A whole pile of ugh

I feel like I’ve changed a lot over the past two years since graduating, but there are one or two things that haven’t changed.

1) I still complain CONSTANTLY about EVERYTHING and then continue to do nothing about it.

2) I still don’t know what to do with my life

3) I’m still terrified of everything

4) I’m still self-diagnosed as depressed.

The end of the year is fast approaching. This has been a brilliant year, but it’s also been very difficult. I love the end of the year, because I love new years resolutions. This year I resolved to make university work for me and to make new friends, and now, in recollection, I think I’ve done that.
And I’ve decided to get a jump start on New Years Eve and start planning next years resolutions now, and hopefully make a start on them.

Basically, the goal is to be a happier, more positive, and more capable person. How am I going to accomplish that? As follows.

1) It’s time to start being more honest with others, and with myself. I lie a lot, about stupid things. I say what I think I’m supposed to say, instead of what I really mean. When I feel afraid, it’s sometimes difficult to understand exactly why. I want to understand more, and be understood more. I want to say what I actually mean, and if this means slowing down and shutting up then I’ll do it.

2) Stop complaining. It’s like fucking clockwork. I can’t find a job. Uni is hard. I don’t know what to do with my life. Bla bla bla. It’s boring and it needs to stop. I’m not sure how I’m going to kick the self-indulgent whining habit, but I’ll find a way.

3) Do things to be happier, even when its hard. Running and exercising make me feel good, make me more productive, give better sleep and a happier outlook. And yet I will run maybe once a week and then make excuses every other day and feel like crap about it. This needs to stop. Even when it’s difficult, I’m determined to get into the habit of getting up and getting out as many days of the week as possible.

4) I want to make better use of my time. I spend soooooo much time on the internet doing nothing. I say I want to do all these projects and things but then I just never get around to it. This needs to change.

5) I need to get over my aversion to looking nice. This sounds horribly narcissistic, but I’ve decided next year I’m going to focus more on my appearance and start trying to look good every day. I think this will give me more confidence and make me happier. And then maybe I will stop using “I’m ugly” as an excuse for everything.

6) I want to be kinder to myself. If this means making lists of nice things and pinning them next to my bed, or taking a moment out of every day to meditate and just feel happy and confident for no reason, then so fucking be it.

7) I want to spend more time appreciating moments and being present, and not always thinking forward or regretting the past.

So in short:

Be more honest
Stop complaining
Do things that I know will make me happy, even when it’s hard.
Use my time better
Feel better about appearance
Be kind to myself
Be present


I got a job!

Ooooooh fuck.

I don’t know why i do this but whenever good things happen I always fear the worst and feel the need to back pedal. Fast.

That’s what I’m experiencing now, because after a whole year of trying desperately to find a job, I finally found one, and now i’m freaking out.

As of next year I’m going to be teaching guitar to children in return for money. My guitar skills aren’t that great. And I hate kids. And I’m completely unqualified to do this. But looks like I’m still going to be doing it. Fuuuuuuuucking hell. How did I get into this?

Thing is, I do this all the time. I whine about needing work or whatever else and then when opportunities come up, completely freak out. This is a good thing. A very good thing. Ideal even. But even so I totally cannot handle it. Farking fark.

Being okay

So what happened was I decided that if I was going to be a writer I needed to stop talking about it and just do it.

So I looked around, wrote a few emails, and to my surprise for an offer from a company to work for them as a freelance writer. They asked me for a sample of my work, and I sent them a couple of blogs and articles I’ve written. Then they asked me to write them an article about university life.

Perfect. I know a lot about that. I’ve had some interesting experiences and learned a lot. I’d be more then happy to share this knowing with anyone else who wants to know.

I had a week to write the article and send it in. Mind you, I wasn’t being paid for this, yet. This was still part of the application process. In my mind, the make or break point. It was my opportunity to prove myself, to prove that i can write to deadlines, write efficiently and well, use an engaging tone and choose relevant subject matter. It was my chance to finally do what I’ve always said I was going to do, and write something. Something real.

And I just couldn’t do it.

I don’t know what happened. Actually I do. I blame writers block but it’s not that. It’s that, at the end of the day, being very honest with myself, and I’m not saying this to evoke sympathy or be self-pitying, but I’m not a very good writer. I’m okay at it. But I’m also okay at cooking, okay at singing. I’m okay at a lot of things, but far away from being good at anything. I chose writing as a future profession because I like making up stories, but confession time, I’ve never been any good at writing them down. They’re all there in my head, with detailed plots and characters that feel so real to me, but when it comes to committing them to paper, I get impatient. I lack the skills. I lack the clarity of thought.

Anyway, back to the article.

This article was a slap in the face, because try as I might, and believe me, I fucking tried, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get the words onto the page. They wouldn’t stick. They were sloppy, they were messy. They sounded wrong. They were structured horribly. My tone was awful, fake and  nasty and grating. They read as self-indulgent, arrogant, lazy, and horribly horribly vague.

I hit my deadline and gave up. I just couldn’t do it.

I felt horribly disappointed in myself. I felt like screaming, kicking and punching and grinding my teeth. I felt like a loser, like a failure. I felt like a fake. So much for a being a writer. I had a week to write a 400 word article and I just couldn’t do it. I felt like I’d been lying to everyone, kidding myself into believing this was something I could do. I felt like never attempting to write again.

And just as I hit rock bottom, in a swelling, suffocating cloud of self-indulgent misery…

There’s no not cheesy way to say this. It felt like I got so angry and frustrated and utterly angry with myself, that all that energy just burned out and I was left with nothing left to feel angry with.

And a tiny little voice appeared. And it was very gentle. And it said, “It’s okay.”

It’s okay I couldn’t write the article. And more importantly, most importantly, it’s okay to be kind to myself.

Kindness. What a concept. It felt kind of like a bruise. I haven’t been kind to myself in a very, very long time.

I’m one of those people who flinches away from hugs, who claims to hate being touched. I don’t like compliments. I see the failure and negative in every interaction and situation. If someone says I’ve done well, I always take it as pity.
I’ve never been able to appreciate kindness, because I never, ever, not once in the past ten or so years, have felt like I deserved it.

I tend to take things going wrong as personal failure. I tend to get very angry about these things. Earlier in the year, I briefly saw a councillor but stopped because I decided it was pathetic for someone as well off and lucky as myself to be doing something so self-indulgent and narcissistic as seeing a councillor. But before I stopped going, the guy said something that’s stuck in my mind ever since.

He described this kind of anger, this refusal to accept any kind of positivity towards myself, as a kind of “scathing self assessment”. Scathing. Scathing. It’s the word that sticks, I think. It’s the perfect word. That’s exactly what this feels like. Like a burning hot fire. Like the urge to scrub off my skin whenever anyone touches me gently.

But it wasn’t until I hit rock bottom and just burned out, completely burned through to my core, that the simply solution suddenly seemed, if not possible, that at least it made sense.

It is okay to be kind to myself.

I still twitch away from it. But that’s the truth. Why default to being a failure, to being ugly, to being useless and worthless and awful? Why is it so damn hard to just let this shit go? To feel good about myself? To see failures not as failures, but as setbacks. As lessons to learn from?

Setbacks happen. My inability to write this article was a setback. And setbacks are going to keep on happening and happening, until they don’t. The only way to reach that point is by not giving up.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sick of feeling overwhelmed and ugly and impossible and like a fraud. I’m tired of flinching. I’m tired of blaming myself for everything, and tired of having to burn out over and over again just to survive.

I don’t know if I’m fully a believer yet, but I’m determined to get there.

It’s okay to be kind to yourself. That’s the truth.


I just ate lamb for the first time in seven years, and am literally shaking with how mindblowingly delicious it was. Like, orgasmically good. I feel like I’ve just discovered some secret that I need to tell the world about. Lamb. Wow. Wow.

I’m procrastinating while I write this

I’m attempting to write a sociology essay in 750 words and finding it immensely difficult, so while I procrastinate from doing it, though I’d have a lil chat with you guys about word counts!

One thing I really wish they’d done in high school was impress the importance of word counts. But more then that, explained WHY writing to a limited word count was so necessary. When I was in year eleven, I handed in a forty page long essay for English, an utter monster of a thing that must have been a headache for my teacher to mark. Now, three years later at university, there is no way in hell I could get away with something like that. No one would mark it. I’d lose marks automatically for it being so ridiculously long winded and unnecessary so.

As I aspire to become a writer, I think the most important thing I’ve learn so far at university, which I wish I had been told back in high school, is to make every word count. If someone has to sift through forty pages of stuff to understand my point, then I feel as though that’s a failure in itself. Incidentally, that 40 page essay scored me an A, but that’s not the point. The point is that I should be able to get the same point across in a paragraph, in a single page, in a 750 word discussion, and still get an A. Anyone can babble on for ages and eventually get their point across, but real skill is being able to do so with a minimal degree of fucking around.

So even though this essay is driving me crazy as I struggle, It’s one of those things that if it doesn’t kill me, it will, in some way, make me stronger.

I just wish I could have learnt this years ago.

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Today I gave what was probably the worst presentation of my life.
it was for my philosophy class at uni. I had to give a five minute speech on a topic of my choice. I was stressed about this assessment in a way that was highly disproportionate to it’s worth. The speech itself was only worth 10% of my final mark, but for me, this was the opportunity to prove myself. See I’ve never taken a philosophy class before. I’ve never really taken any class like it, so all the material we’re covering, the methods of reasoning, the essay topics and essay structures, all of it is brand new. So this speech, the first significant thing I’ve ever had to do for this class, was my opportunity to prove that I could handle it. Pretty much just to myself, but I’m not going to lie, I’m guilty of being a massive show off. My reasoning was, philosophy is something I’m new too, but because I work hard and try, really try, to do well, I will.
And I fucked it up. Badly.
As I read my speech, I could feel something was wrong. You know that feeling you sometimes get, that sinking feeling when you know you’re about to go flying down the hill at full speed with no brakes and are entirely powerless to stop it. Yeah. I got that.
When I finished my speech, there was dead silence. Twenty odd pairs of eyes staring, looks varying between pity, bemusement and one I interpreted as, “seriously dude?”
My tutor stood up, cleared his throat, and demolished me.
Every aspect of my argument got torn to shreds. I was wrong on a whole new level of wrong. The only way I could have been more wrong was to read my speech in reverse. I stood in front of my peers as my tutor explained to me in explicit detail how I had interpreted my research incorrectly, my ideas were completely off track, I had drawn all sort of false conclusions and obviously hadn’t been careful when wording my argument. Every single fibre of my being told me to run, run, run, go jump in the moat and hide with the ducks. But I didn’t. His casual dissecting of my carefully constructed speech took a different turn, and my tutor began to ask me questions, to try and clarify my position, to try and understand how I had arrived at the conclusions I had. And I tried, I really tried to explain, face hot and hands shaking. But finally I did something I never do. I gave up.
I’m sorry, I don’t know. I just… don’t know.
By now the looks of my classmates faces had unanimously transformed into one of pity. I hated it. The original stunned feeling of dread ebbed away and was replaced by a horrendous degree of humiliation. Humiliation, frustration, and bitter disappointment. How had I got it so completely wrong?
Luckily, I made it out of the room before I started crying, but even that was it’s own special kind of humiliating hell. I do not cry. Ever. I hate it. And it felt ridiculous to cry over something that matter so little. But I was embarrassed and I felt like such an idiot, such an enormous dunderbrained idiot.

You know how sometimes you get that feeling that all your accomplishments so far have been a massive fluke that’s going to come crashing down on you at any moment, and everyone will see what a useless phoney you really are?
Today felt like that moment. Like the world was seeing how stupid I actually am, and how all my clever talk and grades and confidence has been this massive fabricated facade.
It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t. But it hurt, a lot. And my ego and confidence are both a bit bruised.

I know full well how pathetic it is to wallow in self pity like this. And I know it’s not a big deal. And I know it’s not the end of the world and I can work harder and do better next time.
It’s just that right here and now, It’s difficult to believe it.

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Mining my boring life for character attributes.

On Thursday we won the parades competition, a hands down victory more due to the other contestants being terrible then to ourselves being any good. Whatever. Victory is victory, and if we aren’t drinking to our sorrows we might as well drink to our cheer.
Any excuse to drink, really, will do.
So on Thursday night I got well and truly sozzled. I washed cheap jelly shots down with cheaper wine. From there, a mouth full of offered whiskey, a sip of stolen vodka, a sample of something fizzy and red, and a gently forced shot of absinthe to finish on a high. None were mine, except for the cheap wine, which went down easily enough although the previous months had taught me to associate the taste with vomit.
We danced and drank for hours, staring far too early in the evening and consequently ensuring that everything went downhill from about 11 pm onwards. I danced on a table in my pretty pink dress, kicking bottled out of the way without being able to care. They weren’t my bottles, it wasn’t my table, so dance on lass and regret tomorrow.
The night ended like it began, far too early. The following day my body couldn’t decide whether or not it was hungover. To sleep, or to get up and study. Laundry needs doing, and my library books are due back tomorrow and I need to finish reading them. I ended up watching Titanic while binge eating instant mashed potatoes and looking for jobs on he internet, a halfhearted effort to end my current state of unemployment despite knowing my resume really isn’t up to scratch.
The instant mashed potatoes, much to my dismay, have left me painfully constipated, an uncomfortably end to something of a non-day.
And despite cooking a nice dinner in an effort to dull the ache in my belly, I’ve ended up chasing it with frozen pita bread. Despite my best efforts at being a grown up, it seems I’m not quite there yet.
Tomorrow I intend to swim, tidy my bedroom, attend a marriage equality rally, do laundry and return my books, assuming I get them read later tonight. I’ll probably end up sleeping in, missing the rally, giving the pool a miss, coping a fine for my books and watching another movie in the name of ‘research’.

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I’ve been blogging for more then TWO YEARS! Crazy guys. Cuh-razy.

Marriage and Kids

So here’s something you may or may not know about me. I despise children. Like I actually hate them. Like, I hate them. Children revolt me. Am I being too harsh? Maybe! But ugh. Yuck. They’re nasty, manipulative, mean, arrogant little almost humans. They have no empathy. They’re selfish and cruel. And annoying. And society expects me to force one out of my vag? Uh, let me think about th-NO.


Or at least, I was.

Here’s a life tip for teenagers and young adults alike. Make no declarations before you turn twenty. Like, don’t go around telling people your aspirations or beliefs, because they will probably change and you will look like an idiot. By all means, have your ambitions and beliefs and some idea of what you want your future to be like, but don’t go yelling it from the rooftops maybe. Mmkay?

I used to profess to anyone who cared that marriage and kids was absolutely not something I wanted. I’m too selfish, I would say, to dedicate my life to anyone else’s. I want a career and I want to travel and live my life on my terms alone. No limitations, no compromises. That’s it. The end.

Fats forward several years, and…

Marriage doesn’t seem that bad really…

I mean yes it’s a flawed institution and yes there are some serious cultural, social and political changes that need to be made to fix it, but my inner romantic is not immune to the thought of being in a committed relationship, and being able to celebrate that relationship with the people you care about, and having the security of loving and being loved. It’s mushy as hell, but nice. You know. It’s just nice.

Something to aspire to? No, I’m not quite there yet. But something to think about and get the fuzzy feels over?

Oh shush it. I’m allowed to be a romantic if I want to be.

Of course, there’s the obvious problem of my FOREVER ALONE status that casts a largish question mark over my imaginary future wedding. And I guess the one good thing about being a grumpy cynical bitch who didn’t believe in marriage or childbirth was that I was immune from feeling too bad about being nearly twenty and perpetually single.

I still don’t want kids, but it’s not so much a violent impossibility as it used to be. God damn it. I’m getting old.

Speaking of getting old, I’ll be twenty in a month! Crazy huh. Twenty years old. Gosh that happened quickly. I can’t help but feel as though I failed spectacularly at being a child and a teenager. Always in a hurry to grow up it would seem. Well, I’m doing okay as a grown up. I like being a grown up. But even so. The impending birthday and subsequent loss of my claim to “teen” is making me a little nervous.

Cia lovies. Talk again soon!

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Things I used to think were cool

When I was in my early teens, I used to wear skirts over jeans all of the time. like Juno in Juno, only not even remotely cool.

I also used to wear really baggy jeans, and these  ugly cheap t-shirts that were usually black with weird designs, like skulls or rainbow swirls or emoticon faces. My favourite one was black with a white frowny face and the words “cheer up emo kid”.

At the time my hair was cut in a short bob with a fierce fringe. I had cherry red streaks, and would wear my hair in pigtails all the time. I used to wear choker necklaces and as many bracelets as I could fit on my wrists.

For warmth, I wore hoodies constantly, and my favourite was a big black and grey knit sweater with a hood. My other jacket that I would wear until it was literally falling to pieces and the buttons all dropped off, was a second hand grey corduroy jacket.

This was my look until I was about sixteen years old, and even then the baggy jeans stuck around until midway through last year when I finally gave in and made the switch to skinnies.

Skirts over jeans was something I used to think was so cool. I have no idea why.