumes as we play drinking games and lubricate our throats with alcoholic beverages of increasing potency.

Surrounded by a ample-bussomed french maid, Luigi, a cow-girl, a chav, the Queen of Hearts and Alice in Wonderland, it's little wonder we got a little carried away in all the excitement.

Photo: Kirsty Juniper

A few rounds of "I have Never" later and I'm barely able to stand, let alone fly (I think we can all agree that I don't make a very practical Peter Pan).

This is where the night started to fall apart faster than a radio bought at the pound shop.

Having originally been planning meet at the Tower Bar at 8pm (which, frankly, is ridiculous), we convinced Kirsty to rearrange the time until 10pm.

Peter Pan proving he is no match for a chav
Photo: Kirsty Juniper

But come ten o'clock, and we all still have plenty of alcohol and frivolity to go around, so we delay if for a further hour, giving us time to get suitably squiffy before leaving the house.

A plan which all of us, bar one or two tea-totallers, embrace heartily (ahem, as shown).

Photo: Kirsty Juniper

Fast-forward another hour, and I'm crouched in a doorway systematically showing the pavement my dinner, Jenny's banned from Trebles for a combination of being too drunk and, from what I remember, her costume "not being suitable" and I discover that virtually all of my possessions have been lost during the course of the evening.

Lesson learnt: this is the last time I shall ever leave the house in a costume that lacks pockets, however much it emphasizes the realism of the character I may choose to embody.

However, I'm annoyed. Oh, yes.
I'm aware that they are my things and ordinarily, my responsibility, but I entrusted them to my friends - and these are people that I trust.

It causes me almost as much discomfort as my broken toes to think that people played musical keys with my things and I'm now left facing a £60 bill to replace the locks in my flat if my visit to the police station yields nothing.

Now, after requesting a small contribution of £8 each from the journos to cover the cost of the locks being replaced, it seems a Facebook war is erupting over who's at fault.

I'm incredibly grateful for my friends for helping me home. I am.

I'd just prefer it if next time they keep their wits and my possessions about them.

_______________________________________________

Photographs and Pheromones

2010-03-12T13:07:00.006Z

Let me be the first to congratulate the University of Lincoln on it's exceptional organization skills.

Only a truly gifted (or indeed idiotic) individual could have arranged such a spectacular farce.

It's Friday 12th March 2010, and the day that the University of Lincoln's sports and societies photographs are being taken to visually record the people who are actively involved around the university.

Well, imagine my surprise (and delight) to discover that the LGBT society photograph had been sandwiched in between the football and rugby team photographs.

I can think of a few other interesting... sandwiches.

While our society photograph was very agreeable, I couldn't help but cast a wandering eye over the muscular men changing in the background. I fear I was only one pair of shorts away from

"'scuse me mate, eyes on the camera."

I know it's intrinsically puerile, but nevertheless, I'm finishing this blog with a carnal PHWOOOOOARRRR!

__________________________________________________

Pissing off Peter

2010-03-05T09:45:00.005Z

Last night I became Peter Pan for a Disney extravaganza at Lincoln's Engine Shed.

It was a great night, by all accounts.
Well, almost.

After initially worrying that my costume looked cheap, my fears were soon laid to rest by fellow Peter Pans shouting abuse at me for my home-made costume.

Among my favourite questionable quotes were:

"Aww, bollocks! Now I look like I 'ant tried!"

"Mate! Where did you find green tights?! As if!"

And, as if that wasn't enough, I was TOTALLY out-shined by Chris' friends and their respective costumes.
I've never seen so many scantily glad, glamorous girls in one place.
Ha, in which case the word 'respect' probably shouldn't have been used to describe them.

The night was great (as the pictures show) - the mood was one full of frivolity and fun, which I felt embodied the theme rather well.

However, I must apologise to Flat 622 and friends for storming off in a huff at 1 in the morning.
I genuinely can't recall what prompted me to flounce off in a huff.
(And trust me; covered in glitter and encased in green tights, flounce I did.)

Apparently, Peter's a bit of a prat after he's had a few.
So, not only was he pissed off; he managed to leave a bewildered set of onlookers in his wake.

12 hours and 3 missed calls later, and I asked myself why I was screening my calls.
Yes, I knew I was angry. But why? It seemed strange, and quiet frankly childish, to allow the animosity to continue.

So I picked the phone up, and all was explained. The hostility melted away like the remnants of my outrageous orange hairspray from the night before spiralling forlornly down the bathroom drain.

My life seems to becoming one endless succession of themed parties and drunken disasters, strung together by the act of apologising for those disasters.

... and honestly? It's a LOT more fun than my old, socially frigid facade.

I'm beginning to see that I can have a social life and a rewarding education.

How bizarre... how beautiful.

Neon Lies: a lurid disguise

2010-02-28T17:53:00.012Z

My liver may be feebly waving a tattered white flag, but I'm firmly flaunting the LGBT rainbow.

Having never been to a UV party before, I spent the best part of 4 hours trying on the same two t-shirts and painting my eyes a deliciously dazzling shade of neon pink.

Raving Lunatic... and Jenny
Photo: Jess Wilson

Two cans of purple hairspray later, and I'm batting my yellow eyelashes at my dearest JoJo while spraying my luminous seed across his tiny bathroom. The effect was surprisingly beautiful; I'd never have imagined that a decapitated glow-stick could transform an ordinary wet-room into a glittering galaxy of multi-coloured stars.

And speaking of collective colours, well done LGBTs!
The turn-out for the Rainbow Rave was unprecedented.
We certainly saw out LGBT History Month with a bang that wouldn't look entirely out of place in a superhero comic.

Granted, I hadn't expected to have to wait outside of an event that I'd helped organise - but luckily a quick word with the bouncers seemed to clear the air and we managed to squeeze inside.
(Surely that's what it's all about in a gay bar?)

The club was heaving, the atmosphere was electric and, more importantly, we were all incandescent!

Me and Jenny
Photo: Jess Wilson

A crowded Christophers
Photo: Dave Whitehurst

Of the little I remember, I managed to flirt inappropriately (but not entirely unpleasantly) with the SU President, drink enough vodka to sustain a small Russian family for a week and dance like Lady GaGa having some form of light-induced seizure.

Blinding lights
Photo: Dave Whitehurst

I notice that I left the house with 40 glowsticks and returned with only 3!
You set of pilfering philanderers!

I demand that the responsible party reimburse me the full total of the costs incurred purchasing said materials... I will accept the £2 either by direct debit, or in the form of yet another double-vokda and diet coke.

Yes, it was another incredible night out around the historic city of Lincoln to add to an already impressive collection.

However, I admit that I hit a snag at the very end of the evening (well, early morning), when a close friend rubbed my leg and whispered gently in my ear that I'm perfect and, if the circumstances were different, he'd have me in an instant.

For the record, I'm flattered - I am. It just fills me with a deep self-loathing to think that this is the second time in the space of a week two different friends have slurred drunkenly at me that I'm "perfect" and that they'd love to "sex me".

I wonder where people get this false image of me in their heads.
I'm far from perfect.
I'm so far from perfect I'm in Doncaster.

And while it gives me a short-term confidence boost, it leaves me with a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach... one which (perhaps even more strangely) isn't down to my alcohol consumption.

I can't help but wonder if all of my friends are ruled by this prevalent deception...

Hmmmmm, this blog seems to be deflating rather quickly. I worry it'll start sagging soon!

Here's a picture that cheers me up rather nicely. There we go.

Me and JoJo
Photo: Jess Wilson

Let's focus on the positives:

Alcohol
Good friends
A cavalcade of colour
and an ethereal, yet exciting end to LGBT History Month.

_________________________________________________

Punch: the men of Mansfield

2010-02-20T18:25:00.012Z

Evidently, this is one sentence in which the colon is all important.
(But then again, when isn't it?)

Ambigity aside, Wednesday night was memorable for all the wrong reasons.
It's these very reasons that also result in me having absolutely no recollection of the evening.
... Hmm, I may need to rethink my definition of the word 'memorable'.

The night started unsually, and only went further into the realms of the obscure from there.

It's 8pm, and I'm casually tucking into a bowl of pasta when Chris orally assaults the intercom system and is in my bedroom before I know it.

"Eeee, does tha fancy gu'in t' Mansfield?", he asks.

"Ummmm... Oh, I don't know. I have so much to..."

Twenty minutes later, and we're speeding down darkened back-roads towards Mansfield's "one and only gay night" at The Live Lounge.

Damn you, Chris! I apparently have issues saying no to you
(abuse that if you will).

What really struck me was simply how freeing it felt to be out of Lincoln for a while. Yes, I love the city but it's the geographical equivalent of a shoe-box.

So, Mansfield:

Glass of wine? Check.
Drag queens? Check.
Fellow fairies? Check.

The makings of a good night all in attendance then!

And a good night it was... until I wake up in my bed, with a pounding headache to discover that I'd managed to fall unconscious in the car, before promptly being sick all over myself.

The end of the story? God, I wish.
I'm ejected out of the car to be sick in a ditch at the side of the road (none of which I can remember), when a Police car pulls over, cross-examines both Chris and Mark and asks endless questons before eventually driving off having failed to breathalise the driver.

Phew!

Let me clarify, Marc was sober. However, he HAD had one drink...
and I'm quite the worrier, when I'm connscious, that is.

The reasons for my inexplicable intoxication?
Not excessive drinking (trust me).
Not mixing drinks (although I did).
It was, I strongly suspect, an old 'friend' reacquainting itself with my lips.

Photo: Phillipe Put

Rosé!
Bloody Rosé!

As long-term readers of my blog will know, every time I drink it I end up unconscious with my dinner dribbling down my chin.

Mental note: PUT THE WINE GLASS DOWN!

Flatmates, friends, hell - tutors if it comes to it: if you ever see me drinking, or even alluding to drink, the dreaded pink brew don't hesitate to slap me until my face is the same colour as that barbaric bile.

On a more positive note, I managed to stumble into Cairo's lecture on Punch and a history of political satire through the ages for the first time for two weeks.

.. I dread to think what distorted depiction of myself would have adorned those pages had I been alive to see it.
_____________________________________________

Tumblr down the rabbit-hole

2010-02-19T21:22:00.006Z

I'm blatantly behind on my blogging - and this veritable travesty shall be rectified tomorrow... honest, Gov!

Until then, here's a little something I'm working on for my Journalism Skills Assignment:

Curious? Click here.

If it takes off, I'm thinking of making it an on-going adventure!
One blog for personal confessions (like my... less than flattering account of Wednesday night, that's still to come),
and one blog for material made of journalistic win!

Chalk This Way!

2010-02-16T00:42:00.015Z

Well, today was choc-full of suprises!
(Even if, sadly, chocolates weren't one of them)

After being rather rudely awoken by smug firemen at 6:30 in the morning, and being unable to do anything in bed but toss haphazardly beside Adam, I whipped my phone out and sent Alanna a frantic text.

... About the weather.
Boring, yes - but it was very important too!

After a few minutes of getting dressed (i.e. looking for where I'd idly strewn my jeans the night before), I ran off to the main admin building to meet the other members of the LGBT society for a coffee.
Well, the awake ones, at least.

So make that Alanna, Chris and Adam.
This is when we made the group decision.
Yes, it probably would rain.
But not yet.

Not quite yet.

And so the day really started; with us making an impromptu webcam video in the Atrium (and me trying not to laugh at Alanna's net-book know-how... or lack thereof).

Hauling the heavy box of chalk (WHAT?!) outside, we started sketching out a huge rainbow to celebrate LGBT History Month by splashing a cacophony of colours around campus.

Photo: Chris Hughes
(try to ignore the face that I look demonic)

After a slow start, we soon had little kids helping us scribble away with chalk of every colour spreading our message, and some splendidly specific graffiti, across the University of Lincoln.

It was a very good, and very productive day.

Despite the rain, sleet and snow threatening to thwart us at every turn, I'd say we came out of it covered in roses.

Or was it rainbows?
_________________________________________________

Photo: Dave Whitehurst

_________________________________________________

Interested in joining the University of Lincoln LGBT Society?

Join our Facebook page by searching University of Lincoln LGBT Society
(http://www.facebook.com/group.php?v=wall&ref=ts&gid=176079725085)

or simply visit the SOAP centre and ask about becoming a member.

Glitter in the (h)air

2010-02-12T00:01:00.008Z

I have to admit it: Wednesday night was wild.
And just what I needed.

I'm very nearly willing to overlook the atrocious amount of money I've spent this week, purely because it was all worth it.

For those of you who don't know (or who didn't ask somewhat bemused questions during today's lecture), Wednesday was Chris' 21st birthday.

So, to celebrate it in style ('style' here referring to a sheer abundance of all things shiny), we planned an alcohol-fueled night out with a futuristic theme.

A Futuristic Fairy
Originally uploaded by JamieHogue

At what point we were branded 'The Futuristic Fairies' I can't say, but it's a terribly titillating title that I've grown quite fond of.
(Oh, yes - my arguably anal addiction to alliteration is astounding.)

Almost as astounding as the amount of attention we received on our travels last night.
Skin-tight spandex leggings, fitted studded tops, wire necklaces and farcically futuristic make-up ensured that attention was one thing we certainly weren't short of.

Hairspray, however, was.
Three cans of black glitter hairspray could have fooled anyone into thinking we were either intimately entwined with the cosmos; the personification of its ethereal power... or maybe just the galactic equivalent of pissed prostitutes.
Yeh, probably the latter.

And that's foregoing any mention of Chris' interesting thong placement and Matt's... very loud eye make-up.

Smiles and Glitter
Originally uploaded by JamieHogue

Staying up all night and walking into my lecture in full party attire only added to the excitement.
However, I'm making a mental note to not pull an all-nighter again for quite a while!
Sat in the back of the lecture, I suddenly realised I was so exhausted I'd lost all concept of how to write. I think when you start losing basic motor functions, it's time to call it a night.

Still, the important thing is the Birthday Boy!

I hope you had a great time, Chris!

Not everyone has the power to transform ordinary student-folk into a flamboyant fanfare of futuristic floozies!
___________________________________________________________________

Hospitalised

2010-02-03T23:55:00.007Z

Euuuurrrrrrrgh.
Today was unquestionably one of the worst days I've ever had.

I woke up to find that I had hospital tags glued to each of my limbs, one of which is still in place, as my ill-advised strategy of pulling them off now leaves me with one very sore leg and one very hairy plaster.

Every time I attempted to move, I felt overwhelmed by nausea.
My usual hangover remedy of a hot shower and a cup of fresh juice didn't go quite as planned, and I ended up curled over the toilet in a haze of orange, sweating so much I was convinced I was about to pass out.
Again.

A quick check through my inbox reminds me what exactly happened last night...
and I instantly want to go back to sleep. For a very long time.

Apparently, I went to Cubes.
Apparently, I collapsed on the high-street and wouldn't stop being sick.
Apparently, I was taken to hospital in an ambulance.

I say 'apparently' because I have no recollection of anything other than singing on Rockband with Robert, Soibhan and James.

Jess seems convinced I had my drink was spiked, and I'm inclined to agree with her, even if it is mainly out of a thinly-veiled attempt to look like marginally less of a moron.

I just don't understand it.

I drank no more than a usual night out (if anything, I'd say it was less).
Granted, I only had toast before-hand, but again, that's nothing unusual.

So the question remains:

'What in God's name happened to me?'

In the words of Kristen Chenoweth:

"Last night, I got served a little bit too much
of that poison, baby.
Last night, I did things I'm not proud of,
and I got a little crazy"

I'm just so annoyed at myself.
I'd planned on having such a productive day and I couldn't even bring myself to leave the flat.

I even had to postpone my interview with John Byford until tomorrow!
I've been looking forward to that all week.

Professional? Hardly.
Human? Just about.
_______________________________________________________________

Rogue Jeans and Russian Hats

2010-02-01T01:30:00.007Z

Flicking through my calendar a few minutes ago, pen in hand, I had to laugh at Adam's audacity.
Edlimswitz never fail to bring a smile to my face
(and usually a very unattractive snort from that general vicinity).

Penciled in among my complex list of plans was

"Do boring complicated stuff"

It look me a moment to realise that he'd spelt 'stuff' wrong, as I was shaking my head in a bizarre gesture of approval.

But alas, he is wrong. I will indeed be busy with complex endeavours, but it's not a Monday and therefore not boring.
Public Admin. is on a Tuesday, sweetie
=P

I love little things like that; small, seemingly meaningless things that brighten up your day.

Such small yet grande gestures are exactly why Ive had such a good day today.
After waking up next to my succulently pyschotic boyfriend and spending most of the day lolling about on my bed cuddling aimlessly, I realized what a nice contrast my lazy weekends are, when compared to my busy weekdays.

So, while I luxuriated in my messy room, rogue jeans and Russian hats strewn haphazardly across my usually immaculate floor, a strange teenager/man hybrid sat at the end of my bed bobbing along to some tropical music. Such is the delightly deranged dynamic of Adam's trips to Lincoln.

To my surprise, this bizarre hybrid later kissed me gently on the cheek and gave me what is potentially his most prized possession: his hat!

Anyone who has not just let their drink spill vacantly from their now limp hands clearly has never met the illustrious Mr (or is it Mrs?) Lea-Sinclair.

He LIVES in that hat. I'd have felt less surprise had he given me a jar containing his testicles.
Although it would explain an awful lot about his dress sense.
;)

So, I sit writing this blog in that very hat, wondering when the inevitable descent into insanity will begin.

___________________________________________________

Oh, and on a completely unrelated note
FLAT 8 NEED TO HAVE MORE PARTIES!

Me and my cheap Russian vodka had a really nice time

In fact, I felt rather gay.

___________________________________________________

Personality Personified: Crazed Campaigns and Journalism

2010-01-29T02:11:00.007Z

What a long day!
This little mug of consciousness has a lot to answer for.

Photo: Klaus Post

I can feel my eye-lids pulling to a close, like a heavy duvet engulfing a tired teenager.
God, that's such a nice thought.

But I want to blog while today's still fresh in my mind.

The History of Journalism, 1789-2000!
Urrrrgh.
Hardly the most riveting way to start my day, but at least it meant it could only go up from there.
And I'm pleased to say that it did.

After heading off to the shed with straight Jonathan and Gay Jonathan (I'm sure they won't mind that distinction), I discovered that I had yet another damned seminar to go to when I had already convinced myself I was free for the weekend.

Escaping the clutches of knowledge (phew, that was a close one!), I eventually got the chance to grab myself a cup of stupidly sweet Redbush tea and sort out a few mock-ups of posters for the University of Lincoln's LGBT Society's 'Beating Homophobia' campaign.

I must thank Dave Whitehurst and his superior Photoshopping skills.
He can make me look attractive; the man's clearly either a miracle worker or a wizard.

A few hours later, with gay rainbows flitting energetically through my mind, I headed to the committee meeting and then the society meeting.
Needless to say, as February is LGBT History Month, we are working in OVERDRIVE!

After these stress-inducing slices of my homosexuality, I stopped by the International Students Welcome Event in the Tower Bar (which scared me as I'm not exactly adept at social integration as it is; let's not confuse matters further by introducing a barrage of foreign languages).

After standing there for a few minutes smiling tentatively at international students, I finally decided I looked so socially awkward that the only way to undo the damage would be to either get everyone plastered, or make a swift exit.
As orange juice was on the agenda, I went with the latter.

Fast-forward 7 1/2 hours later and I've just about finished my art review for the student newspaper (The Linc, people!) and organizing a double-page spread with Bullet magazine for February.
By all rights, I should moan, but I can't help but enjoy myself;
I'm enraptured by John Byford's expressive photos, and I do love whacking one off.
An article, that is. :P

Still, I'd say I'm in need of a good night's sleep
I just need to wait for that coffee and KitKat to wear off.

Damn my copiously caffeinated vices.

Ready for a new resolve?

2010-01-26T16:58:00.005Z

Because I am!

I'm so glad to be back in university lectures and my simply salient seminars (did I not warn you I was irritatingly happy? Ah, sorry).

I've missed having something to do.
And I'm fully aware it escalates me to an entirely new, and potentially unparalleled level of social retardation, but I feel somehow more complete now that I once again have something to work towards.

As much fun as it is waking up at 2pm and watching all new Dollhouse with Baileys and hot chocolate, it doesn't fill me with this same resounding energy.
Actually, by definition, it merely fills me with soluble chocolate and Irish cream.

After a decidedly dicey start to the day, i.e. completely negating my alarm and waking up with less than 20 minutes to get dressed and run to my lecture, it's managed to reverse itself rather refreshingly.

This sentiment is something that extends, in particular, to my Journalism Skills assignments. Yes! I got my grades back!

And, unlike the nervous tension encircling my chest that hit me a few minutes before the seminar would have me believe, I did very well and can honestly say that I am pleased.
Pretty surprised as well, actually.
But pleased mostly.

Yes, the perception of pleasure is certainly predominant.
And quite pervasive, at that.

Wired, Tired, and Uninspired

2010-01-25T10:54:00.003Z

It happened again.
Tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning; 4 o'clock is starting to seem more like a mental benchmark than an actual point in time.

I thought getting up early to meet my Grand'rents on Saturday would offer some recompense for my erratic sleep cycle, but the freshly ground coffee that we insisted on eating with dinner somewhat spoiled it.

So, I've been back at uni for exactly one week now, and I feel as though I'm going out every-night; which is strange, as I'm usually sat in my room with a cup of decaffeinated tea twiddling my thumbs or listening to the Glee soundtrack a little too animatedly.
(I suppose it's far too easy to get lost in kristin Chenoweth's voice...)

I'm going to put most of it down to an uninspiring amalgamation of boredom, lack of structure and my mind, rather irritatingly, reminding me why I find it so irritating in the first place.

I'm just so monumentally bored all the time. Even when I'm doing something supposedly engaging.
*Glowers at the Law Revision book on his desk*

Hopefully the start of proper university life (i.e. lectures and workshops in which I get so famished I'd gladly eat another Morrison's ready meal intent on saturating my entire body with liquid cheese) will change things.
Even this blog seems strangely lacklustre - I think it's safe to say I need Adam to come and inject an industrial amount of crazy into my life.

It'll be nice to have something constructive to do, for a change. Although, lecturers - take note: I distinctly said 'something' to do, not 'everything'.

I suppose I'd better get my things ready for this midday workshop then, ey?

It amazes me how easy it is to forget that I'm actually here to learn something other than how to socialise.

Deplorably Dark, Beautifully Beaten

2010-01-24T02:36:00.013Z

The face of homophobia is a hideous one; disfigured by prejudice, and scarred by hate.

As someone who's fallen victim to this type of violence in the past, I deplore anyone who thinks that homophobia is limited to mere misunderstandings.

People are human: we are walking, talking (and occasionally working) biological beings. We can be hurt, we can be broken.

Photo: Dave Whitehurst

This is me, savagely beaten by the expert hand of Alanna Draper-Webster, and her extensive theatrical make-up kit.
And although this was done by her (very capable) hands, it could easily have been by the hand of some under-educated yob with nothing but a fleeting recognition of something being beyond the bounds of 'normality'.

That's why the University of Lincoln's Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender society will be spearheading a new campaign in February designed to raise awareness of this kind of senseless violence.

The world can be a shocking place - these graphic posters will hopefully act to remind people that, regardless of our sexuality, we are all marvels of biology... we are all beautiful.
Hurting us makes us no less so. The growing acceptance of LGBT lifestyles shows us this. Beaten or not, we are still beautiful, we are all living, breathing creatures.

And I'd quite like to stay that way.

My story is only brief, but it that isn't to say it's short-lived.
A few years ago, I was walking hand-in-hand with a boy I liked, when a car pulled up next to us and a group of Chavs emerged. I remember him holding a beer-bottle, and smashing it over the back of my head.

I also remember being told his street-name: "mushy", which I can only assume was a reference to the firmness, or lack thereof, of this grasp on reality.

Hurting me proved nothing, but that he was a narrow-minded nitwit with an axe to grind against something he couldn't understand.

Like the LGBT Society, I urge people to remember that inane violence only transfers your abstract insecurities onto our very real faces. It is brutal, it is bigoted, and it is belittling.

Please, remember that homophobia hurts.

In the words of Jonathan Holmes:

"Homophobia: BEAT IT"

Student Housing: Time And Relative Dimensions In Suburbia

2010-01-20T02:04:00.017Z

I have a house!
I finally have a house.

Since my last blog, it's been a week spent speedily searching for student housing.
And, to say I did no research what-so-ever, I'd say it panned out rather well.
Eventually.

After the fiasco at the last week's housing fayre (sadly, I've been unable to mimic the hallucinogenic effect of drinking that much vodka), this week has had more ups and downs than Brent Corrigan with ADHD on a trampoline.

We spent Wednesday looking round 6-bedroom houses ('we' being myself, Jonathan, Jess and that Holly person) and found one of the most picturesque and practical buildings I've ever had the pleasure of entering (well, on this budget anyway).
3 bay windows, huge rooms and the only detached house on the entire street.
Which, for the record, is a cul-de-sac, giving us a venerable view of Lincoln's waterway.

BUT, at the very last moment, it is announced that the 3 people who have agreed to get a house with us might not want to. And this made my blood boil.
The word that sparked my temperamental imbalance?
'Might'.

'Yes', quite obviously, was the desired term. 'No', however, would have been fine.
But 'might' leaves room for all sorts of uncertainty that I simply cannot be dealing with.

For some reason completely unbeknown to myself, one of my potential housemates was completely dependent on the judgments of another to function. And as the ring-master was at the gym, and thus not able to answer our franctic calls to boast about how delicious our detached house was, we were all left with a huge 'if' hanging over the whole scenario.

After paying the deposit on the house, I made a VERY fast exit. I had a train to catch,
which I only did after using an embarrassing combination of half-running and speed-walking.

But, train caught (and Dad-running aside) I tried to put the whole student housing fiasco out of my mind for the weekend, which I very nearly managed to do.
Being whisked away to see one of Adam's ND2 shows at High Melton certainly helped, as I spent the better part of an hour trying to understand what in the Hell was going on.

Seriously, guys - a little help?

I was more confused than a certain villain's traumatic choice between Ketchup and Catsup.
Although some of the dancing was exxxxcellent.

So, cue today and discovering that all three of the housemates have pulled out of the house purely because one of them is an indecisive idiot, me, JoJo and Jonathan (who I shall hereby refer to as Box Boy) have been looking at 3 bedroomed houses. We've settled on a nice little place, and sorted it!
"YES! YES!"

As my crazed little cross-dresser would say: "This is DELICIOUS!"
And indeed it is.
Sadly, it's edible (not that I'll be testing that theory), but it's lovely and quaint.

The fact that the house is just off Trollope Street cannot fail to make me grin childishly.
I can see myself turning into the bucket woman for the next two years!
"It's TRO-LOH-PAY, dahling!"

Photo: :: Hello Mizu ::

And, of course, it's helped somewhat by the comedic value of Dave and Box Boy each resembling a different time-lord and then using their shared expertise to find a house that is a more domesticated version of the TARDIS.

Time And Relative Dimensions In Suburbia?
It has a certain ring to it.

Sick, Sanity and Saturated Fat

2010-01-13T17:34:00.004Z

OUCH.

I'm certain that my brain is trying to escape my skull by throbbing so forcefully that it will simply shatter. I feel like a cardboard cup, crumpling beneath a scalding torrent of tea.

To say I distinctly said "I'm not going out" last night, this is one of the most horrific hangovers I've ever had the displeasure of enduring. It would hurt considerably less if Gemma were to strike me around the head with her new 'organic' dildo (who knew the Farmer's Market could be so diverse?).

Since declaring my abstinence from going out and this very moment, I have drank a good twenty pounds worth of vodka, been sick on my floor and been so completely disorientated during the housing fayre, that I was asked by one of my best friends if I was on drugs.

Just to clarify, Jess, I am not "taking anything". But I can see your point.
This, my friends, is the (quite apt) response to me having burst out laughing at swirling grey patterns that only I could see, whilst we were meant to be discussing house prices.

I genuinely saw them, dancing in front of my eyes like water beneath a rippling branch, or a trail of cigarette smoke spiralling skywards. To jolt me back into the real world, I ordered myself a cappucino... which did infinitely more harm than good.

Despite glazing over the exhaustion gnawing at my chest, it made it so much worse. Now I was hungover, tired and completely wired. How one cup of coffee managed to escalate to my hands shaking violently for a good hour or so, I don't fully understand.

I looked like an escaped mental patient! I'd have look marginally more sane had I smeared my own faeces on the wall and declared the cake to be a lie.

So, in yet another ill-fated attempt to subdue the civil war-zone that currently is my stomach, I decided to cook a pasta dish I've had in the freezer since Freshers' Week. And I'm completely amazed that I'm not secreting cheese!

I didn't really read the nutritional information- it's a habit that usually brings me dangerously close to my old eating disorder - so I thought nothing of the calories, and popped it in the microwave.

I read the label casually as I was finishing my meal and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! How, just HOW can it have 94% of my recommended daily amount of saturated fat?

I may as well have bathed in molten cheese.

I think I'm going to make myself a cup of hot, sweet tea and pretend, purely to preserve my own sanity, that I don't have the better part of a dairy farm working it's way through my digestive tract...

Although it would still be smaller than Gemma's mutated cucumber.

Superlative Snowing Shenanigans

2010-01-06T18:42:00.013Z

The floor is made of lava!

A crystalline white blanket of corrosive lava!

ARRRRRRRRRRGH!

Oh no... wait. It's snow. Silly old snow.
Unquestionably the worst winter weather I've ever had the displeasure of encountering.

Photo: Yusuke Toyoda

For something that is the polar and temperate opposite of lava, it seems to have the same eradicative effects.

It makes me laugh how, for a supposedly advanced species, we can be thwarted by something as trivial as frozen water.

We can speak wirelessly across continents, we can (apparently) fly to the moon, and, as Adam keeps reminding me, whining in the manner of an adorable child, clucthing a teddy bear with pig-tails and a fat face, we can split atoms to create catastrophic explosions.

Oh, Christ. He's now sat there making banging noises. Yes, PISHEWWWWWWWWWWWWW! PISHEWWWWWWWWWWWWW!... one day he'll get the help he needs.
Not today though, I'm going to enjoy the intellectual high-ground for a while.

Ahem, back to the snow. It's just ridiculous. Yes, it's picturesque, and yes, it's seasonal, but it's SLUSH!

The world really shouldn't grind to a halt just because it's a bit cold.
It was exciting originally, but, much like venturing into a new term at university, it soon starts to piss you off.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not a total scrooge. I've enjoyed the odd snowball fight, and watching Adam fall on the ice and go down like a bag full of bricks (HA! Still reeling from that!) but you have to admit, it's gone on a bit too much now.

I just hope it's cleared up by Friday - I have a Lincolnnn to get to!
Nothing would please me more than sitting in my room with some Earl Grey whilst fending off the advances of the awful peadophile, Jess and not having to worry about deadlines for a few weeks.
Fun times to be had!

"Butt-scratcher?
Mmmmm, BUTT-SCRATCHER!!!"

This damn weather's been driving me mad for the past few weeks.
Now the initial high has gone off, I'm left with nothing more than chapped hands and the TOTAL inability to stay unright whenever I go outside (ey, Adam?).

*Image courtesy of www.onlymountain.com

News Years Disillusionment

2010-01-01T14:27:00.004Z

"I need to change my sheets."

This is my first waking thought of 2010. And it's a thought I would act on, were Sarah not asleep in my bed.

The closing night of 2009 was not without incident, excitement, or even the intervention of an ex.

After spending my final hours of the year at Rob's party, and having Sarah abandon me to have sex with Rob's ex, Jo decide to fuck off around the streets of Lincoln and then steal my bed, I can honestly say that this year will be very different from it's predecessor.
I will not be the same person.

I'm going to start with a little 'spring' cleaning, and rid myself of people who are not completely necessary to my life.
I will not keep in contact with people I do not expressly enjoy the company of.
Anyone who drags me down is a hindrance, and shall be treated as such.

"I don't know whether to apologise or congratulate you"

...Remembering the most potent quote of the evening, I shall not maintain any social civility when - well, when I don't fucking want to.

This year is about me acknowledging that I am the most important person in my life, and I should treat myself with the respect I deserve.
Anyone who doesn't give me this is simply not someone I can tolerate.

So, thank you to all of those people who I know and love. Thank you for those that I don't making it much easier to make this decision.
Bye.

To all of those I can stand to be around, welcome to a new year!
A year with much the same problems as the previous, but I can assure you they will be dealt with very differently.

Chicken Fillets and Chastity

2009-12-29T17:22:00.003Z

"Is it in deep?"

Yes, Jonathan, it is! This is the (highly intelligent) tone of my day thus far.

Now, with the laptop plugged in, I can actually write without fear of the virtual world being engulfed in a shroud of blackness.

JoJo's mum is upstairs, and I am having a brief five minutes of not worrying about looking overly gay, as
a) I don't want to offend her and
b) I don't want her to think I'm sleeping with her son
I'm not having another conversation with someone's mum about who bites the pillow! Am I, Julie?

It's been an interesting day filled with excursions and innuendo.
When I finally arrived at Jonathan's house (after two hours of walking and using Googlemaps to navigate), he decided it'd be a good idea to walk his dog.
More time out in the cold; excuse me while my testicles ascend into my lungs.

But, despite my intial misgivings, it was actually quite quaint. Trekking through an ice-over forest and breaking the surface of a frozen pond was something that felt quite surreal, given that I'm in Doncaster. Not Narnia.

Fast-forward four hours and I'm sat all snug in Jonathan's front room, with my hair gelled using hand-soap trying to look vaguely civilised for his mother.
I'm not out to impress; let me clarify. She's quite tall. It gives me a much-needed height boost, whilst at the same time making me look less like a flat-headed freak.
I'm 90% sure that counts as a win.

Bollocks, arse-hole, cock!
These are just some of the few things I can't say for the next hour or so.
I'm also making a conscious effort to sound less like a drunken sailor, as I am meeting JoJo's mum for the first time.

Yes, indeedy: casual-swearing is off the menu, and chicken curry with quiet banter shall be taking it's place.

Social Networking Ettiquette

2009-11-27T20:02:00.016Z

As I write this, I'm presented with a minor moral dillema.

I'm currently sat in Jess' bedroom, using her laptop for internet access after she became embroiled in a personal conversation on Facebook chat on my own computer.

Photo: Francois Bouly

Just wanting to quickly check my account, (it's not an addiction, more of an incredibly compulsive habit I don't have to willpower to stop...) I slip into Jess' room to use her laptop - fair's fair, after all. Loading the notorious networking site, however, I discover that she is already logged in and I can now see the entirety of her very private conversation popping up in the chat window.

I'm contemplating logging her off, but will that severe the connection in my room too? Or just from this machine?

Argh, yet again I am thwarted by modern technology.

I may just leave; the chat window is popping up repeatedly, winking at me suggestively like a peadophilic uncle bearing a pocketfull of sweets and dark secrets.

Sand and Soggy Pizza: Dreams of the Divine

2009-11-26T11:19:00.007Z

Yes, it's back to the topic of dreams!

I love talking about dreaming; it fascinates me as a state of consciousness.
Did you know, for instance, that if we slept without dreaming we'd die of exhaustion?
I just find it strange how there's an association with the dreaming world being so mysterious and ethereally beautiful, when it's really a combination of experiences taken from one's waking self.
I think it's the feeling of being detached yet engaged that makes them so alluring; you're present, but not in control of your actions. And it's a prospect that's both terrifying and thrilling.

This time I find myself out to descend into an ornate hall beneath a huge beach. I climb onto one of three winding staircases which are suspended from ground level, but don't touch the floor of the inner-room - they resemble spiraling Christmas decorations, their structures flowing to the floor in a fluid cascade, and yet they are rigid.

Photo: Thomas Crenshaw

Descending, I get my foot caught in the tapered point of the staircase and stumble the last few feet of the 40 feet drop to the floor.
There's a food-hall down here; inside it's more like being backstage at a film-set, with people rushing to get nourishment before dashing off yet again.
Walking past the buffet, into the back room, I tell the chef in the kitchen that I would like some pizza. The chef turns around, and is Yemi! He hands me a warm bowl of chicken soup and I keep putting it down, making it very obvious I do not want his crappy alternative to pizza.
When I see some pizza near the stove, he tips it all into the vat of soup.
I can't contain my anger, and reach into the bowl, churning soggy warm mass into his chest, and then start to storm off.
He tells me that his body-guards will be waiting to take me away... :/

What I find the most curious about this dream, despite the fact it plays on my current worries of finishing my media theory and analysis assignments, is that if my sub-conscious were overy worried about such things, it wouldn't let me sleep through Ola's lecture whilst dreaming about the buggers! A flashing neon 'WAKE UP' may have been just about subtle enough.

Philandering in a Metropolitan Environment

2009-11-12T00:54:00.011Z

Or Sex and The City, if you want to get technical.
This is what I have just turned off, as it's that damned episode where Miranda manages to sleep with a man who is addicted to pornography.
I know, I know; surely every man is addicted to porn?

Before I decided to indulge in a three-hour marathon of pure science-fiction heaven, in the form of Dollhouse and Fringe (because us university folk cannay afford a tv, so I am leaching from Father's resources), I had a bath so very hot I'm actually somewhat impressed my testicles didn't evapourate. It was deliciously soothing, despite the fact I started to read my law book.

Testicles and law book somehow still intact, I've had a rather nice day.
I managed to hand in my multi-platform news and journalism skills assignments at lunch, after getting to the office at literally 1 o'clock on the dot to be told that it shut at one exactly. Compassionate. Thus ensued a half-hour panic-stricken frenzy which resulted in me eventually giving it to someone near the security office.

Now, however, I am a good 30 miles or so from the security office, in good old Doncaster!
Or Donny, which, as a local, I'm apparently compelled to call it. But I don't.

Instead of butchering the English language with needless colloquialisms, I am going to sit here with a cup of sweet tea (thank you, Splenda) and squeal excitedly in anticipation of the next episode of Dollhouse, when I can bask in the ambiance of Eliza Dushku once again.

I enjoy watching this with a passion. It has to be said that it's exciting in at least four different ways.
But, why does she cause my man parts to poke around curiously?
That can't be right.

Photo: Joy Banerjee

A) She is not a man
and
B) This is Season 2! The dominatrix outfit is nowhere to be seen!

Damn you, penis! You will not defeat me again
This is not year 9 English, and I am not being called to the front.

The Apartment 8 Anarchists

2009-11-02T15:45:00.005Z

Today has been odd on all accounts.

Firstly, I was awoken early this morning by a noise and looked around to see what appeared to be an albino Umpa-Lumpa dancing on my desktop. It sounds amusing, but it was quite the opposite. In the twilight it was just a mass of moving shadows jerking rhythmically in an otherworldly fashion. Definitely somewhat disturbing.

Granted, when I finally surfaced from my semi-sleeping state a few hours later, it was just the light playing across my tv bracket. But that made it no less creepy at the time!

And yes, while I had a very interesting radio workshop working as editor of the newsroom in our little role-playing scenario (which was actually really exciting - my pulse was racing when Amy was reading out all the pieces on air), I came home to be reminded, in no uncertain terms, that I live in a mental institution.

I got in from my workshop in an upbeat mood, grabbed myself a Cinnamon bagel headed off to my room. I opened the door, not to the empty, albeit slightly messy room I left, but to Nik and Matthew standing in my darkened bathroom clutching a hairdryer... Huh.

It was only when they left when I realized they'd somehow managed to grab my full-length mirror and clock on thier way out, in a rather subtle display of cunning. The sly bastards.

Fast forward to ten minutes later, and I'm happily clicking away (writing this very blog actually), when Matt blatantly asks

"Is it illegal to hang black men?"

After a moment of sheer shock, I cottoned on to what he was saying... and yet another moment later I grasped the significance of it. He'd stolen my golliwog!

Surely enough, opening the flat door, I see him danging precariously over the railing, suspended over the atrium by a thin piece of wire. So I cut him free, cutting one end of the rope, wrapping it around my finger and walking around to the other side of the railing so he just slides off - without falling three stories, I might add.

Little did I know Matt and Nik still held Sophie hostage. For those of you who don't know, Sophie is my disembodied wooden hand artifact from Africa. Don't worry, it's nowhere near as creepy as it sounds. But yes, opening the door a second time, I see that they've really pulled out all the stops.

She's supsended by no less than four ropes, diagonally intersecting over the atrium, three stories above the ground. And this time there's a catch - which wire do I cut? Pick any except the right one, and she either swings free and hits the railing, or falls to the ground floor and shatters into wooden splinters.

Damn you, physics, you fickle fiend.
Damn you.

Rosé-coloured glasses

2009-10-28T19:25:00.004Z

Ah. I awoke to discover that, yes, I had indeed been sick last night. So much for hoping that it had just been a dream in my wine-induced psychosis.
Not only had I decided to regurgitate the entirety of my Morrison's salad all over my wet-room, I also managed to get wine on Nik's brand new £1,200 laptop.
Ohhhhh, steaming pile of excrement

And I just sat there in hysterics as he turned it upside-down trying to frantically drain the rosé from his keyboard... Apparently, after two bottles of wine, I lack tact, as well as balance.

Jess, my love, I can't thank you enough for carrying me to my room after I collapsed in the kitchen. Although, in all fairness, I can't imagine it was a particularly cumbersome task. Try to think of it as dragging an alcohol-sodden doll to the pavement. I do.

However, despite a rocky start to the day, it actually underwent a miraculous turn-around. And all in the name of kayaking. At first, I hadn't really wanted to go. And understandably so, as standing up took a tremendous amount of effort, so I couldn't even begin to imagine moving. Let alone by choice.
But the sunshine was a mysterious talent for pepping people up.
So, sitting in a bright orange kayak in the middle of the Brayford, as the tide spun me in gentle circles and I felt the water rippling delicately beneath my fingers, it was difficult not to enjoy it.
What's more, I can now paddle in a straight line! It's terribly exciting - no more careering into curious swans.

Media, Mixing and Mr Motivator

2009-10-13T12:55:00.007+01:00

"Oh God, Oh God, Oh god!"

I hate being late for things with a passion. It's one of the things in life that truly annoys me. So realizing that it was 5 minutes to 10 and I was still spritzing myself with hairspray, and not waiting outside my Media Theory and Analysis Seminar in the Architecture building, was absolutely terrifying.

Not wanting to look like a crazy person by running, I ended up power-walking to my seminar like a deranged 90s Mr Motivator throw-back; in retrospect, this was somewhat paradoxical, as not only did I look marginally more insane than the former option, I also looked really, positively irate.

I hate the fact that simply by walking quickly people assume you are, on some level, simmering away like a livid pot of fury about to froth over the brim and scold all those around you.

I wasn't angry, I was just delicately nursing a train of though along the lines of: "GETTHEHELLOUTOFMYWAY!
OMFGYOUABOSULOTETOSSERSYOUREGUNNAMAKEMELATE!ARGH!".

But once I arrived (to find everyone calmly waiting outside, much to my annoyance and relief), the seminar was actually really engaging. Hussain, although a lovely person and quite interesting to listen to, doesn't half go off on a usually cyclical rant which borders on circumlocution. I'm starting to enjoy sitting there quietly and then saying something surprisingly intelligent when pointed at, which makes the last answer given seem like verbal diarrhea. So, when he gave a hugely long-winded answer about politicians backing corporate newspapers, and I simply said "the media", it was a genuine struggle to keep myself from laughing.

Anyway, I've got another lecture in half an hour, and I've got Jess milling around my room shamelessly mixing cider and vodka at half 1 in the afternoon, so I think it's about time I get ready. By which I mean hide my vodka and then drink apple juice out of a wine glass just to confuse her.

Or maybe I should just have a quick coffee? I wouldn't want to fall asleep in my law lecture. Not again.

*Entre les Trous de la Memoire

2009-09-27T15:20:00.013+01:00

It's amazing how much your sub-conscious can reveal. The power of thought never does cease to amaze me... You know, I didn't really think that I missed Doncaster that much, and truth be told, I don't. At least, I don't think I do.

In all fairness, why the hell would I?

But since Adam's been living with me for the weekend (by which I mean sleeping in my dorm room at uni and rendering my Air Wick air-freshener completely ineffective), my dreams have been so much more... surreal than usual. Last night they bordered on hallucinogenic.

I can't say whether it's because I'm not used to sharing my bed with him (in a sleeping sense) or whether it's because being in such close contact with him after a week on my own reminds me of my home-town, but either way, the effect this ruddy Doncastrian is having on myself (not to mention my already erratic sleep patterns) is fairly obvious.

Alright, alright! So, it is Fresher's week, so my sleeping pattern and it's innumerable inconsistencies will probably slip under the radar completely undetected (after all, I wasn't the only one dancing on a table at 4 in the morning, was I, Jess?) but the fact remains - my dreams are officially crazy. 'Crazy' with a capital
RARARARARARARARA.

Indeed.

Some of them I can interpret through context; for example, I'd assume that my dream about an old bully who used to make my life miserable was some sort of twisted psychological commentary about last night, and my own over-sensitive nature resulting in me being upset... but nevertheless, was it really necessary to throw a violin at his face?

Some, however, I cannot. I don't even pretend to understand the (rather disturbing) dream about inhaling my dead hamster's ashes. For one thing, it's not even dead yet! I can assure you that Milicent is alive and breathing... and not circling in smoky tendrils around my lungs.
Perhaps an observation about the Engine Shed? It was somewhat more smoky than I'm comfortable with, and the onslaught of Fresher's Flu (that has already deprived me of my voice) does make it difficult to breathe. Still, you have to admit, it's plain creepy.
Why would you smoke your own pet?

Oh well. Regardless of my own mind slowly becoming a deformed side-show that the likes of Dominique Appia* would surely applaud, I did still wake up smiling; my bed a mass of arms and legs.

Whatever he's doing to me, I can't say that I mind. My sleeping escapades (however idiosyncratic) are worth observing if I get to wake up to Adam cuddling me tightly and kissing my cheek.

Hamster, anyone?
I'm pretty sure I have one in menthol

Freshers Foam Fanatics!

2009-09-23T18:29:00.004+01:00

"SUCK MY DICK.
SUCK MY MOTHERFUCKIN DICK!"

That's the soundtrack to student life in our student flat. Eloquent, I'm sure you'll agree. Although, in all fairness, eloquent isn't a word that describes any member of Flat 8 even remotely accurately.
There's Catherine, the girl who can drink vodka like its water and remain completely unaffected (a talent I CLEARLY don't possess. Bitch)
There's Matt, the insanely tall person who's simply too nice to dislike.
There's little Jess, who's utterly adorable (and not THAT little, as she is my exact height... oh, right)
There's Big Jess - the pretty girl who's refreshingly unaware of it and who's hair I'd gladly steal without a backward glance
There's Alex, who I couldn't say a bad word about if I tried
There's Gemma, who's easily best friend material
And then there's Nik, who I swear is secretly Australian.

In case all the above escapes your attention, I've officially moved into my flat at uni and am enjoying the nightly escapades that occur as Fresher's Night continues at full throttle. The flat is huge - it really is. There's just about enough room in there for catherine's supply of vodka.... at a push.

I must admit, it's just a break from my old routine. It's so refreshing! Last night, for instance, we attended our first ever Foam Party and danced like deranged dyspraxics whilst being blasted mercilessly with foam. And I loved it.
I didn't realize how freeing it would be - being away from any who really knows you (give or take the odd nod in the corridor); I feel so much more liberated than I thought possible.

When else would I go around town with "Suck my Dick!" clearly emblazoned across my chest in permanent marker and genuinely not give a flying fuck? Certainly not in Doncaster.

Yes, I'm settling into this new routine quite nicely.

Mind you, it's not all fun and games - there's the fact that I've not had a proper nights sleep all week and can't feel the lower portion of my face (don't ask), and I did get a little upset when Adam rang me the other day. Not so much because it was him ringing me as because it reminded me that I can't just pop round to his house on a whim and snuggle into his chest. But if that's the only symptom of home-sickness I experience, I won't be complaining.

Besides, he's coming to visit me on Friday and stay with me for the whollllle weekend. So I dare say there'll be plenty of... snuggling.

Heavy loads and bulging zips

2009-09-14T23:50:00.009+01:00

I am, of course, referring to my suitcase. Pervert.

So, today I started packing my things for uni. I have to admit, I had no idea I owned such an inhuman amount of clothing. Ive spent a good few hours clearing out my wardrobe and so far I've managed to fill a large blue suitcase and two boxes.
And that's not including the two loads of washing that I did earlier (that I'm still waiting for. Damn dryer) or the chest of drawers, the unit, or the vast wasteland that is 'under my bed'.
Urgh. Under my bed is a daunting prospect. Not because a paralysing fear of evil monsters grips me, as though I'm some sort of pre-pubescent child (even if I am the same fucking height as one), but because its hollow, with all my possessions strewn inside its dark recesses. And I can't bloody reach inside most of it! I'm not exactly looking forward to getting on all fours and clawing desperately at my bed...
WELL, not in that particular context.

Dear lord. The onslaught continues tomorrow! In a strange way, I actually enjoy this packing business. It's an incentive to actually clear out half the mountain of crap that constitutes my bedroom.
For instance, I still own at least 11 pairs of skinnies from my... rather interesting 'scene' days. I'm just loaded them into a bin-liner. I had intended to donate most of my Blue Banana memorabilia (because, for all intents and purposes, that's all it is now) to charity, but then it occurred to me: no-one who wears their clothing would be seen dead in a charity shop, despite looking it, and no-one who shops in a charity shop would wear it.

So I have two choices: throw it all away, or gently suggest that Adam flog them on his eBay account. Hmmmmmmmmm...

I personally like the latter of the two options, but leaving him alone with my clothes? Ah dunorrrrrrr. I wouldn't want them to get stained, now, would I? hehe.

And yes - it is exactly as you fear; this is the first of many posts on the subject of uni. Only they won't be written at 1 in the morning as I sit utterly glued to South Park. Educational, I'm sure you'll agree. It's quality programming like this that ensures my intellect knows no bounds. Fat-ass.

Deeply does it

2009-09-06T21:24:00.009+01:00

I feel good. There, I said it.
No, I've not been drinking bleach or sniffing craftily at the lone Pritt Stick under the table, I've had genuinely restful weekend.

I decided to take a piece of advice that seems to be uttered constantly in this house and 'unplug'. So, for two days, I ignored my laptop point blank. For however brief a period, it wasn't an ethereal portal where I can access the world's wealth of information at the touch of a button, but just an odd piece of furniture. Mind you, the damn things on its last legs anyway, so it's really more of a repeated stabbing at the button.

I sat on a constant drip of tea, reading girly magazines in orange-peel and clay facemasks. (Yes, I'll let you know when I find my testicles)
Oh, and the tea was decaffeinated - I know, me abstaining from caffeine? Scary stuff!
Brb - going to check the moon isn't red :P

It's interesting though; even without ye olde t'internet I still managed to sit oggling at pictures of Jordan in ever more promiscuous positions. Sounds strangely similar to my usual routine. Only substitute 'Jordan' with the infinitely more attractive Brent Corrigan. Who doesn't love a gay sex icon?
Om nom nom

And, after a Sunday Dinner which I'm sure was about 70% butter (healthy, ey?) I decided to do a few deep breathing exercises to some calming music.
In other words, I sat on the floor with my legs in the air, breathing heavily.
But there's a first time for everything, isn't there? ;)

I've heard a lot about deep-breathing exercises; I know they're meant to control stress, reduce anxiety attacks and supposedly boost circulation, but I've always fobbed it off as one of those 'quick fixes' that never quite seems to work.
I'm usually somewhat skeptical of these 'fixes' (and with good reason), but I have to admit - it works.
(Have a nosey at http://health.discovery.com/centers/althealth/deepbreath/deepbreathe.html)

Half an hour of intensive inhalations and I honestly felt renewed.
I know what you're thinking:

"How can sitting on your arse and virtually hyperventilating actually relax you?"

But there's so much more to it than that. I've been running around like a headless chicken for the past few weeks (although I'm yet to actually see a headless chicken run, I'm told they do. Quite a lot apparently), so just to take the time to sit and think about things, to feel them, made a world of difference. I felt in control, I felt refreshed, I felt free.

Granted, I probably looked like some sort of deluded half-wit wandering around Balby with a merry grin plastered across my face, but surely that's a good thing?
I might actually blend into the crowd for a change...

Parfait ou Prétentieux?

2009-09-02T01:33:00.006+01:00

Is it just me who finds the ceaseless succession of perfume commercials annoying?

It's not necessarily the adverts themselves - to be honest, I think a lot of them are incredibly well-constructed and I even enjoy looking at the beautiful women who find themselves lucky enough to star in them (sadly, the sexuality element is lost on me, but I can still sit there and think "Awww, she's pretty").

No, it's the false promises that really grind my gears
*braces for Family Guy flash-back*

...Introducing 'In Bloom' by Reese Witherspoon

"Let your sensuality bloom"

I'm sorry, but what exactly does that mean?
If I wear this, I'll suddenly become an insatiable nymphomaniac?
I'll start frantically masturbating in public?
People in the street will thrust themselves upon me in an ardent display of sheer, animalistic passion?

NO. In all likelihood, that old woman at the bus stop will just say "ooh, that smells nice"

Hardly the reaction I was hoping for.

And is the continuous whispering somehow supposed to make them seem all that more alluring?
"J'adorrrrrre" - "Diorrr"
I'd rather not sound like I was choking on my own vomit, ta very much.

In all fairness, it's not just the perfume industry. All major cosmetics companies aim to sell products by dealing in deception, or at the very least, misdirection.
For example, mascara adverts always seem to try to outdo one another, with each of them boasting a more beautiful woman in a more vibrant city using a bigger mascara brush. And yet at the bottom of the screen every time it says "Filmed with lash inserts"
Surely that completely defeats the point of using mascara instead of fake eye-lashes?
A little common sense, people.

I just find the way things have to be so perfect to be a little pretentious. Strike that - a lot pretentious.

I know, I know - I'm by no means stupid; I know the cosmetic companies rely on advertising to boost revenue and consumer awareness, but it wouldn't kill them to at least do it honestly.

"J'adorrrrre - yeh, it's alright. A bit zingy. Your nan'll love it tbh"

That would work.

Heels, Hairspray and Hard-ons

2009-08-29T23:07:00.007+01:00

"Ma ma ma maaaw."

That was how Ashy and Hayley's costume party started; to the stylish, soulless pop of Lady GaGa. I'd expected there to be a birra GaGa on the go at some point, but the first song? Come on. The look on my face, I can only imagine. There's me dressed head-to-toe as the mistress herself, all skin-tight Lycra, heels and hairspray, with every face in the room looking right at me - beckoning me to the dance-floor.
Bollocks.
And I have to say, what a strange bunch of faces they were. Batman, Zorro and Whoopi Goldberg in the same room? It's the stuff of niche porn sites, I tells thee!

But, with a bit of coaxing from Charlie (who, BY THE WAY I will gladly bear the children of!) I got up.

Note to self: gyrating in public is strangely thrilling ;)

I was honestly amazed by the amount of effort everyone made. To be honest, I thought it might be a bit of a let down because we'd all hyped it up for so long, but thankfully, I was wrong. Dead wrong.
It was an amazing night. Through and through.

We were all so daring! Audacious and outrageous; one hell of a combination.
I'm so proud of our little group of queers and trannies!!!
Ashley, my darling, you looked stunning as a decidedly... kinkier version of Zorro,
And Hayley, you looked beautiful as a slapper. I mean flapper :P
I take my little hat accessory off to you both.

I'm still giggling about our antics. I can't decide which abomination was funnier: Cam launching a pint all over Ashley's nan, me swiping all the drinks off her table with a light saber (shhooooooooom!) or terrorizing Mark on the loo as he tried to do his business. Yes, we're that classy. Aren't we, Lauren? - my new partner in crime! :D

While I'm on the subject of Lauren and toilets - it occurs to me that the two intersect far too often. She was there craftily taking pictures of me when I was screeched at for weeing in the ladies toilets, despite there being a urinal. I know, right? And to commemorate my victory (otherwise known as an empty bladder), we took sexy pictures of our pretty selves in the bathroom. The scary thing is that the picture of me posing seductively on the urinal actually looks good.

Maybe I should have called the blog "Piss, Pints and Pokerface"? LOL!
Oh dear, me thinks I must still be drunk. ^.^

So yes, after a long day of supping sweet tea and dancing with Marky on the train back home, I can safely say I'm ready for bed! And, unlike last night, I won't awaken to find Glasby staring at me from across the room (cue the x-files theme tune), or accidentally kicking Jenny in the face: admittedly, there may have been some flaws in our plan of kipping on the L shaped sofa. Ah well - shoulda, woulda, coulda, mother. At least I can rest knowing that I gave some credence to the rumour that the real Lady GaGa has man-bits. Silly spandex pants exciting maaay!

Yes, I'll go to bed thinking of deliciously playful memories that I can only hope don't leave me mentally scarred. Or all least no more scarred than those damn heels! I swear those damn things were some sort of twisted medieval torture device.

Shame. If I'd have known we were doing pain, I'd have brought the leash.

Bastardized? Or Sensitized?

2009-08-27T01:56:00.007+01:00

The state of my family ties has been... somewhat rocky, of late.
If you've read any of my earlier entries (or spoken to me in person for more than, oooh, say 6 seconds?) you'll know that I frequently rant about my dad and how much of a complete bastard he can be.

Well, today I was utterly stunned when he revealed that his attitude towards Adam over the past few weeks has all been a farce.

I know - I did a double-take too!

The story went a little like this:
He said that he'd only banned Adam from the house and said such despicable and demoralizing things about him because he'd not wanted me to be blinded by my sudden return to Adam's affections. To quote him, he didn't want to see me "hurt again".
Oh, there's more.
He also went on to say that he likes Adam, that he's always liked him and that because we've been spending so much time together lately, despite his 'disapproval', he can see that this is more than just a transient teenage romance.
Well, he didn't say it quite so... eloquently, but I jazzed it up a bit.
That's the way I talk. Shut up.

So, in short, the ban on my adorable cross-dresser stepping foot inside my house has been lifted.
And my Dad, for the first time in my living memory, has done a genuinely nice thing for me, and shown that he does care.

So, I guess that sometimes I do bastardize him unnecessarily.
Then again, let's not lose track of things; 80% of the time it's completely justified. Yeh.
Nevertheless, it's an event I won't soon forget.

Yes indeed, a new chapter has been written in the controversial book of Nigel.

I know they say that you shouldn't judge a book by it's cover, but apparently you can't judge it by the first 40 chapters either. Huh

Congrats, Climax and cross-dressing

2009-08-24T00:33:00.010+01:00

I know, I know - I've not blogged in a while
But this week has been manic.

I didn't actually worry about my 'A' level results at all. Well, there was a period of about five minutes when I was on my way to collect them when I thought "Oh, bollocks. I. Am. Screwed." but that was it!
The reason? Lincoln sent me a letter confirming my place the day before I got my results
So while everyone else was sat at home having an aneurysm or two, I was watching tv with a cuppa.

Granted, I didn't have to worry. I won't go into details (surely that's bragging, right?) but I did pretty damn well. So five minutes after my morbid thoughts I was screaming outside and jumping up and down with Louise
:D

Colleen actually rugby-tackled me outside the main entrance of college! I went down faster than the Paris Hilton on anything with a penis or a pulse. Notice the 'or' :P She aint fussy!

I didn't end up going out that particular night celebrating my results;
a) I was far too tired
b) I didn't have anywhere to stay in Scunny and
c) I lacked monetary resources. Yep, I was bloody skint.

But I'm not a pensioner jussst yet, so I did go out! After months of nagging me, Carl eventually convinced me to go to Climax in Sheffield, one of the most famous LGBT events around. And I can see why.
You know you've had a good night out when you stumble home at four in the morning covered in army paint. The 'stumble' is quite literal, I can assure you.
I'll explain the army-paint, don't worry.

The party had an army theme... which I learnt all of 3 minutes before getting there. The solution? Plaster on some cheap green and brown Poundland face-paint and off we go. I did feel a little out-classed, as one of Carl's friends was dressed in full army attire. The bitch. ^.^
Not only did I dance on stage with a drag queen from Britain's Got Talent (apparently I was that smashed), but I also met some rather lovely new people: Ben and Ashley. Yes, this is me announcing that I think you're both lovely. So there.
Oh, and Tia Anna Sore Arse Wrecked. I do love 'her' name; mainly because I imagine it's steeped in truth. Bless. For an (in)famous drag queen she's quiet as a dormouse.

Not that I'd know. I don't converse with mice on a regular basis - the bastards are only after my cheese!

...Not unlike some drag queens I know ;)

A living (oxy)moron

2009-08-17T22:37:00.006+01:00

Welllllll, isn't this interesting?
It's almost eleven PM. I've managed to stop myself crying and my hands have just about stopped shaking. Finally.

I hadn't actually planned to blog today, but here I am.
Up until around an hour ago, nothing remarkable had happened to make my day even remotely blog-worthy. It had been the first genuinely relaxing day I've had all week, and I'd woken up to find the sunshine filtering freely through the blinds and my clock softly ticking away in the background.

Cue the father. And his rabid intervention.

Only my Dad could make something so monumental, so completely and utterly sensational out of something so incredibly trivial. He blows everything out of proportion in a way so effortless, it's a genuinely worrying.
This is a man who would make George Bush seem like the next incarnation of Christ.
(I know. I'm scared too).

Right, so it's nearing 9 o'clock, and I'm innocently sat in my chair, chatting on msn to Jonathan, Robbie and Adam. Nothing unusual about that. Nothing confrontational about that.

Or so I thought.

My Dad marches in and demands to know why I've not put a load of washing in the dryer while he was out. And the answer is simple: I'd just forgotten.
And yet he accuses me of being lazy, spineless and a complete waste of space.
In all fairness, I'd done the pots twice, hoovered the room and tidied out the wardrobe. Which is more than he's done in the past week!

I'm getting SICK of this. He repeatedly picks fights with me over me not cleaning up his mess. And I'm sorry, but it's just not on.

In the nicest and most polite of ways, he can fucking do one!

As usual, this small thing snowballs beyond all control, and before I know it we're screaming at each other in the kitchen like a pair of feral banshees, with the back door open for everyone to hear.
And here we go again.
Apparently I'm just like my mother.
Apparently I use my sexuality as a weapon.
And apparently I've changed since I've got back with Adam.

Being mad at having a messy house I can understand, but do NOT make it my fault.
And WHOA! My sexuality has NOTHING to do with this. Why bring it up?
Unless of course he secretly resents it. I have to admit, I wonder how long that little gems been sat there; lingering just beneath the surface like a slow-acting poison.
And furthermore, I know that he dislikes Adam, but that's no need to demonize him.
Yes, I have changed in the past few weeks. I'm more independent, I'm more liberated and I don't need to constantly seek approval. From anyone - least of all you.
I am my own person.

Only my Dad, out of everyone I know, can make me so angry that I actually want to cry.
It's a talent he's cultivated well.
Hence the title of this blog: for someone who's supposedly an adult, he really is childish.

Here's a poem I wrote a year or two ago after we had one of our feuds. Although the subjects a little different, I'd say it encapsulates the whole tone of the saga rather well:

Quarrel

A minor misunderstanding,
Consequently a bloody brawl,
Though you were irritatingly demanding,
There was little expected of you, of me: my all,
But your mocking voice me does infuriate,
To overcome this is toil!
I wish for your head to decapitate,
To bellow in your presence, you retort; a broil.
With suppressed fury I begin to seethe,
Called to the masters’ chamber, so me they may impugn,
Ignoring the constant grinding of your teeth,
To your taunting I am not immune.

Yet so terrible is your mood,
That with your voice my head teems,
To my quarters I return, to brood,
In solitude I emit my screams!
Why cannot the master see?
That you’re the culprit! You committed the deed!
With your incredible lies does he agree,
And of suspicion you are freed.
In my eyes the tears are welling,
“’Twas you whom began the row!”
Then I’m summoned to your place of dwelling,
And expected to, before you, humbly bow

A gay old time

2009-08-17T00:44:00.006+01:00

Rainbows? Cheap beer? AND Abba tribute acts?
Dear lord, I really am away with the fairies.
Quite literally.

Today was Doncaster Gay Pride. And I can honestly say, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was nothing like I expected.
Unlike last year, when I hated every minute of it and stormed off after Carl offered me up for a threesome without even asking, I had a right gay old time!
Pun fully intended.

It was a bizarre combination of themes I never thought would meet, the most blatant of which being "Doncaster","Gay" and "Pride". A little perspective, people: I normally count myself lucky if I don't get glassed for wearing pink!
It was genuinely surreal; walking hand in hand with my boyfriend, kissing him and shooting him sultry glances over my beer-glass, without having to fear for my life, my sanity, or (god forbid), my shoes.

I was in such an unconventionally mellow mood, that I didn't even cringe when Adam started singing

"Jaaaamie, Jaaaaamie, give me your answer do, I'm half craaazy, all for the love of youuu!"

.
It's on days like this that I really appreciate him, and the fact that he's completely and utterly insane. Yes, Adam, you're a cross-dressing, delusional psychopath. And I fucking love it.

Mind you, I should probably thank the beer for easing me into my state of satisfaction. These sort of social events are infinitely more enjoyable now I'm legally allowed to drink! And the fact that I don't look my age usually guarantees me some amusing confrontations.

And unwelcome pervy looks from older men. But one thing at a time, ey?

"Who wins the battle of wits between you and the idiotic bouncers?" I hear you cry.
Well, let's put it this way: I hope my liver can bloody swim.
*submerges it in alcohol*

Honestly, a pride event has to be the only place you can freely observe little kids playing and running around stalls adorned with dildos and other appliances of... questionable morality but undeniable pleasure. o.O

No, today really was full of pleasant surprises. Not only did Adam show affection in public (which, I can assure you, is a big deal) but I also discovered that Doncaster can be a lot more tolerant than I give it credit for.
I'm not stupid, by any means; I know that come tomorrow it'll be business as usual and we'll once again be the the prize punchline of yet another gay joke, but the principle remains - if people can put their differences aside for just one day, then at least there's the potential for change.

Hopefully, this won't be like that smart-ass kid in school who ended up on mdma. Maybe this will actually live up to its potential, and not retreat into the shadows.

Ha! And I've just noticed that I've still got Adam's Richmonds in my bag. How fitting: today both begins and ends in the company of fags.
:P

Beautiful.

Slag-lines, pigs and plowing

2009-08-15T20:38:00.011+01:00

Good GOD, I'm tired. Really tired. Not just sleepy, but physically and mentally exhausted.
It's been such a long week! I've not had a minute to myself: if I'm not climbing cathedrals with JoJo or trekking to York to natter with Ashy, I'm carting off to Goldthorpe to see Matt or spend the day with my Adam.
But I have to admit, I love being in demand :P

Today was option two on my list, only with a twist. Ashley's mysteriously rich again (I know, right? Best not ask!) so he moseyed on down to Doncaster for the day to see me. Shaun was there too, but he was so there to see me. Shut up ^.^

I love Ashy's visits. No-one else could make sitting in town for 8 hours with a coffee interesting! But what can I say? The boy's funny as hell! And it helps placate my caffeine addiction rather nicely.
Excuse me while I orgasm over a cappuccino.

It's been a lonnnng day, but I'm not complaining. Well, no more so than usual. Tell you what though, it's strangely entertaining walking around Doncaster as a group of gays and gauging the reactions we get! It's hard not to laugh when I see miniature chavs going "OMAR GAWD" when we waltz past.
I did get a tiiiny bit annoyed when Shaun told me I had suncream slag-lines on my face, especially as he told me at about half 7 as we were waving Ashy off on the train. I put my sun-cream on at 12! Note to self: open the blinds next time you get ready. Moron. XD

Okay, I should probably clarify. You've probably noticed my skin's really cleared up in the past few months. Well, it's no coincidence. I'm drugged up to the eyeballs, courtesy of my dermatologist. Which is great! It's given me back so much confidence in myself. The downside? I burn like a ginger bitch in heat! So I slap on the sun-cream to avoid looking like a complete skeff.

Where was I? Oh, yeah; so, Ashley's on the train home, and after a slightly awkward hug with Shaun (DAMN, that boy's tall!) I get the bus home. And what do I find when I get home? My pumpkins are ready! Halle-bloody-lujah.

Cue my next addiction: Farmville.

For those of you who don't know, Farmville's a facebook application where you grow your own crops, collect from animals (like getting milk from my cow or bacon from my little piggy) and maintain your own farm. Your crops take a certain amount of time to mature; pumpkins, for example, take 8 hours. Rice takes 12. So, not thinking much of it, I harvested my pumpkins, plowed my field and sewed a few seeds to make more scrummy veggies. Om nom nom. Then, when I looked at the clock and knew my raspberries would be ready at half 10, I realized how much I've been playing this damn game lately!
In fact, I've had to stop writing this blog twice to harvest my wheat. Point made, I'd say.

Ah well, I'd rather play a farmer than a mass murderer or a pimp on some other game, like...

Erm...

like...

- Shit. I actually can't think of an example of a game. That's the extent of my gaming abilities!
I know things get shot, and I know things go boom. That's about it.
How very cultured I must feel.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and read my book in the bath. That's right, I'm secretly a middle-aged woman.
Bet you can't wait for my blog on the menopause!
:D

Romance in the Glory Hole

2009-08-12T20:58:00.007+01:00

Well, it's romance or murder. I'm not entirely sure which.
Hmmmm, I should probably start at the beginning, ey?

So I went to Lincoln today, which never gets old. Despite being - well - old. Maybe it's the place, maybe it's the sights, or maybe it's the fact that I'm going to spend the next three years of my life there (fingers crossed!), but I really do love that place.
I'm willing to forget the fact that I had to get out of bed far too early purely for that.

We got there at around 11, after I sat reading my vampire novel excitedly on the train. 'We' is me and Jonathan by the way. And Jonathan sat there reading a piece on Barack Obama. But to be fair, there's no competition: politics, or hot vampire sex? I know what I'd pick, given the choice.

And then "Bollocks!". I'd literally been off the train for less than 5 minutes when I see a guy who I'd gotten off with repeatedly on a few nights out, and the person Olli was sucking off when we got kicked out for being indecent. But that's another story altogether.
So, trying not to look random fit guy in the face, we make out way to Jonathan's favourite little restaurant over the river for a bite to eat.

I never usually say this about a building, but it was ADORABLE! There were dinky little staircases, teeny tiny leaded windows and a cute little view over the river.
I read the menu as I sipped my tea, and I had to laugh.

*adopts croaky stalker voice*

"The dark vault beneath, formerly named the Murder Hole, now bears the romantic title of The Glory Hole"

Ha! These people clearly have no idea what a glory hole is... and I wasn't about to ruin the fun by telling them.

So, after inhaling a few more cuppas, we went on up the Cathedral. I can't believe I've never been inside before!
And, thanks to Jonathan being a nosey-son-of-a-bitch, we saw a small poster for the roof tour. And WOW. Just... wow.

We were led all the way to the top of one of the towers by our tour-guide (who JoJo colourfully named Mole-man, because he was the SPITTING IMAGE of the Simpson's character. Seriously, it was weird) and climbed up miniscule winding staircases until we reached the inside of the roof. It looked like an abandoned mine-shaft; all dark, gloomy and mysterious. It was so bizarre standing above one of the largest, most cavernous ceilings I've ever seen in my life and knowing that less than an hour before, I'd been at least a hundred feet below.
And, as if that wasn't enough, we went ONTO the roof of the Cathedral. Mole-man pulled back a curtain and opened a concealed door in the bell-tower, and we were allowed to walk onto the actual roof itself. The view was absolutely break-taking. And I don't mean the clichéd term applied to most things nowadays; it physically took my breath away.

No offence to JoJo's little restaurant, but if you asked me, I'd MUCH rather be romanced there than in a glory hole... there's much less mess :P

As it happens, there was no romance. And never will be. JoJo's one of the most intelligent people I know, and bloody lovely, but we're nottt a couple. Mind you, that didn't stop a few of the other people on the tour giving us admiring glances! I get that a lot. It doesn't matter who I'm with, people always assume I'm with them!

Silly people! Just because I flirt outrageously with my friends, doesn't mean I want to get into their pants.
Why bother, when I can get them out of them?
;)

Lady, you're GaGa!

2009-08-10T22:29:00.003+01:00

I'm in this house far too much. Don't get me wrong, it's relaxing, I guess. But there comes a point after - oooh, 8 weeks? - when relaxation blurs into the realms of boredom.
So, my little day trip to see Ashy in York was the all more welcome because it got me out of these four walls!
(Although, to be fair, it helps that I adore Ashley. He's one of the few people I know who REALLY gets me :D)

I could do with days like today more often. Nowt wrong with a birra banter!!!
Here's a quickfire list of what made me smile today!
Ready?
Okay!

1) Having a coffee with Ashy, Hayley and Leanne and PISSING myself over that silly bitch spilling the milk everywhere.
2) Ashley refusing to let her clean up the milk until she'd made me a coffee
3) Chocolate face-masks and dancing like minstrels!
4) Me ACTUALLY jumping at One Tree Hill (Note to self: buy box-set of season 1 and 2)
5) Ashley chopping off my hair... and not doing a bad job! Its the first hair-cut I've had in the past year that hasn't left me in tears. Which can't be a bad thing.
6) Ashy leaving the house with hair-dye on and a bag on his head (big improvement! :P) and constantly moaning that it went black. You mong!
and
7) Meeting his family! I just LOVE meeting people's parents. They either love my scathing sarcasm and think I'm a riot, or sit there awkwardly wondering what they did to deserve the wrath of a gay demon. Ha! They picked option one. Wise choice ;)

AND, I discovered that my costume for Ashley's 18th later this month is a LOT more convincing than I thought.
The theme is basically to draw as much attention as possible, and I know that if I don't want to be in the shadow of Ashley's denim hot-pants, I'll have to do something pretty daring. (Although, in all fairness, they won't cast that much of a shadow. It's like he's wearing a belt over his man-bits!)
My solution? I'm going as Lady GaGa!
Why? Because drag always gets attention, because it'll certainly get me a few looks, and because, apparently, I've got very feminine bone structure. Good Lord, Ashley's face when I sat seductively in the chair dressed in full attire was just too funny.
The poor sod looked like he'd seen a ghost. Or, more accurately, a celebrity.

"OMG! Jamie! People will think lady GaGas actually at my party!"

Now that I know I'm convincing, I can't WAIT for his party!
Heads will ROLL!

And, hopefully, I won't end up sprawled across the floor.
Mind you... with lots of wine, dancing, and black stilettos, that may be easier said than done.

Msn, sex and forgiveness

2009-08-09T16:06:00.002+01:00

Hey again
It's been a while since I posted on here, hasn't it?
(Why yes, Jamie. yadda yadda yadda)

I always say I will, then I get mind-raped on msn and before I know it its four in the morning and I really don't have the energy

But here I am. It's ten-past four (in the afternoon!) and I'm actually conscious.
Which I personally find helps the writing process. But hey, that's just me.

And a LOT has changed since my last post.
For one, I'm back with Adam. And before you judge me, here's the story:

I'd walked home from work last saturday after a long day stood on my feet and serving drinks, when I logged onto msn and he popped up in a message window, saying hi.
This took me off-guard.
A) Because I'd deleted him from msn, facebook, etc, so I was pretty damn sure that we wouldn't be able to talk to me. Apparently deleting something doesn't make it go away. Shit.
B) I'd recently tore up all the cards he gave me and thrown his gifts to me in the bin. After my earlier post about his treatment of me at his party, I'm sure you can understand why.
Where was I? Oh, yeah - popped up. So, understandably, I close the conversation at first without thinking about it. Click: and he's gone
5 minutes later: 'BING' "I've been thinking about you, ALOT"
Oh bollocks. I clearly have to acknowledge this. So I say something generic and cold, like 'thats nice'. After a while, he says he has something to say, so I allow this. After all, what more damage could he really do.
You can imagine my surprise when he asks me to come back to him.

Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:26):
beem thinkin about you, ALOT
We should think differently, find our own identity says (23:26):
oh
Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:26):
of course, ur still pissed at me but i still care for you
We should think differently, find our own identity says (23:27):
I know you do. But its hard being around you, knowing that all your feelings for me have just 'switched off'
Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:28):
theres somethin i wanna say but im not sure if i should
We should think differently, find our own identity says (23:29):
well that depends on whether or not you want to hurt me anymore than you already have
but feel free
Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:30):
come back, huggin a panda teddy doesn't compare
We should think differently, find our own identity says (23:30):
...you're kidding, right?
thats not funny
Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:30):
im not jokin
Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:32):
i havent just been sat down goin 'whatever' i kept questioning and beatin my self up sayin 'u happy? you done thr right thing huh?'
We should think differently, find our own identity says (23:32):
is it really that? or did you just get bored of the all the men? I need to know whats going on in your head, ad
Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:33):
excatly what i just sed, its been goin on for age
We should think differently, find our own identity says (23:33):
but do you love me? thats the only question that seems to matter...
Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:33):
YES
Hole in your life? fill it with ice cream and booze :) says (23:34):
god yes

This wasn't what I wanted to hear. I'd turned all my feelings for him to hate, and I'd finally started to focus on ME. I started crying in my living room; tears of relief, confusion, any number of things. It was at that moment all my 'hate' turned back on itself. I did still love him, I do still love him. And I always will.

So I arranged to visit his house on Monday. He'd originally asked to come to mine, but my Dad had kiiinda banned him from the house. He's been a little more protective of my lately.

So I went around, and it was... well, awkward doesn't BEGIN to describe it. Every time I inadvertently touched him, or vice versa, we'd move away. My focus was on getting answers, not getting physical. I went over because I needed to know that he wanted me. ME, not just a relationship in general. and, I have to hand it to him, for someone who's a slow learner, he said all the right things. He convinced me that he was an idiot and that he needs me; in his own words, he realized that his 'life was better with Jamie in it'.

So , after what felt like an age, I had my answers. :) It took me completely blanking him and erasing him from my life for him to realize that he wants me. But I'm glad he finally knows what he wants.
I can't blame him for getting confused and not knowing what he wants: I did the exact same thing a year ago to him, and I know how it feels from the other side of the equation. And, to give him credit, he's learning. He really is. My little llama's growing up :D

I won't go into much more detail, suffice to say that we made up.

But, you know what? When I went around that day, I was planning on saying no to him. I really was. But just being around him... I dunno, I melt. I always underestimate the pull he has on me. When we're together we have such an intense connection. and I mean intense.
No-one else I know gets an erection purely from me casually brushing their arm.

Yes, I'm glad we're back together. Why? Because I love him. I love the big lug and the fact that he's far from perfect.
And I know this might sound strange, but I'm also glad he broke up with me. I am.
It forced me to think about myself, think about what I need, what I want. and what I'm capable of.
It reminded me that I'm a good person, and I don't constantly need to seek approval.

So, yes. I'm once again with Adam. But I'm with him not because I need to be with him, but because I want to be with him
See the difference?

This break ups taught me that I CAN be an independent, confident person who makes his own decision, and still be in love.
:D

I think this quote is the most fitting thing I've heard in a long time:
"The rest of your life is being shaped right now, with the dreams you chase, the choices you make, and the person you decide to be"

Hammocks, tea and biscuits

2009-07-31T20:39:00.000+01:00

I'm smiling as I write this. A real smile. A genuine smile. And I love it.

I love that lately I've felt more free than Ive felt in a long time. I've had the chance to take some REAL 'me time'. Not sitting around watching tv, clutching a bottle of wine and some dark chocolate, but actually taking the time to think about myself. Me. And my needs. My wants. My desires. My goals. My life.

It's the little things lately that have made all the difference. Like yesterday, for example. I'd been avoiding going to my Grandma's house for a few weeks because it's so close to Adam's house, but yesterday I just thought "Fuck it. this is stupid".
I spent so much time there as a child, I'm not letting him take that from me.
So I went, and I spent the whole day there. Chatting, enjoying an endless succession of ridiculously sweet cups of tea and biscuits. And, my favourite bit, sitting in the hammock in the sunshine, reading away the hours. It was lovely.
It reminded me that that house is like a sanctuary to me. It doesn't matter what happens, I can always go there.

And sat on the hammock, I just relaxed. I didn't think, I just sat. And sat. And sat. (WELL, I guess technically I swung a bit) And that was a big deal for me - the sitting that is. I'm starting to learn how to 'switch off' once in a while, and how to just enjoy things... and I have to say, I fucking love it.

I love this mood. And I think I'm starting to love me. Not in a narcissistic, 'oh-you-so-wanna-tap-this' kinda way. But I acknowledge that I'm a good person. I deserve a lot better than I've been getting, and I will get what I deserve.
I will.

Ha, and you can ask anyone who knows me to vouch for this; I'm a stubborn son-of-a-bitch! So if I want something hard enough, I will get it!

:D

A New Start

2009-07-26T17:37:00.000+01:00

So, here we go again.
I went to my ex's birthday party last night against all the advice of my friends and it was NOT good. I ended up storming off after he got stoned, ignored me completely and blatantly wanted to 'get some' with someone I thought was my friend.
And then, to make matters worse, he falls asleep in his mums bed, so I can either sleep on the floor, or in his bed. So I also suffer a completely sleepless night in the bed I have far too many memories of.
So, yes. To all those who told me to follow my own advice: well done. You were right.
But I had to go, I needed to see if I could be around him as nothing more than a friend
And I got my answer
Now I know I'll never be comfortable being just a friend with him. I'll always want more
So, after having a very candid chat this afternoon and learning some VERY upsetting things, I've decided that the only thing to do is distance myself from him completely. I need to learn to trust myself, to love myself, and I can't do that if I'm constantly seeking his approval or reading into a sub-textual meaning that isn't there.
He's moved on, that much is painfully clear.
And as an intelligent person, I know that there's no point in lusting after someone who doesn't want you. but it's not that simple
He took my virginity and I let him get to know a side of me I rarely show, so, understandably, I'm going to feel a sense of attachment to him.
Yes, I feel hurt
Yes, I feel betrayed
Yes, I feel like the person I fell in love with has changed within the space of a few weeks to become someone I don't recognize anymore
But I need to look at this as a positive thing. This break-up couldn't have happened at a better time
Now I can go to university willingly and genuinely look forward to paving my own future
Now I can focus on getting to know myself, and getting to love myself... which is something I've been glazing over for years
I've never liked myself... but if I can't learn to like myself, I can't expect others to like me
I've decided that the best thing for me to do now is learn to live on my own, learn to accept my own company
I won't do what he did and is continuing to do; I will not disgrace myself my having casual and highly disgusting sex with strangers
I'm worth more than that
I'm a good person, and I deserve better
:)