Sunday, 20 January 2019

To the guy that drove me home

Just before I left for Canada, I went on a couple of dates with a guy I met on Instagram. It was obviously never going to be a go-er, he was “separated” with two kids and I was weeks away from leaving the country, but the idea seemed fun and so I thought that a couple of dates wouldn’t hurt. 

The first night we met went great, he was a really good kisser and, aside from referring to himself in the third person and using the word “smooch” everything went well. After a few moments of PG-13 making out in his car outside my house, we’d said our goodbyes with the promise to see each other again. 

From the beginning, I’d made it very clear that I didn’t want to sleep with him straight away. There was nothing personal in my decision, I wanted to bone him eventually, but I knew that I wanted to wait. Not something I have done regularly in the past, but I was confident in my decision and made sure he knew that, in no uncertain terms, was I going to change my “at least until the third date” resolution anytime soon. 

A resolution I’d thought he’d understood. 

Second date rolled around and, after a quick dinner, we went back to his for some more PG-13 action. It was here I realized that it was unlikely that fireworks were going to be flying anytime soon, call me shallow but the idea of dating a bald guy in this instance gave me the heebie-jeebies. I’ve never been bothered too much by the presence of hair before, and fuck knows how I didn’t notice it sooner, but right off the bat when the hat came off my legs clapped shut and my vagina began to resemble the Sahara desert. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I wasn’t going to have to drag it out for much longer, because his actions made my decision even before I’d registered how folicularly challenged he was. When I say no I don’t want to sleep, or even fool around, with you, I mean no. I don’t mean try harder, I don’t mean try again, I don’t mean pin my arms back in the hope that you can wear me down with sub-par domination and a thinly veiled ulterior motive. I mean no. 

After it had finally occurred to him that he wasn’t going to get into my pants anytime soon, or ever as the case turned out to be, he drove me home. 

At 9:30 

Having picked me up at 7:30

My landlady was just as perplexed as I was when I arrived home so early. 

As it happened, I ended up finishing things for a completely different reason, but his behaviour stuck in my head. Trying to get me to give it up using nothing but persistence is the behaviour I would expect of a teenage boy trying to get his rocks off. It’s in no means okay, but at that age hormones and the intense desire to bump uglies with anyone and everyone has a tendency to cloud the mind a little. 

Far from being the teenage possibility of my youth, this guy was 35. 30 fucking 5. Almost twice the age of some teenagers and possessing what can only be described as 1/3 of the brain cells required to understand how to respect other human beings. He has two daughters, how would he feel if they were treated in the same way? The fight for equality across the globe is one thing, but basic human respect is equally important. 

Were I to see him again, I’d have far more to say than I had at the end of our connection. When I say no, when ANYONE says no, they mean no. Hitch was wrong, it doesn’t mean “try harder stupid”. It most certainly means “get away from me now.” So do the right thing, ignore your junk and spend the night with your hand instead. 

Trust me, we’re all better off that way. 


Thursday, 17 January 2019

Insecurities, procrastination and prostitution

Last week my writer's block finally decided that it was done sucking my dick and my ability to form sentences returned. Since then, I've found a plot line for my novel, killed a fuck tonne of darlings and realized that I need to get my finger out of my ass and actually send proposals for freelance work if I'm ever going to get hired.

The life of a creative is not that of a prostitute, I can't just stand around saying I'm a writer and hope the work will come to me, I have to go out and get it.

This morning, however, I've realised that, along with being cripplingly insecure, I am also a class a procrastinator. For years I've blamed my self-esteem on the fact that I never manage to apply for any writing work, which is partly true, but it's also to do with the fact that I never get off my ass and do it. There is no physical way of getting what you want without putting the effort in. Life doesn't work like that.

Last week, I received an email saying that the agency I've been writing for for the past two years was changing their working model. They would no longer be taking external work from freelancers and instead would be producing all of their copy in house. Meaning my very last paid writing gig was finally gone.

*Weeps internally for my bank balance*

Whereas previously I may have taken this to heart, instead I am using this as an opportunity to force myself to put my writing out their once more and actually find some new work. I need to be stimulated in order to keep my inspiration flowing, and nothing forces you to get on with your work more than an imposing deadline.

This week I have two more days off and have decided to spend said days getting my ass in gear and applying for as many freelance positions as I can, determined to actually find someone to employ me.

That and do my laundry. I'm running out of clean pants.


Sunday, 6 January 2019

Two months in Toronto

Why hey there, long time no speak.

Next week, along with being my 3 year 10 months self harm free anniversary, marks my second month in Toronto. Bizarre as it seems, as I feel like I've been here forever, two months ago on November 11th I was boarding a plane from Gatwick hoping for nothing more than a peaceful flight and an ungodly amount of free snacks. 

Bro tip, fly with, they have good free shit. 

People keep asking me how I'm finding it here and, honestly, I haven't quite decided. It's not the cold or the cost of the city, that I was expecting, but more how I've felt since I've been here. 

Side note, this is the last winter I will ever spend in the Northern hemisphere, I physically, emotionally and mentally can not handle another year of fighting with my seasonal affective disorder. Fun panic attacks and suicidal thoughts are not. 

Anyway, back to Toronto. Moving here was supposed to be a fresh start but, as a particularly cute fuck boy managed to work out within hours of meeting me, in reality I was running away. 

I still don't want to use your face as a chair though, sorry bro. 

For some deluded reason, I thought I would be different here, that I would miraculously leave who I was behind and emerge, phoenix like, from the ashes as a stable and sane functioning member of society. Turns out, I'm feeling more River Phoenix than anything else. 

Don't get me wrong, for the most part it's been great. The hostel I've been staying in, Planet Traveller, is amazing and I've met some really great people and happily fallen into a mish-mash of people from all over the globe I affectionately call my orphan family. I just didn't expect to be living the exact same life I was living back home, just with different accents and reasons to apologize. 

So far I'm planning on staying in Toronto for six months, after that I'll pick a new city and spend the summer there. There's no chance in hell I'm going back to England, but I'm not keen on the idea of staying in one place for too long either.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to listen to River Phoenix in true tortured Millenial style and plan my next trip.

I'm thinking Mexico.


Thursday, 22 November 2018

No more apologies

Can you tell my BPD is shot to shit at the moment? Can you?

For the past 12 or so hours, I've been in the anger phase of BPD. I'm fucking furious and want to hit, punch and scratch things until I feel better. Luckily, contrary to popular belief, I'm actually a functioning member of society and so I'm not going to do so.

One of the things that's pissing me off at the moment is that I'm fucking fed up of apologizing for my BPD. Am I an axe  murderer? No. Do I put small children in bags and throw them in rivers? Also no. So why am I expected to apologise as if I do?

All I really do is feel things. FEEL THINGS. Last time I checked emotions are relatively common thing across multiple species, so why are mine such a big deal? Maybe I fall for people quickly, maybe I have a significantly shorter temper than most, but this doesn't make me the monster that people think I am. Why, WHY, am I expected to apologize for something that, relatively speaking, isn't that much of a big deal. And, more to the point, I physically can't control. Would you constantly expect a person on crutches to say sorry? No. Then why the fuck am I expected to.

Something tells me this angry phase is going to last a while. It's currently swimming around my brain with cripplingly low self-esteem and an all-consuming desire for someone to love me, so the chances of it taking complete control are roughly 1 in 3, but I'll keep you updated.

Oh, and I'm not manipulative either, so that sweeping symptom of BPD can suck my fucking dick.


Saturday, 17 November 2018


In my last post, I talked about my completely unwanted talent for attracting unavailable men. About how the only people who seem to be even remotely attracted to me either have wives, girlfriends or fall into the emotionally unavailable category. It's so easy to blame myself, but today I'm realising I need to think about it a different way.

If you're with someone, whether you say they're okay with you seeing other people or not, or you're just not able to date someone for whatever reason, maybe try leaving me the fuck alone? Don't kiss me when no one we know is looking, don't feel me up when we're by ourselves and certainly don't get jealous if you see me with other people. In the same way that you don't want me, I really, really don't want you and you will never truly understand the damage your actions are causing as a result of my BPD. To you it, and I, mean fuck all, but to me, it could mean the possibility of free falling into a never-ending BPD cavern that feels impossible for me to climb out of. I'll manage it, I always do, but it's just something I'd rather avoid.

But you know, that's just a suggestion.


Thursday, 15 November 2018


As a raging commitment-phobe, I find it hard to admit that I want to be with someone because I rarely know if I actually do. Blame it on past experiences, the worlds all consuming lack of knowledge of the thing living in my brain or my terrible taste in men, but I really struggle to admit it.

One of the main symptoms of BPD is a fear of abandoned, and sweet mother fucking Korean Jesus I wear that mother fucker like a branding. Since I was a teenager I hated getting close to people because I automatically assumed they'd leave, which they often did, and the agony I felt when they were no longer there was way, way more painful than the feeling of being alone. As a result of this, I always think it's safer for me to be alone, whether I want to be or not.

Much like JLo in the 2001 classic The Wedding Planner, I seem to be a magnet for unavailable men. Whether they have girlfriends, wives or are just balls deep in the "I don't want to be in a relationship rn" phase, they flock to me like a noughties teen to Dream Matte Mousse foundation. No matter how hard I try, I seem to fall ass of tit for these fuckers, even though I'm fully aware that we'll never be together, and not wanting them to leave their partners for me in the first place.

Single or not, do I want to start a relationship based on cheating? I think not.

In these situations, it's a balancing act between feeling that I'm not good enough for someone to love and trying to grasp hold of the remaining shreds of my self-confidence without crashing and burning like a mother bitch. Either way, I'm really not sure how to deal with it, but I'm really fucking done.


Wednesday, 24 October 2018


Snaps if you get the reference in the title. 

After what seems like a decade, I'm finally FINALLY moving to Canada next month. I haven't been able to blog much about it but, as I've finally left my job, I'm finally able to shout it from the rooftops.

The whole point of my move was to get the fuck away from England. To put it bluntly, I hate it here. Absolutely mother-fucking hate it. Aside from the people I love there is very little doubt in my mind that I won't miss a thing. 

As a result of this life-changing move, I'm currently balls deep in the process of trying to pack my entire life into a bag the size of an average sized 6 years and it's proving difficult. I'm going back and forth between "I haven't used this in a year so I won't take it" and "oooh but I might need this if I go out". 

Ignoring the fact that I rarely leave the house. 

Last night, thanks to a really good friend, I realised that, in doing this, I'm completely losing sight of why I decided to move in the first place. I'm not moving to transport my entire life to another continent, I'm moving to start a brand new one. I don't need to take 101 things that exclusively apply to my life in England, because it's not going to exist passed November 11th. It's ending, and I couldn't be happier if you paid me. 

Now I've remembered why I'm going, I'm feeling a lot calmer. It's over, it's done. I'm waving to goodbye to all the bad things that have happened and I'm starting a new life thousands of miles away.  

And I can't fucking wait.