Filed under: My life, Relationship | Tags: appreciation, Love, My parents, pride
Parents are like marmite; you either love them or you hate them and, to me, that purely relies on what stage of your life you’re currently in, to be honest. When you’re a baby, your dependence on your parents is solely based on how often and if they actually feed, clothe and love you. Your relationship doesn’t truly develop – a part from stuff like favourite colours, relationships, I find aren’t truly formed. You love them, of course you do, but you couldn’t find yourself trailing around B&Q on a Sunday afternoon with joy as your parents look at the twelfth or ninety second Black and Decker drill or garden chair set.To be honest, I don’t think either of my parents could, but I’m trying to form a generic example for all to relate to! You then reach your teens and find yourself beginning to truly hate them (although if you think about it, you don’t actually HATE them); you reach the stage where you can’t wait until you’re old enough to move out or murder your family in a blaze of teenage glory. Your lust for adulthood and your parents’ longing for you to stay as sweet as you were when you were six years old and toothless come to loggerheads and a generally miserable, volatile existence ensues until your body parts have fully formed and your hormones have found themselves in a state of relatively balanced bliss. After that, there’s nothing much to do other than to actually sit down and get to know the people who have raised you, because until then, you really don’t know who they are or what they like other than their acceptance of all things (no matter how crap) that you have loved in your childhood.
I’ve always felt as though I got on with my parents reasonably well; we have always argued like cats and dogs and there have been various times when I’ve screamed the hormone fuelled words – “I HATE YOU AND WISH YOU WERE DEAD!” – but I always felt that we were friends, deep down. Very deep down, somewhere that only the most brilliant of psychologists could find…If they were lucky. It hasn’t been until recent years that I realised we weren’t actually friends, not really. I feel I was merely tolerated (and loved, don’t get me wrong) by my long-suffering parents who’s fine line of tolerance was pretty much at breaking point when I decided to emerge from my sullen, depressing, bitchy bout of puberty, and became Doris Day with a temper. I know I can still be a right pain, but now instead of feeling like the whole world and it’s mother was out to get me, now I feel guilt. Which shows, even though I was death warmed up as a teenager, I’ve blossomed (yes, I have!) into a fine young adult. It’s okay, vomit if you wish, I’ll be back to self deprecation in no time.
Parental appreciation is so important, to me. I feel sad when I see people who don’t get on or seem to love their parents as much as I love mine. I could never have asked for anyone better, nor would I have wanted to. I am most proud and definitely glad to be their little (but big) girl. Our relationship is so important to me and I am so glad that my parents fought with me so vehemently and told me straight when I was being a twat, because now I can say that because of them I feel like I’m a better person than I would have been if they continued to let me fall down the big mistake spiral I could have so easily fell into. Even though I’m twenty one, and there will be SO MANY more mistakes I’m going to make and have them mock me for, I don’t mind that, I look forward to cocking up in the future because the safety net they created for you when you were first born, will always, always be there and it will only grow stronger in time.
I absolutely adore my parents and I am so glad to be that mistake that led them to marry at such a young age… Love you mamma and dad! ;)
How do you write a letter to your crush? How do you know that your crush, is in fact a crush? I’m not sure if ‘crush’ is the best way to describe my feelings towards him, in all honesty. I can’t really say with conviction that I know what the word ought to convey. To me, it seems too aggressive a word to describe the feelings of amour, but I suppose by American definition, it’s true; he is my crush. This still doesn’t make writing a letter to him any easier, the feelings me makes me feel, lead me to believe that there is nothing I could write that would truly convey my love for him, in words or otherwise. So here we go…
To put it simply, I feel that he is the definition, the epitome if you will, of intense and unrepenting lust. Love, even. I love him and I love the way he makes me feel in return. When I see him, when I look into his eyes and when I watch him move, I feel weak. When I hear him speak to me, I feel as though I’m the only girl in the world who has ever heard something so beautiful and in turn, it makes me want him more.
There is nothing, I feel, he could do that would make me dislike him or make the fire burning inside my chest for him, fade or diminish in any way. There is nothing about him I would like to change, in true besotted girl style, I find him brilliant. He is my fixation, a constant and unrepenting fixation of lust, love and admiration; he is my crush and I have so many feelings for him… More feelings than any of my words could say.
The only trouble, however, is that when it comes to crushes, not all of them are reciprocated. Have I told my crush how I feel about him? Plenty of times, but he hasn’t heard me. I’ve told plenty of people how I feel about me and they have understood, agreed perhaps, but he still hasn’t heard me. It saddens me, that my love for him is so intense, but my feelings are unreciprocated and unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about it, but confess my love again and again.
I love you, Mick.
My crush!
I’ve finally gotten around to watching the whoel of Lady Gaga’s latest video for “Alejandro”. I know, what took me so long?! Well, ideally I would have seen it straight away, but I never go on youtube. I either watch videos on the music channels and thus far I have only seen the censored version (makes way for the millions of advertisements that way) or I just listen to them on my mp3 player. I never seek out videos on youtube unless I’m incredibly bored! Like today, for example. I’ve injured my back at work and can’t seem to move without being in constant pain, so I’ve perched myself in front of the PC for some writing/viewing/gaming pleasures… Not in that order.
Anyway… Needless to say I love this new video. Then again, I find everything she does to be amazing, mainly because she has this amazing ability to attract tonnes of attention whatever she does; even going out to buy a newspaper is front page news lately. I also find it pretty hiilarious when people start rants about her which have no real core argument. The only ones that get close are either “she’s definitely a man” or “Beyonce is better” – which to me are both absurd. Firstly, her figure definitely shows she’s a woman, even when she’s scary thin and as for Beyonce? To me she is a has been who’s feeding off every other young musician who looks set to become more successful than she is, but I dont’t go throwing my opinions round lightly do I? Ha…Moving on.
What perplexes me most is how much controversy follows Gaga around with every new video she releases. I don’t see that what she is doing is particulalry ground breaking or in any way testing boundaries our society hasn’t already faced. Her new video for example, what is so shocking about that? Okay, there is – dare I say it without making macho male readers every where vomit into their Stella glasses – homosexuality, but how is that in any way shocking? In this day and age, where every minority is celebrated by the media and we have things like Gay Pride or even the local City Centre on a weekend, boasting loud and proud queens all over the shop, how are we shocked by a couple of them in shorts dancing with Gaga? I mean, come on, if a prime time show on BBC or ITV document homosexuality and even have – again, Stella sipping readers, look away!! – same sex kissing, how can we be shocked by what we are shown in a music video? Homosexuality is a hugely important part of our modern society and all you boys with your backs against the wall through fear of a bumming, need to wake up and get yourselves strapped intot he twenty first century instead of holding on to out dated beliefs. Exactly the same goes for those who found ehr wearing a nun suit horrific. I’m looking at you, Miss Perry, sexy as you may be! What was it she Tweeted? That Lady Gaga wearing the nun costume was ‘as cheap as a comedian making a fart joke’? I don’t see how… Even fancy dress shops have them these days. Seriously – theyr’e really short and slutty looking – that’s far more horrific in my opinion.
We are forgetting though, that in spite of all this controversy surrounding the Lady herself, this has all been done before. Anyone heard of a lady called Madonna? She’s been on the controversy wagon for years and is the inspiration for the likes of Lady Gaga. Has no one seen her video for “Like a Prayer”? She has holes in her hands as though she’s been crucified and even kisses Jesus. Wait, no, more horrifying – a BLACK Jesus. How is wearing a nun suit and dancing with homosexuals in shorts more controversial than Madonna pissing off Catholics and the KKK simultaneously? It’s not, grow up, folks and embrace the Haus of Gaga…it really is worth it!
I’m sick of writing now, my back hurts so apologies for the little, crappy ending there… But do embrace Gaga into your every day lives. Worship her as a deity and forget this Jesus fellow. He’s a has been too.
My best Friend…What can I say about My Best Friend? I could say that he has ‘made’ my university life complete. I could say that without him, I wouldn’t have pulled through and done well. I could also say that, to me, my best friend is Newcastle; he is the epitome of a night on the town, the only person who’s love for cocktails and wine far outweighs my own. My Best Friend, my Favourite Homosexual, is the greatest friend a girl could ask for.
I miss him. He had to move back to Whitehaven because his horrid house mate practically drove him out with her fake eyebrows and dodgy hair weave, so I haven’t seen him in what feels like an agonising life time. He had to leave work, which is even more depressing because I had everyone I couldn’t live without under one big, blue Swedish roof. Now, he’s not under that roof I have to miss him and it hurts.
I keep thinking about all my favourite times with him, but all of them have been documented as LEGENDARY inside my party loving brain…The first night we truly became non-sexual lovers was immense. He introduced me to Hairspray, let me steal cider from his flatmates and sang Karaoke (Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time”) whilst my front bits were groped by another homosexual and I was dressed like a 18th Century Lesbian. That same night, I lost him in a gay club and got kicked out for drinking the cider I stole, yet I still found myself lusting (non-sexually) after more nights with him.
He also, inadvertently, helped me get with My Boyfriend too. Another night out, another night swimming in cocktails and unable to stand. I’ve never been more grateful of his knack to desert me once he reaches a certain alcoholic level. Even though I had his house keys in my bag, he left me in Digital with a boy I’d been on one date with. I hated him at the time, because of course this boy was going to find me trampy by going home with him – I would have went home if it hadn’t been four in the morning and I wasn’t skint off my face. I would have also found my way back to Homosexual’s if I knew his address in any way, shape or form, but I didn’t. Anyway, it all worked out for the best and since then, we’ve become a non-sexual threesome on night’s out. We’re all in love, in some way.
His love affair with my breasts has been a constant in our relationship; I loved that he loved them in a non-motorboat-y type way and he loved that they had a mind of their own and grew in spite of my pleas for them not to. He instilled me with so much confidence by simply being his true self: A lovely, nice, sweet guy. He is the best person in the world.
I love My Best Friend and I really do miss him with every inch of my massive aortic pump. I regret not being able to give him the night out he deserved and regret not being able to punch his house mate in the face for being a bitch and naturally bald. I hate her.
Filed under: My life
One of my friends posted this on her blog and I thought I’d take inspiration from it. By inspiration I clearly mean hijack and make it my own. Starting tomorrow I’ll be posting thirty letters in thirty days! Here’s an over view of how that will look:
Day 1 — Your Best Friend
Day 2 — Your Crush
Day 3 — Your parents
Day 4 — Your sibling (or closest relative)
Day 5 — Your dreams
Day 6 — A stranger
Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush
Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend
Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet
Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to
Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to
Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain
Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you
Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from
Day 15 — The person you miss the most
Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country
Day 17 — Someone from your childhood
Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be
Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind—good or bad
Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest
Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression
Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to
Day 23 — The last person you kissed
Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory
Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times
Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to
Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day
Day 28 — Someone that changed your life
Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to
Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirror
Filed under: Media, My life | Tags: Faith, God, humour, Magazines, Random acts of Kindness, Reading, Street Pastors
A few weeks ago, whilst out for a friend’s birthday in town, I found myself in a position every girl dreads; I had feet ache. Nightmare, I assure you. Especially when your entire outfit is based on your legs looking long and toned (granted, I don’t have much difficulty in my legs looking either long or toned) and everyone knows that long, toned legs are helped by great heels. As Miss Monroe once said, she doesn’t know who invented heels, “but all women owe him a lot”, which we do. Anyway, that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. My point is, that I had feet ache and found myself hobbling along the town centre, holding onto My Boyfriend for dear life when I got a tap on my shoulder and was faced by an elder gentleman I’d never met before. Now, I tell you, i’m not good with strangers, I simply don’t trust them. To me, every stranger I encounter is a rapist in disguise; he/she wants to drag me off to a car where I’ll be later sold into the sex trade and my mother will never see me again. This trait, as terrible as it is, was inherited by my equally untrusting mother, who happened to be with me and I’m pretty sure I felt her grip on my arm tighten – she was ready for a fight if necessary! This gentleman however, was not a rapist in disguise, in fact, he offered me some flip flops to aid my sore feet.
I’d never encountered this before; I found myself wondering who this weirdo foot fetishist was, offering to sell me flip flops – we were no where near a beach…Did he want to see my toes? Instead of telling this weirdo to eff off (in case he did turn out to be a foot fetishist rapist, after all) and asked him how much they would cost me. His answer genuinely surprised me; he said “no cost, I’m a street pastor, I give you them for free for your sore feet”. I was genuinely surprised and thanked him gratefully; I even ripped my tights in order to fit into them comfortably. I’d never heard the term street pastor before and decided instantly to be friendlier towards ‘The Man Upstairs’ just in case he really did exist – he did ail my feet ache, after all, could have been some kind of miracle in order to goad my faith.
After that, I didn’t give it much thought; I told people about his act of kindness and that God loved my feet, but after that I promptly forgot about it. It wasn’t until I was reading a magazine (which, I forget…I think it was Heat) and stumbled upon an article on Street Pastors. My assumption about this man as being a pastor of God (as well as my initial assumption of him being a pervert) was wrong – apparently there are tonnes of men and women, who are regular citizens like you or I and they spend their weekends trawling around town (after half past ten) and look out for women who are a bit worse for wear. Granted, I wasn’t worse for wear, I was sober in spite of my many champagne cocktails, but the girls mentioned in the magazine definitely were; one of them was slumped in an alley way throwing her guts up and definitely in a comprisable position; if that street pastor hadn’t asked her if she was okay and took care of her, anything could have happened to her. So, it made me feel even more grateful to my own Street Paster who looked out for my feet and I began to wonder how many other women he looked after that night. It made me feel safer, I think. Of course, you can’t just consider yourself safe in town and bound up to strangers asking them for flip flops; not all of them will be Street Pastors. These Pastors wear a uniform which says ‘Street Pastor’ on the back and are generally recognisable as ‘officials’ so to speak. They also keep in touch with the police, which is good, I think.
I have to say, though, upon reading the article, a certain faith was restored. Not in ‘The Big Man’ (when asked yesterday at A&E what my religion was, I answered ‘none’) but in humankind. Not everyone you encounter are complete bastards and out for nothing but themselves; there are people who, essentially, will put themselves on the line in order to help out young women on a Friday/Saturday night. It’s lovely, I think, because these people could easily be tucked up in the house, not paying attention to what is going on in the City Centre – instead they’re giving up their own time (as far as I’m aware, they don’t get paid) in order to help people.
So, the next time you’re in town, keep an eye out for these lovely people (with flip flops) and say hello, because they deserve your respect for looking after your messy, drunken bottoms.
