Tag Archives: society

Have your cake and eat it too!

Happy 10th Birthday to Facebook! Despite your constant need to remind me of terrible decisions and statuses I’ve made whilst under the influence and my ‘strawberry blonde’ period from 2010-2011 it has been a joy to watch you grow and develop into who you are today. Thank you for making it possible to e-stalk all of my ex-boyfriends, their new girlfriends, potential boyfriends and silently mock the Jeremy Kyle style drama of inevitably doomed relationships. Twitter might be your younger, better-looking, sibling but you still make it possible to ruin my life with just a few too many G&T’s – it’s not time to give up your crown just yet!

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E-fail

I was about 12 when I first decided to create my own email address. I remember sitting for hours thinking of cool and edgy usernames that would impress just about everyone at school, and encourage every Tom, Dick and Harry to add me on MSN. Suffice to say the handle ‘hippyh’ didn’t have people rushing to correspond with me: the only person I’d email was my best friend and she lived up the road.

Years later, my heart still skips a beat when I log into my inbox, hoping for a secret admirer or even Topshop informing me of a 20% off sale. Unfortunately the only things I receive these days are adverts for Viagra or angry work emails with wankers requesting read receipts.

It got me to thinking that whilst in the midst of the social media generation, where every detail of a person’s private life is shared via Twitter and Facebook, it’s easy to forget about the time when we’d use the internet for cultivating friendships rather than trying to impress the world wide web with pictures of what we’ve had for lunch. My first email address was used for creating stories based on overgrown tomatoes terrorising small towns, whereas the content of my last tweet was complaining about having to go to work on a Monday. Honestly, who cares? How many people genuinely enjoy the pictures posted on Instagram of skinny models and mojitos, aimed to impress people we barely know or like?

It’s hard not to get caught up in the secret, unspoken, competition we have with our peers about who’s living their life better, but I’m going to try stop posting selfies and retweeting pictures of delicious food for a second to focus on what’s really important: stories about killer vegetables. 

Falling off the bandwagon and into the liquor store.

Like most of the world I went into January with so much unfounded confidence about the ‘new and improved’ me, someone who reads Tolstoy and listens to Mozart in their spare time: a modern day Audrey Hepburn. Unfortunately it’s safe to say that I’ve fallen off the self-improvement train and stopped off at familiar ground: lazy with a dash of stupid. I’ve broken every single one of my resolutions and January isn’t even over yet, perhaps there’s time to make a few more mistakes before the month ends. 

I was sat in a state of self pity, contemplating my many failures whilst shoving half a buttered bagel into my mouth when I realised that I’m the one at fault. Not because I didn’t achieve what I set out to do but because I was too focused on my faults. Too busy letting Cosmopolitan tell me I need a better sex life or a job with a 6 figure salary and hate-watching mindless television shows filled with the rich and beautiful, designed to make us feel insecure.

Here’s my new mantra: don’t make naive, unattainable goals: I’ll never be a millionaire, lose 10lbs or travel round the world in 80 days. All I want to do is marathon ‘The Good Wife’ and eat Thai food with a glass of Pinot in hand. I might not be Mother Theresa or Jennifer Lawrence: I worry too much and have an arse the size of a Ford Focus, know nothing about politics and can’t name any of the US states. Self-improvement’s over-rated anyway: it’s self-acceptance that’s the key.

YOLO

I’ve been seriously considering melting a ‘Peanut Butter Kit Kat Chunky’ onto a slice of toast with a side of fries for about five hours now. No, I’m not one of those assholes that insists they’re on a detox as soon as January hits and then proceeds to do nothing but talk about food until they finally give in and binge on a cocktail of pizza and brioche bread. I’m just an asshole.

This realisation came to me today when the term “YOLO” slipped out of my mouth mid-conversation. I should have known I was on a downwards spiral after my overuse of the wink emoticon in 2012: the next thing you know I’ll be doing a Zac Efron and getting it tattooed. I can only blame myself, I’ve been willingly corrupted by Rihanna and the Tumblr generation and have lost all control of my faculties: it’s the only explanation!

If anyone out there knows the cure for such a disease, please do not hesitate to contact me. I’ll be in the corner reading a dictionary and hoping for a miracle. ROFL. 

Positive thinking for a pessimist.

Tomorrow morning I’m going to set in motion my plan to become a cross between Buffy Summers, Penelope Pitstop and Lorelai Gilmore. The first step towards achieving this is by being a more positive person who only sees the good in each day. No longer will I wake up on a Monday morning feeling groggy, downing pints of coffee and desperately piling make-up on my face in the hope that I’ll turn up to work looking somewhat human. Instead I shall drink green tea and say things such as “isn’t the rain delightful, nice weather for ducks.”

However, as a hardened cynic this might be a tough transition, after all: Rome wasn’t built in a day! I thought it might be worth declaring everything that annoys me now to avoid anything ruining my perfect day tomorrow.

So, here goes nothing: people who say ‘twenty-fourteen’ rather than 2014, wind on a good hair day, people that watch the film rather than read the book and flaunt their ‘knowledge’ at me, loud crisp eaters, a lack of manners, the use of ‘babe’ as a pet name, the use of pet names in general, people that spell my name with two ‘l’s’, unnecessarily poor spelling, having to constantly defend liking Taylor Swift, when you see a wasp outside of the designated summer months, it not being socially acceptable to wear tights during summer, being told to ‘be quiet’, ‘calm down’ or ‘smile’, people not adhering to official board game rules, my friends not appreciating how brilliant Joss Whedon is, Emma Watson’s perfect everything, PDA and my inability to take a good selfie.

Now that that’s done, who’d like some tea and freshly baked scones?

Start a love-train, love-train.

I’m a big public transport user, in fact I’d say that I’ve spent weeks of my life sat on the bus waiting for someone to shoot me. Many an unhappy hour has been wasted sat next to yobs drinking special brew, chanting about football or getting laid. Suffice to say it’s always a less than pleasant experience: the number of times I’ve muttered “what a wanker” under my breath probably amounts to something in the triple figures. 

That is until today. Approximately twenty-six minutes ago I made my first step into becoming Kate Middleton and booked myself a first class train ticket. No longer will I have to wonder what’s behind those glass doors, I finally get to experience how the other half live. Perhaps a serving of champagne on my Sunday evening trip? Waiters wearing bow-ties who call me ma’am? Travel information served upon a silver platter? No longer will the cries of screaming children haunt me whilst I desperately attempt to turn up the volume on my i-pod. I’m joining the big leagues baby: terms and conditions may apply.

“So everyone, have fun. Because this really is the end of summer”

It’s happening. As soon as the 1st of September hit my senses heightened and immediately I heard the sounds of thousands of people furiously typing various angry emoticons on their Facebook status about the end of summer. Quite frankly I couldn’t be more delighted.

I’m the Grinch, Wednesday Addams and Victor Meldrew all rolled into one. No more insufferable posts about the beach, cocktails during the day or selfies of stick thin girls trying on 10 different bikinis which all look the same. I think I’m going to dedicate an entire day to scarf and mug shopping.

The end is nigh, no longer will I have to go outside and fear for my life in case of a wasp attack or worry whether wearing black tights and a jumper is inappropriate attire for the day. I wait in anticipation for the hundreds of tweets complaining about how “the cold weather sucks balls” and having to, God forbid, wear a coat with their denim shorts that day.

You know what they say: misery loves company and  can’t wait to hear all about it!