From the moment I saw Patrick Swayze declare “nobody puts baby in a corner” I’ve been a hopeless romantic. You name any poorly made, clichéd, romantic-comedy and I’ll tell you that I’ve seen it at least three times. Whilst I’m aware that I’m no Jennifer Grey, and the men I meet don’t possess snake hips and a charming accent, I can’t help but feel slightly disappointed that I’m still not having ‘the time of my life.’
I’m often told that one of the main reasons I’m still single is because I have standards that are too high, which no man is ever going to be able to match. I’m no Scarlett Johansson but I do consider myself to be a funny, intelligent, interesting woman and I need to date someone who also possesses these qualities.
When did narcissism become a concept with such negative connotations attached? Is there an appropriate amount of love I should feel towards myself to ensure that I still appear attractive and non-threatening to the opposite sex? Should I settle for men who ask me whether I’d like “an anal adventure” to prove to those around me that my expectations of men and dating aren’t too high?
Ryan Gosling probably isn’t going to appear at my doorstep with a bunch of flowers and a dinner invitation anytime soon, but until then I’m happy to spend the evening with the best alternative: me.
As I’m still wildly unsure of what I plan to do with my career, and want nothing more than to spend every day enjoying champagne for breakfast, I’m partial to purchasing a lottery ticket every now and again. In fact, what started as a silly way to spend £2 whilst I’m buying groceries has evolved into the weekly panic attack of a desperate woman.
Whilst the only time I’ve been to a casino is at 5am to ply myself with more alcohol after all of the local bars close, it is worrying that I continue to pin my hopes and dreams on winning the jackpot. What’s even worse is that every time I wait for the numbers to be revealed, I’m convinced that this is the week my life makes a sudden turn for the better and I finally get to live the life I deserve. No more inner-debates over whether I should buy the £3.99 wine or splash out and treat myself to the £5 bottle: I’ll get myself a damn vineyard.
Unfortunately, once again my evening spent refreshing the ‘euromillions’ tag on my twitter timeline has been a fruitless endeavour, and plans to quit my day job in favour of becoming a lady of leisure have come to a grinding halt as someone else walks away with my prize.
At least I’m safe in the knowledge that none of my friends that claim the first thing they’d do with the money is give half to charity have won: the vineyard will just have to wait until next week.
I love to rant, it’s one of my favourite activities along with waking up before my alarm and drinking coffee in the bath. I don’t expect a resolution to my problem and I don’t need pity or advice, the only thing I need to get my kicks is five minutes of unadulterated, ranting pleasure. Just five minutes to verbally spout everything that’s on my mind to the poor, unsuspecting person in front of me.
Unfortunately, there are some people that don’t seem to understand the positive power of a good rant and seem determined to ruin my fun: the guilt trippers. There’s nothing I find more frustrating than being mid-rant about work or money problems, when someone tries to tell me “I’d rather have your problems than mine” or “I’ll swap with you anytime.”
I’m aware that most of my problems are minute in the grand scheme of things, but I still reserve the right to complain about life every now and again when things aren’t going my way and I don’t believe I should be made to feel guilty about that. There are people in the world with issues far greater than mine, but pointing that out to me won’t make my problems disappear, so how about letting me complain for five minutes whilst you think about the sandwich you’re going to get for lunch?
Rant over. Now I know how Taylor Swift must have been feeling when Kanye cut her off mid-speech to tell the world that Beyonce deserved the VMA more: pissed off.
If the dictionary contained pictures, directly underneath the word ‘pussy’ would be images of a vagina, a cat and yours truly. This past week I’ve missed dinner, locked myself in my bedroom and actively avoided showering until absolutely necessary, all because of a house spider.
Here’s a run-down of the terrifying evening I finally met my match:-
Step 1: Spot spider. Run out of the room screaming, hyperventilating and in floods of tears.
Step 2: Consider my options. As I can’t force my father to make the 50 mile drive to kill the spider, the most obvious plan of action is to text my best friend to find out when she’s home to dispose of it herself: I’m the brains behind the operation, not the brawn.
Step 3: Realisation: she’s not coming home tonight. At this point I cry again, fully aware that I’m still ten years old and am being held hostage by a bug the size of a kiwi fruit.
Step 4: Try to make a move. This has the same success rate as when I try to make a move on a guy at a bar: very low. I slowly walk to the spider-infested room with intent to throw a thesaurus in its direction but instead decide to cry into the tub of ice-cream that I’ve pulled out of the freezer.
Step 5: Move house.
Posted in humour
Tagged funny, humor, humour
First of all I’d like to apologise for the lack of posts recently, I’ve been having a bit of an internet vacation which is why I haven’t been very present! Actually, that’s a lie; I’ve spent the last two weeks binge-watching Australia’s Next Top Model which has left little time for anything but intense self-loathing, and doing squats in my bedroom whilst desperately hoping I’ll one day grow 7 inches and lose 7lbs.
I might never be Cara Delevigne, but I recently did some physical activity which involved more than walking to the fridge to fetch my bottle of wine: I climbed Mount Snowdon! For anyone that isn’t familiar, it’s the highest mountain in Wales at over 1000m above sea level. Yes I did Google that: I might be able to walk up it but I sure as hell don’t remember the geography.
As you can tell from the above picture of me looking like the Michelin Man, it’s been a while since I did any form of intense physical activity, and managing to get to the top of Snowdon without collapsing has given me the incentive to channel my inner Gwyneth Paltrow. Whilst changing my diet and exercise routine in a positive way, I must confess that I’ve also spent the last couple of weeks obsessively stalking girls with great abs on Pinterest, and it’s becoming a problem.
I haven’t lost all touch with reality just yet – I might eat healthily and exercise but am fully aware that I’ll never be a Victoria’s Secret Angel. However, I have started to realise that I’m slowly transitioning into one of those women that talk about their healthy eating regime as if it were the release of a new Harry Potter book. Not only do I use the words kale and quinoa in sentences without being ironic, but I’ve found myself enjoying them! The next thing you know I’ll be tweeting about drinking green tea and going to the gym instead of going for cocktails on a Saturday night.
Don’t worry though, I over-indulged in kettle chips and Prosecco at the weekend, so I haven’t joined Anakin at the dark side just yet!