Steak and Blow Job Day - how are you going to spend it?

Last month, like many other people I sat back and let a digital slush fest unfold courtesy of simpering couples. All were making their spontaneous romantic gestures to each other coordinated by a pre-determined holiday. As with our love lives in general, Valentine's Day had gone public. It seemed that the whole world was in a relationship, as people desperately clamored to out-do one another with their public gestures of love and consumerism. Sometimes it's just not enough to purchase an overpriced novelty gift, for some people if others don't know about it then it isn't significant.

Fast forward precisely one month later and today the so-called male equivalent to Valentine's, entitled 'Steak and Blowjob Day' is apparently just as worthy of our attention. The occasion cleverly incorporates two pursuits most revered by the typical man: meat and an orgasm. (And connecting those together is what funds the official website, if the giant porn banners are anything to go by anyway). I'm not particularly bothered about either Valentine's Day or Steak and Blowjob Day. They're inoffensive and I'm perfectly able to tailor how I feel about them depending on my current relationship status: they're a nice idea if you're attached, but if you're not it's fairly easy to ignore them and go about your daily business as usual.

However online opinions about these events have become extreme in their opposition to each other. Some people are woefully distressed at having no one to share the occasion with but are otherwise happy about spending the rest of the year alone. While others are angrily incredulous that the event is being forced on them and suffocating the free service which they use. In my opinion the latter is definitely the more irritating. If I honestly don't like something I tend to not give it any credence by talking about my irrational hatred for it or how much I'm not celebrating it.

But what bothers me about Steak and Blowjob Day is the idea that it's the masculine antithesis to the apparently feminine Valentine's Day. It's such an insulting stereotype for both genders. They would have us believe that the way to win a woman's affection is through flowers, chocolate and pink fluffy things. And in order to please a man you must cook him red meat and perform a sex act. Both occasions imply that in order to make the other person happy you must not derive any enjoyment from it and treat it as an obligation. Men are perceived as rolling their eyes at having to be romantic and women are portrayed as performing the annual mandatory blow job which they take no pleasure from.Well actually, there are plenty of men who enjoy spending time with their wives and girlfriends which doesn't involve rattling the headboard like a sailor on leave. Just as there are plenty of women who enjoy performing blow jobs because it's a perfectly natural expression of love and sexuality.

Besides, people who are in love with each other take enjoyment from making the other person happy. So instead, what should be applied on these days is how to do that based on individual desires. I'm not advocating that you should only make an effort for someone once a year, but these occasions serve as gentle encouragement for nice activities to flourish. So what if it's commercial? Tailor it to what you both enjoy doing. Just remember, the way you choose to do it doesn't need to be broadcast. I don't make a habit of writing about people who make me happy because the moments I have with them are sacred and for me alone to enjoy.

The ironic thing is that it's not the single people who annoy me the most over whinging about how commercial the respective days of Valentine's and Steak and Blowjob have become, but instead it's the smug couples who take themselves far too seriously. You know the ones. They proudly declare that they make each other happy every day of the year and don't buy into a commercial holiday. That's wonderful but if you feel the need to broadcast why you don't do something, you're just as bad as the people you're striving to set yourself apart from. It's interesting to note that these same people also celebrate Christmas, Hallowe'en, Mothers Day and every other commercially pre-determined holiday.What they could really do with is just piping down and continuing their low-key true love without us having to hear about how it's better than everyone else's. Or as I like to call it: boring.

Dirty Knickers in a Twist: Music Snobbery

"What came first, the music or the misery?" - Rob Gordon

I enjoy listening to sounds and noise. Throughout the year and at most hours of the day. Whether it be emanating softly from a Spotify playlist during my morning routine, blasting from my ancient iPod Nano in time with my brisk pace, reverberating raucously at a summer festival or humming in my head as I sway in a gin induced trance at various meat markets. But while I classify my enjoyment of music as a hobby, I'm not particularly passionate or emphatic about discussing it. Which has led to the assumption that I have no interest in it. This coupled with the fact that I'm the least streetwise member of my friends has culminated in a series of running gags, where I am continually besieged with a combination of exasperation and good-natured ribbing. The most revered being that I only have one track stored to the music facility provided by my iPhone. (My explanation behind that is simple: I have an iPod, I don't need to clog the memory of a device I use to tweet and date from). And barely a get-together goes by where I'm not taunted with this gem of a faux-pas:

Apparently she doesn't even sing (such fraudulent behaviour). I embrace the jest I receive from this indiscretion however, because mortified though I was at the time, it is still incredibly funny. And I can laugh at myself. Occasionally. Or at the very least I can pretend with considerable ease that something doesn't bother me. But nothing leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth quite like music snobbery. So today I'm going to set the vinyl straight. Except that I don't listen to vinyls and while I don't favour the tinny effect radiating from my dilapidated laptop speakers, I refuse to surrender myself to a bare faced lie in an effort to be portrayed as musically superior. (For all of the Tumblr hipsters out there, that was for you).

In my opinion, music snobbery is the worst kind of snobbery, because it's at the root of the pretentious and scornful culture which is so popular right now. Which is in turn projected superficially. Music snobbery is the reason you see people wearing chunky knit cardigans in July and glasses without the integral glass section. Are they going to play cricket? Have they been mugged? No, they've just been listening to French electro or something which sounds broken with no discernible human vocals. Of course I don't appreciate the raw talent of these diverse underground endeavours because I'm too busy Spotifying corporate drivel likened to that of Atomic Kitten. (I wasn't a fan of their early work, but when Jenny Frost joined the group in '01 I think they really came into their own).

I particularly resent the phrase guilty pleasure. The enjoyment you experience may well be frivolous but why should it be cloaked in shame? The first single I ever purchased was by none other than Britney Spears. Because I was eleven. And I still enjoy her pop offerings today. They're infectious and fun. I happen to like pop music. Or chart music as mainstream tunes are now characterised. It's casual and at that particular moment you can't get enough of it. But the added appeal is that it's disposable and there's no obligation to find out any of the context surrounding it. Very much like a one-night stand.

And if I was to choose a genre of music which I've had the most consistent and monogamous relationship with, it would be the broad spectrum of alternative rock. But whenever I happen to make this omission, I'm met with incredulity. "Oh, you own an NME Essential Bands compilation do you?" I don't. Though I am aware of the irritating barrage of statements which NME hurls at you like a puppy with ADHD. "This is THE band of the year." A declaration which is reiterated fifty two times annually. And every song released when it isn't raining is the song of the summer. It's infuriating, yes. But the bands are inoffensive. I don't own any Snow Patrol or Kaiser Chief merchandise, but while it can be boring, it's easy listening. Do I really need to hit 'private session' on Spotify when my playlist reveals an NME tainted 'track of the moment' to prevent the unrelenting cajoles?

A Tumblr account which I follow and respect, recently declared their first single purchase was The Stone Roses, "I Wanna be Adored". Now considering the fact that it was first released in 1989 and she is the same age as me, I severely doubt the validity of that statement. Perhaps she made a vintage purchase while wistfully perusing an old music shop in a tea dress and cardigan. Perhaps her statement is as fake as the retro feel provided by Instagram. But my point is that it's ludicrous why anyone would want to invent a back catalogue of fabricated musical interest or play up to an ideal which is mandatory in order to pledge their chosen sub-culture.

We are becoming less defined by what we take pleasure from and instead are judged by what we hold in contempt. And I've been the worst culprit for it. I cannot tell you the amount of times I've sneered at a Coldplay or U2 fan in a disparaging tone and for what benefit?  The self-righteous charity appeals are irritating, but they're musicians who are good at what they do. As are The Stereophonics. But if you profess to enjoying their pub favourites you're labeled as a rugby chav or a Welsh nationalist. And you will rue the day you ever utter a positive comment involving Lost Prophets or Muse. Or any perspective other than that they've sold out and forgotten their roots. But the truth is they've made vast sums of money and moved on. Such is life.

It's always been a dreadful thing to be successful because if you're not scraping by barely making ends meet then you're suddenly not cool anymore. Well I can't tell you how I much loathe being poor and look forward to the day when I have the opportunity to "sell out". Perhaps then you'll be paying to read my scathing mockery which seems pretty hypocritical, given the nature of my whinge. But then you're entertained by it aren't you?

Love is Not a Spectator Sport

"Kind of like an alcoholic Cagney and Lacey" - @MartynKelly

A few months ago @Oh_Merde (who is pictured above) inquired about how I cope with this "single and dating thing". Fairly fresh faced when it comes to singledom, she was hoping to obtain some insightful relief from let's be honest, a veteran. However at the time I was hardly feeling particularly wise. I had been applying hair removal cream on my upper lip and decided that a little dab of it on my sideburns wouldn't hurt. When I received the What'sApp message from her I was mortified and peering at what looked like the remains of a vacant patch of carpet next to my ear. So I absent-mindedly replied with, "I don't. This is why I've given up and am spending my Friday evening essentially shaving my face." (For the record, I now spend every second Saturday afternoon at House of Fraser, where a woman named Vera threads my face).

But I was reminded of her question today, while shackled to my desk during one of my wistful daydreams over unrequited situations of the past. And it led me to the realisation that I have a coping mechanism which I implement these days without even thinking about it. Pessimism. Or is it realism? I'm torn at the moment and a little worried that my past experiences of rejection have caused this irrevocably jaded outlook on my romantic life. Because the result is total and utter ambivalence towards relationships and men in general. Don't get me wrong, I go out on dates and spend a lot of time (OK all of my time) drinking raucously with friends at various watering holes. What I'm trying to assert here is that I could have sex (and more importantly a life outside of hair removal) if I desired it. 

But it's not that I don't have the opportunity for romantic endeavours to flourish, I just don't have the inclination to capitalise on them. Some people are starving for emotion, I on the other hand am fasting. All this time I thought I'd been dusting myself off, moving on and being better for it. But I appear to be simply repeating the same mistakes with different people. I don't cope, I just put distance between myself and whatever it is that has hurt me. Evidently this method of pushing negative emotions to the back of my mind and letting them quietly fester as a mental illness have manifested as a somber cloud over my love life. 

I've cast my mind back over the last twelve months and the highlights are more than a little comedic. There was the one-date wonder who revealed he had just being diagnosed with clinical depression, a guy who proceeded to have sex with a girl immediately after me while I remained a prisoner in his house, a younger one who commented that I hadn't taught him anything despite being an older woman and a wholly dysfunctional infatuation with someone I've never actually met. But what's really enlightened me is my reaction to these failed scenarios. Or the lack of a reaction more like. Except of course to derive humour from them. 

Which is my ultimate coping mechanism, otherwise known as my armour. If in doubt I go on the offensive with a joke. But I'm getting increasingly weary of the one-woman show and now I'm not so sure that it's been good for me. I've been of the opinion that it's detrimental to get upset and laughing through the pain of being unwanted was surely the best remedy. Some people are too frightened to experience new relationships because past pain acts as a deterrent. I've been too frightened to experience the pain at all. Which is exactly the problem. I've been under the false impression that I'm immune to being hurt. But just because germs are invisible doesn't mean they're not there. And ignoring them has led me to a bedridden state of romantic apathy. 

But there's a glimmer of hopeful light on the horizon. Last weekend I succumbed to revealing my feelings to someone. Well sort of, in my own little flirty digital way. It totally backfired on me however and I was thrown the ultimate curve ball: the revelation that he now has a girlfriend. Who is apparently completely perfect for him. And it hurt. But it's good. Because it affected me and I'm OK. The clarity of the situation is a relief actually. Uncertainty is acutely treacherous and the real detriment here, not pain. In fact, the experience has awakened a flicker of desire for intimacy with someone and I know that eventually someone will set it alight. Taking solace from that knowledge is keeping me warm and for the time being that's really all I need.

Blogger Meet-Up LDN - Tuesday 29th November

GUYS. I need your attention. Listening? Good. I've been very kindly invited to a blogger meet-up next Tuesday in London and I'm taking it upon myself to extend this invitation to all of my lovely fellow bloggers. It's a Fun 'n' Games party for bloggers, brought to you by the ultra-cool London Ping Pong Company on behalf of Badoo - the worlds largest social network. Yes, the largest. It boasts 120 million members - that's 300,000 users a day AND it's Facebook's fastest growing app. 

But wait, you've never heard of it? Don't worry, neither had I. It's huge overseas (no, really) and it's just exploding in the UK and US. So naturally, we all want to be at the promotional party for a chance to try out the network via a live demonstration (the basic version is free to use anyway) and provide feedback on the experience. And by feedback, I mean take advantage of the freebies! 

Oh, I've got your attention now have I? Yes, there will be pizza, beer, wine and sumptuous cocktails which you won't have to pick up the tab for. Not to mention a veritable array of gaming for those with a competitive streak, including Wii gaming, foosball and Encounters (Badoo's version of Hot or Not. Pre-Facebook it was the only site that mattered). 

But read on because there's more...

What is Badoo?

It's a meet-up service (like a dating site and social network combined) which connects users through profile photos and locations. You can state your intention through a handy little drop down box which lists ideas for what you want to do and who you want to do it with. So for example, if you fancy going to the cinema you can peruse nearby users who are also looking for a movie buddy. Or perhaps you want to make dinner for two or simply share jokes with someone. OR as one gentleman who just contacted me asked, to share a balloon ride with. Hmm, my head is in the clouds far too much as it is - but you see what I mean. And you can tailor your intention to suit the desired sex and age range of your prospective (ahem) friend. Of course it's available via the new mobile app also, which might just make it the guerrilla terrorist of forever alone.

(OK, so if you can look past the fact that my eyebrow looks scarily like a tadpole you will notice that I am super popular already. And I only registered half an hour ago. What are you waiting for?)

Where is it?

It's being held in the ultra-pretentious and hipster location of Shoreditch, East London. Where everyone is rich, middle-class, a snob and dresses straight out of the 1940s - basically I NEED to be among them. The venue, Queen of Hoxton is typically effortlessly amazing looking and you can check out photos of it in all its splendor here: the gallery of all that is uber pretentious and retro.


What do I need to do?

If you're interested in coming along to chat, socialise and/or flirt with like-minded bloggers and webheads then please RSVP by dropping @Chrissssmith a line on Twitter. I should hasten to add that due to high demand the list is very rapidly approaching capacity, so you will need to let him know ASAP!

In the meantime, talk to me @DirtyKnickers_. Got any questions? Want to tell me you're coming right now? I know you do. So, do it already.

Going On The Offensive

I'm always disappointed to discover that someone has interpreted a flippant comment I've made as a malicious jibe, when it was merely my intention to derive humour from a situation. And the person I'm the most disappointed in is myself. Because I actually expected people to have the ability to laugh at themselves. As someone who relies heavily on self-deprecation, I find it absurd that people can take themselves so seriously. I know that most functional people have a high opinion of themselves (yours truly can certainly vouch for that) and I admit that I can be incredibly defensive. But the difference is that I'm aware of it and I'm able to laugh when it's brought to my attention. 

Though it appears that our hyper-connected modern world has led some people's online notoriety to fill their heads with the notion that they're now important and their opinions are not just right, but statutory. Standing atop of their self-elected digital podiums, challenging the civil liberties of others and firing their opinion at people as though it's somehow mandatory for them to provide it. Of course if they had an interesting or different perspective on what was being discussed, I would more than welcome the debate. But all that's on their agenda is condemnation. They seek to vilify anyone who has the gall to commit the mass-terrorist of goodnatured ribbing: offence.

Offence. If there were awards for utterly pointless nouns, this would have my vote. Because it's completely subjective. Only the individual can determine who or what they're offended by, according to their own personal preferences. If you choose to be offended, you need to take personal responsibility because you alone are making that decision. You're letting yourself be affected by something which you could have easily brushed off as inconsequential. And if you're honest with yourself, you'll admit that it's often not the content of the joke which caused such palpable distaste, but the person who made it.

Putting a joke in context is paramount when understanding it. Nothing is exempt from being mocked. You have to first appreciate who is making the joke and more importantly, why they're making it. In my case, I do it to confront the elephant in the room. (And taking my past quips about Adele into consideration that phrase is incredibly apt). But my point is, we often let our dislike for someone cloud our judgement and we're besieged with self-righteousness lubricated with venom. It's not enough that you have been caused offence, that offence now has to be validated and supported. So you take to your online outlets and discuss your right to being offended with other deluded nobodies. 

Of course now I suppose everyone is thinking that I want people to stop being offended. And I don't. It's an endless source of entertainment for me, so please continue populating your cringe-worthy attempts at informed and coherent opinions. It makes me so feel so smug and intelligent. Particularly when I discover that people have been discussing whether or not something I've said should be considered racist. If you're going to have an opinion, have some conviction and declare it. Instead of analysing it publicly in an attempt to form a majority because you're too cowardly to remain a minority.

Now I'll leave you with some hilarious truth from Steve Hughes.

People Puzzles

I do enjoy a good jigsaw

I've been licking my wounds of late, having experienced the callous sting of rejection. Of course it’s not nearly as bad as it could be, because he’s not entirely aware that he’s spurned me. Which sounds perfectly ridiculous, but you see, he doesn't know because nothing of consequence really ever occurred. Nothing concrete anyway, which I can pin on him and justify being upset about. No, on this occasion I’m being forced to take personal responsibility because I projected a fantasy onto him which didn't correlate to the events unfolding in real life. My dream world ran alongside us, just like a ghost who is oblivious to its previous demise. 

Romantic yearnings are like any competitive endeavour. When you’re in the moment you’re focused and your outlook is restricted to tunnel vision. But a spectator has an unbiased viewpoint and can analyse every wrong movement you make which contributes to your failure overall. It's laughably tragic how I reveled in those once precious moments, when seeing them from a fresh perspective reveals they were merely borne of his boredom. Something he knows little of now with his new girlfriend (or so I hear). 

But I'm not entirely bitter, from what I know of him he seems deserving of it. He just wasn't the right man for me. Or is it that I wasn't the right woman for him? I'm brash and offensive, my opinions are blase and my attitude is annoying. But it's just a fragment. Amplified for effect. Did he recognise that I can be more? And if he did, then surely it's worse because he chose to ignore it in favour of her. 

I've perused her. She's a low-key intellectual with edgy good looks, and her shy smile reveals a sweet disposition. She doesn't write about such silly and inconsequential things like relationships. And while it's not exactly worthy of The New Republic, the topic is a mutual interest of theirs and only further crystallizes a bond between them which I could never share. Although a nagging part of me wonders if the only legitimate advantage she has over me is down to the simple logistics of the situation. Doubtful. But I still choose to placate myself with it from time-to-time. 

Perhaps the problem was that I didn't really put myself out there. I shied away from his half-hearted and clumsy attempts at wooing me. Admittedly I found them endearing but I was too frightened to give them any real credence in case they hurt me. If I hadn't have carefully kept them at bay would they have blossomed into romantic fruition? Perhaps if my candour wasn't tinged with playfulness and I wasn't such an incorrigible flirt, I might have provoked faith instead of mirth. I should have taken hold of the situation and not left it all up to chance.

Ultimately though people will find away their way around an obstacle if they really want to. And very often they create them if they want to prevent what they can see on the horizon. He saw me. I was right at his fingertips. And while mine weren't completely outstretched, they were there to be grasped. I don't know whether to take solace in the fact that I didn't make enough of an effort to secure him or to reprimand myself for losing out on something which could have been, well, really something.

Self-doubt: the most effective virus

This morning I awoke to a DM from an esteemed Twitter follower, which informed me that an alleged 'bad blog' was circulating the internet about yours truly and inquired as to whether I was aware of it. Naively I ignored my better judgement and clicked the link, only to discover that it sent me back to the Twitter homepage. Ah, a virus. Naturally. I was then alerted to the fact that by clicking it, I had in turn passed the message on to all of my followers. Terrific.

If you've received this DM from me, I apologise. If you haven't clicked it and are one of the people who have replied to me warning that it's a scam - congratulations. You're a happy and secure person. However if you've succumbed to the paranoia (as I did) then you're going to have to change your Twitter login password immediately to prevent the virus hacking into your account. Apologies. I have self-esteem issues clearly.

Being an avid user of social networks, I routinely encounter scam attempts such as this on a regular basis. They're prevalent on both Twitter and Facebook, with a popular example being the sensationalist approach: OMG! Have you seen this? 

Like most sensible people I avoid these links and smugly mock those who give into their foolish curiosity. Usually by reprimanding them with a self-satisfied tweet dripping in condescension and derision. However now it seems I must eat my words, as for the first time I've fallen victim to one. Purely because I thought there was something negative written about me somewhere and I was desperate to know what it was. It's an effective method. Because even though the format of the scam is one which I've received countless times in my Twitter inbox, the phrasing of the question is clever because it taps into your insecurities.

I don't know why, but I always believe my worst reviews. I try to pretend it's part of my cool self-assured attitude and my need to view it is because I want to turn the criticism into something constructive. But all too often I fixate on the negativity and over-analyse it in my head. And what's worse is that sometimes I start to believe it. Being left alone with your thoughts can be both invigorating and perilous. While I implore you to recognise and respond to your inner-critic, I think it's important to note that you shouldn't spend too much time giving it credence.

You need to allow yourself just as much time to focus on the positives about yourself too and not feel arrogant about it. You deserve to bask in complimentary affirmations which you've given to yourself. I'm not advocating that you brag about your achievements, but by acknowledging them you'll naturally exude that inner-confidence which your critics don't have. Because no matter what you do in life there are always going to be people who won't like it and aren't shy about telling you so. But you can take solace in the fact that at least you're provoking a reaction. And besides 'haters gon' hate'. 

I'll leave you with a hilarious series of DM's which my unintentional spamming provoked this morning. If you think you're paranoid, you've got nothing on this guy. I don't know what Atlantic Bridge is, but if I'm killed to cover up an alleged Tory conspiracy at least my blog readers will know the truth.

Modern Romance

Now this is what I enjoy. Being laid siege to. The modern interpretation of courtly romance personified.

However if online dating has taught me anything, quantity is certainly not proportionate to quality. And by no means am I being derogatory towards the person but more how they've chosen to portray themselves.

Here's a quick check list of things I've encountered this morning which you should avoid doing in order to motivate a woman to reply:


Don't have a default photo of you with a drag Queen.

Don't be ambiguous and state that you're looking for 'anything'.

Don't have photos of your children on a dating profile.
(Unless of course they're your hobby).

Don't lie about your age.
(Or if you do make sure the date of birth correlates with the age you've specified in your bio. Though why you'd lie about being 25 when you're only 27 is a mystery).

Don't contact a woman if you rejected her when she was 15 for not having sex with you.
Jerk.

And even if you ignore everything else on this list, please don't write this:

"iam funny, horny and always up for anythin including a laugh .im polite and understanding also."

I haven't got time to go into why because my alarm/pill reminder app is alerting me that I must get ready for work. However I must hasten to add that the lack of grammar was copied word for word. And yes it's painful to even have it on my blog.

Bitch Be Crazy

Non.Fucking.Plussed

I sometimes feel that people get the wrong impression of me. (And when I say sometimes, I mean most of the time. And when I say wrong, I mean slightly incorrect but still mostly right on the money). All lighthearted humour aside though, I often find myself rubbing people up the wrong way and it's not always my fault. Everyone has their own preconceived ideas about other people. What they don't realise is that these impressions are often based on conjecture and gossip. 

But I'm not in the habit of justifying myself, so if I ever become aware of someone having a negative view of me I tend to let it remain that way. Or make it even worse by playing up to this distorted image they have. I like to call this having a sense of humour. Albeit an obnoxious one. And I suppose I do have the tendency to be mercilessly offensive (quite a lot of the time actually) but my humour also relies very heavily on the self-deprecating approach, as those of you who follow my tweets will already be aware of. Which is exactly the reason why it incenses me so when people wrongly label me as a bully. 

I am not a bully. I'm brash, yes. I can also be rude, thoughtless, selfish, incredibly arrogant and a plethora of other supposedly unappealing adjectives. But I don't target one person and actively go out of my way to humiliate and intimidate them in an attempt to cure my own crippling insecurities. That's a bully. 

As a tentative teenage school girl I came into contact with an alarming number of girls who all met that definition. Naturally they all chose to band together to enforce my misery as a collective effort and not so coincidentally they were all smokers. (They always are). I'm still unsure as to what the exact reason was which provoked their irrational rage at my existence, but I can tell you that my nonplussed attitude to their viciously cruel outbursts only aided the problem. 

On the whole my average school day was pretty consistent. I would trot along to lessons, have lunch with my friends and Tipex out the name of the current nonreciprocating love interest on my pencil case. I would also be jostled in the corridors, taunted amid raucous shrieks of laughter and threatened with "a battering" if I even so much as made eye contact with the aforementioned tough girls.

My life is over, I've run out of Tipex

I'll always remember the dull sickness which would form in the pit of my stomach when it came time for a Games or P.E lesson, as it was the only time we were all forced together. Obviously none of them partook in any physical activities, seen as their lungs couldn't take the pressure and they couldn't afford trainers. But in a way that was worse. I'd rather one of them have come at me armed with a hockey stick rather than suffer the torture of them lined up on the side of the field, scrutinizing my every movement and hurling "insults" for everyone else to hear and exchange smirks at. 

"Oh look at 'er now, thinkin' she's awesome in her little outfit. Where's that from Sam? GUCCI?"   

I don't think I'm awesome right now at all, I'm merely stepping up to bat because it's my turn. And no, I wish my black leggings were designer but they're not. They're from Topshop. You know, on the High Street. I'm sorry, my parents work for a living and buy me things. 

"Ooooh Sam, does your boyfriend bend you over and make you scream like a pig?"  

No. Bend me over what? We watch television in my living room and sometimes he looks as though he's going to put his arm around me but doesn't and then when the programme finishes he goes home. 

"Aw look at 'er now, walking by there."

Yes. I am walking. Over here, on the opposite side of the road to you. And you are over there, shouting at me.

And that's generally how it would go. Every day. Not the worst scenario of bullying I will concede, but when something like that doesn't relent for five years it really takes its toll. 

As a consequence of experiencing that exquisite torture, I've never felt inclined to direct it at someone else. While I'm naturally defensive and stick up for myself with ease, I don't attack people unnecessarily. So imagine my surprise when at twenty four I was thrust back into the familiar scenario of being ganged up on for no apparent reason by two girls who appeared to be around the age of 16 or so.

Like two peas in a pod

After a fairly grueling day chained to an office desk being made to squint at a computer screen and type things, I treated myself to an overpriced serving of saturated fat in a cardboard box. I was commiserating, as a trip to Miss Selfridge had revealed I was no longer a size 10 and naturally a calorific meal was the answer. So as I was contemplating my next eating disorder, I look up and there are two young girls looking right back at me with that brazen amused look which is the only expression teenagers seem to have these days. One of them got up, crossed the floor and came back with two straws. Obviously as you can see, they had finished their meals. They then started sucking on the straws and fiddling with the empty wrappers. 

Oh no. This is not happening. Is it? Are they actually going to start pea shooting me? Is this where I'm at in life? My dazed thoughts were interrupted by their little boyfriends rejoining and occupying the seats opposite them, thus obscuring the minions from view. They then urged their boyfriends to hunch over the table so they would (I presume) be able to get a clear shot at me without being detected. The familiar surge of discomfort and humiliation crept up my back, but a decade later it was merely an initial reaction in disbelief and was not a residual 14 year olds feeling of panic. With a defiant look, I raised my voice to a level which would be heard over the din of the crowd and in a menacingly calm tone which echoed the caption of my previous Twitpic, I slowly said: "Bitches. Try it and shit will go down."

I'm the kind of person who prides herself on her eloquent vocabulary and generally well-spoken nature.  But I pulled the ghetto speak off with astounding ease, which the boyfriends laughed at in genuine amusement. The girls however fixed me with wide surprised eyes and exchanged a worried glance at each other before quickly averting their eyes to the table in front of them. Yes, I knew exactly what they were thinking. "Shit, bitch be crazy."  Yeah. That's right. Go pick on someone your own BMI. I wish I could Twitpic their rotting corpses with the boyfriends heads shoved up their vaginas, but alas, I got up and swaggered out of the place before this thought came to me. 

Moral of the story: don't attempt to pea shoot someone who goes by the alias Dirty Knickers, especially not when she's feeling like a chubster.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall...

For those of you who were not already aware, I'm twenty four years old. And so far (I'm only three months in) it's been the best age of my life. I've always been perceived as self-assured and finally the perception has caught up with reality. I really am just that. And it's not just about confidence in who you are, but more knowing who you are - your weaknesses as well as your strengths. Not being afraid to be both proud and critical of yourself and using it constructively in the banalities of your day-to-day activities.

Previously I've been described as pretty full-on. Which is an ambiguous way of saying that I'm bawdy and this behaviour hasn't always been well received. But then you can't please everyone and really why would you want to? People are a fickle bag of emotions. And more often than not they're harbouring underlying resentment towards their own lifestyles and in scenarios such as that the best reaction is no reaction. I'm a firm believer that it's not the insult itself which offends you but the context surrounding it. Who's saying it? Why are they saying it? Are you envious of them? It really puts the nature of the remark into perspective and it's amazing how quickly your initial affronted reaction can quickly dissipate, only to be replaced by a thought which is refreshing as it is clarifying: they're not you and they never will be. 

Of course intrepid statements such as that require a touch of arrogance and I don't think it's necessarily a negative characteristic to possess. It's like everything in life: in moderation. The key with arrogance is to deliver it in an endearing fashion and follow it up with a hint of self-deprecation. Assert your confidence but have fun with it. And be prepared for the inevitable backlash which your jaunty cockiness will provoke, because it will. People don't like people who like themselves. It reminds them of their own insecurities. And no one likes to think about them. But you should. Because to be truly assured you need edification and you're not going to achieve it by hiding what you don't like about yourself away and pretending it doesn't exist or doesn't affect you.

Understandably adopting the attitude that you take everything on the chin will make you an incredibly easy target for people wrongly assuming they can say absolutely whatever they want to you and it won't have an effect on your feelings. But make no mistake, I have feelings. And in the past they have been hurt to the point where at the time I thought the damage was irrevocable. Naturally it wasn't and even though I know that time is a healer it still doesn't make the pain of the present any less acute.

I'm in no way saying that by being self-assured you suddenly become bionic. You don't. What you do become though is more adept at repairing the damage. And the more you know about yourself the easier that process will be.

My Quest For the Sunday Boyfriend

 God breathes life into a single girls sensibility 

What started off as a joke between a single friend and I over the Christmas period, has fast become my New Year's Resolution of sorts (as I never officially make any) for 2011.

After a debaucherous festive night out on the town, we found ourselves the following morning in the living room having a laptop orgy, while devouring nutritiously processed meat and raucously laughing at our escapades. (A standard cliché which often proves to be very therapeutic when attempting to lift hungover spirits).

We mused over the failings of the men who we'd encountered the previous night, along with the audacity of those who we had casually slept with a handful of times proposing the idea of a threesome and the proclamation of having "night terrors" as a suitable excuse for rejecting the sexual proposition of a one-night stand. A typical exchange of mutual disappointments with our current flings and what equally unsatisfying and disillusioning experiences they can be.

But as single girls our conversation isn't just limited to our latent promiscuity and cackling over men's shortcomings in the bedroom or in life (as is often the case with the ones we tend to encounter). No, contrary to popular belief, we do in fact yearn for the intimacy and security of a romantic relationship with a special man whom we can share our inner-most desires and dreams with. But only on a Sunday. 

Or more accurately: on the Sabbath.

 

Generally the Sabbath day is considered a weekly day of rest and worship within the Abrahamic religions and other practices. With it typically being Sunday for most Christians, Saturday for Jews and Friday for Muslims. But the day itself which you consider to be the Sabbath is inconsequential as there is no right or wrong answer when it comes to differing beliefs. After all religion is a civil liberty. However our Western society has become increasingly secular and so our religious priorities have been replaced with that of the non-religious. And for most people a happy and fulfilling life now greatly outweighs the prospect of an eternally satisfying afterlife which we can't be sure exists at all. As the importance of an ecclesial being and its respective institution pales in comparison to the people who we choose to spend our lives with. 

So with that being said, I think it's safe to clarify that our relationships with people have become our top priority (along with good health and financial security). And in terms of the Sabbath in it's most limited definition: God is remembered weekly but isn't directly referred to in all other aspects of daily life. And as a non-practising Catholic, I don't choose to dedicate my Sunday to the remembrance of the resurrection but I would be prepared to utilise this weekly observance in terms of a relationship. 

Now I'm not suggesting that another person should become our sole fixation of worship - far from it. More the emotional intimacy of a union with another person would get my full attention for just one day and the rest of the week I could resume my normal life without having to worry about that other persons needs.

Hence my New Year's resolution: To find someone who is on the same page as me i.e. Someone who is willing to put just as much effort into a relationship as I am and expect the same amount out of it.

 

Mutual interest be with you 

Of course herein lies a problem. While I don't want to clearly define the relationship, I also don't want to leave it open to interpretation and have it become just a casual fling. I don't want to merely have sex with someone every Sunday. What I'm looking for also goes far beyond the realms of a conventional 'friendship with benefits'. (I don't want to ruin my relationship with someone I already consider to be a friend).

I want someone where there is a mutual attraction between us. We'd have stimulating conversations, a similar sense of humour and we'd enjoy spending time together which wasn't just physical. A boyfriend. But one whom I would have absolutely no contact with during the course of a six day period via any medium (phone, text, email, tweet, instant messaging or carrier pigeon) and would routinely spend a couple of hours or a whole day with on a weekly basis.

Imagine the amount of stress that would be relieved from the relationship? Where it wasn't mandatory to check in with each other every day and feel obligated to do things for one another which we didn't want to do. Gone would be the feelings of guilt and the excess baggage of another persons life. Instead, you could just eliminate the normal conventions of a relationship and spend time exclusively with each other for a couple of hours on a given day. And then part ways for the rest of the week, free to live as independently and selfishly as you had been doing without having to act like one half of a whole.

And the more I thought about it, the more realistic an expectation it became. I wonder how many people are actually in this type of relationship without even realising it? At least I'm actually acknowledging what I want: a relationship without the expectation of commitment. And not being strung along in the pretense that it's more than what it actually is. I want the attention and happy feelings that can sometimes only be achieved by having a special guy in your life. But I don't have the time or inclination to fully make room for him in it. 

 

Haziness can be clarifying

I suppose this sounds as though I'm against relationships, when really what all of this stems from is the fact that a never ending string of casual flings can be so intensely disappointing. I find that the guy is spending so much time trying to convey that he doesn't see me as a potential girlfriend that the fun just gets sucked right out of it. 

Case in point: A few months ago I was sleeping with someone on a regular basis, where we were always drunk and it was arranged on a completely spontaneous basis. I didn't mind this at all. It suited what I wanted from the relationship. But it got to the stage where we would be having sex and he wouldn't even look at me during, much less kiss me.  

That's not the least bit satisfying. I enjoy having sex with someone for the emotional connection as well as the physical one. And while detaching yourself from certain emotions is one thing, feeling like a giant hand is quite another. Hey buddy, did you know that connecting with someone in the moment is about more than just penetration? And just because a person maintains eye contact with someone while they're having sex does not mean they're envisioning the pair of you as little edible people adorning the top of a wedding cake? 

Because as he failed to ascertain, I actually enjoy the freedom which my single life affords me and wouldn't want to give it up. But on a Sunday, I'm usually feeling a little depressed, insecure, emotional and generally in want of affection. And having a man available who falls neatly between the confines of casual and who I want to spend the rest of my life with is a very appealing prospect indeed. 

  

I'm not looking for Mr. Right, I want Mr. 'In between'. Because he knows how to be more than casual. In that he'll take you to places other than the bedroom. He'll have intellectually stimulating conversation and the ability to make you laugh, as well as enjoying your humour too. He's assertive and in control of situations, particularly between the sheets - there's no room for faking it there. 

But he also knows how to not let it stray into the realms of seriousness. He won't pester you to meet his friends or family, similarly he won't be interested in yours either. The relationship would be just about the two of you, not the other people who become inextricably linked to your life. There won't be a hint of him on any of your social networks because that would complicate matters and begin the never-ending game of who's that? He wouldn't accost you with a barrage of phone calls or text messages on a night out with the girls and you wouldn't bother him with his dalliances with the boys, because the bottom line is you don't have to care if he's with someone else. As long as you get to spend  a few blissful hours together on a Sunday nothing else is of consequence.

It's a mutually satisfying relationship, lying partway between a casual fling and conventional exclusivity. Perfect.

Surely I'm not the only one on a quest for a boyfriend who I needn't concern myself with Monday through Saturday?

Silence is Golden

 

I'm not like most women my age. In fact, I would go as far to say, that I'm not like most women of any age. Sure, I have feminine interests. Just take a look at my header: pink, frilly, swirly calligraphy. See, I'm a woman. But I just don't share any of the typical common ground which other women seem to have with each other. I don't have any interest in diets or having my nails done or televised reality contests or celebrity gossip or babies or making gravy from scratch or discussing what age I'd like to get married.

(I don't enjoy reading romance novels by pre-menopausal Irish writers which are then adapted to simpering romantic comedies starring Hilary Swank either. So please, none of them for Christmas this year. Although after reading this I'm sure none of my female friends will want to talk to me again let alone buy me anything, and I'm already on thin ice in that department as it is).

Of course, there's nothing wrong with doing any of those aforementioned things and I'm in no way saying that they are the only things which women are interested in. It just means that when it comes to interacting with women I don't know, I rarely have anything to break the ice with. Which can be excruciatingly awkward.

This coupled with the fact that I'm a bit of an oxymoron anyway. In that I'm very social and enjoy going out, but I rarely make an effort with anyone new. As some of my now close friends will tell you: they did all the leg work. Which is very childish of me, I will concede and it's something I've recently started to change. As I've got older, I've realised that letting your guard down and being just that little bit friendly to people can be very rewarding.

What I'm yet to master though, is casual conversation with hairdressers. Cringe upon cringe. I suppose it's partly because I have little to no vested interest in the maintenance of my hair. It's been a weird amalgamation of dirty blonde and light brown for as long as I can remember, with its upkeep being typical of my general attitude: I don't care.

The bulk of the reason though is because as we've already established, I don't enjoy the company of strange women. And I particularly don't like said company in typically feminine surroundings. So naturally, anywhere beauty related is my idea of pure unadulterated hell. Row upon row of women bonding with each other over the current X-Factor contestants and fictional characters of Glee. Musing over their clever roller-derby pseudonyms and little nieces/nephews/godchildren who they just adore and can't wait to have of their own. Swooning over pictures of Robert Pattinson or the other Twilight one in the women's lifestyle magazine spread open before them.

Again, nothing wrong with any of these things, I just don't have any interest in them. Sometimes I wish I did, just so I wouldn't feel so isolated in these situations. And feigning interest in them just doesn't work on account of my innate sarcastic nature. I enjoy it, but as I've discovered first hand, some women get terribly over-sensitive when it comes to flippant remarks.

But like I've said, I do possess some feminine interests. For example, I have an unhealthy obsession with Sex and the City. But I'm a deeply pretentious person, and if someone were to start discussing the films with me (which I pretend don't exist) I would scoff at them. And Lord help them if they confessed to not knowing it originated from a book, which they haven't read. Oh, would they be in for a berating. So, as you can see I'm a difficult person who takes herself far too seriously and therefore it's much easier for me to remain silent. And smile.

But therein lies a problem. Hairdressers won't let you be silent. They probe you for information about yourself. Because they've very nice people and are genuinely at ease with chatting about every day topics. I hate them for this. I'm very socially awkward. I prefer them to come to my house - I have my bearings in my own territory. I can make them a cup of tea in a mug which reads 'fuck tea where's the fucking caffeine?' and enjoy it. I'm sick.

But sometimes I haven't been able to keep them confined to my kitchen, and have been forced to venture outside of my comfort zone. Which is an ordeal right from the initial phone call needed to make the appointment. I always opt for the cut and blow-dry. Never anything else. No hair dye please. It's extortionate and they always try to bully you into having a lighter colour. What do you mean you don't think the shade of wet straw I always go for isn't very becoming? I like it. It looks natural. Do you know what doesn't look natural? Having a hairstyle which is significantly longer on one side than it is on the other. But who I am to judge? Then they want to know who I'm requesting to perform the haircut. Um, I don't know, all hairdressers are called Tracey right? Sorry, that's unfair. Sometimes they're called Sharon. Or Tina. Yeah, I'm going to stop now.

And when you get there, in a timely fashion for the slot which you have reserved might I add, they keep you waiting for around twenty minutes. This is the time in which I pretend that I'm an anthropologist. I'm only here to study these people. Did you know if you close your eyes you can almost make yourself believe that the incessant noise is being emitted by hens? Because that's what women (myself included), sound like when they're around each other. Shrill clucking sounds likened to that of your average farmyard animal. They don't even have to be talking about the same thing. It's fascinating.

So eventually you're summoned to have your scalp massaged by a youth on work experience, who always manages to fasten the cape (don't even get me started on the fucking cape), too tightly while catching a stray hair in the Velcro. Thus exposing the little tattoo on the back of my neck, which prompts them to go into unnecessary detail about the swirls they're having done on the bottom of their back next week. Of course, I'm not listening, I'm just thinking over and over, why do I even need this cape? It's perfectly ridiculous. I don't mind if little snippets of stray hairs get on my clothes, it's my hair after all. Seriously, every time. That's all I think about. Oh and this: I don't care if everyone else is wearing it too, I can't see my arms, this isn't natural.

I'm sometimes so caught up in this perpetual anguish, that I don't have any recollection of the hair washing coming to an end and being escorted from one piece of wacky Ikea decor to the next. And so then you sit and wait some more. Resisting the urge to spin around on the chair while trying to avoid your reflection, which in my case is dripping rats tails and smudged eyeliner. Great for the ego. So, I do, what everyone does when they don't know what to do with themselves in public: lamely turn my fixation to my phone. Some people choose to re-read old text messages, others abuse the Facebook check in feature. I on the other hand, opt for scrolling through my contact list and silently curse every single name.

Then finally the moment arrives and the very nice lady is snipping away at my hair, after adjusting the seat to a ludicrously high level, with the cape sometimes getting caught in one of the wheels. (Fucking cape). She chats away about herself and her day with a breezy demeanour which I'm more than happy to listen to. I try to treat it like I would a sport: spectating never participating. But then she eventually attempts to engage me in conversation. Uh oh. All of my anticipated dread has been leading up to this moment: 

• "Going out the weekend then?" 

Well, it's Tuesday, so I don't really know. I suppose I might..I do like to leave the house occasionally. Oh Christ, just say yes Sam.

"Yes."

• "Where you going then? I'm going to Revs. LOVE it there. Do you like it there?"

I suppose this isn't the best time to divulge that I harbour secret fantasies of blowing that place up. 

"No, I don't really go there much."

Shit, now I have to go into detail about these fictional plans. Where can I hypothetically go, so she'll stop asking questions?

"I'm going to a gig."

• "Ooooh, I love gigs. I'm going to see Pink next year, do you like Pink?"

Fuck my life. No I don't like Pink. In fact to say I don't like her would be an understatement so vast it would swallow every abandoned Chinese infant girl throughout history. 

"Um. No."

Smooth. Although probably safer to be concise.

• "I think she's amaaaaaaaazing!!"

Yeah, I'm just going to make a point of fiddling with the cape now.

• "Especially when she comes down into the crowd on one of them things."
  (She gestures wildly in my face with two fingers imitating what I can only assume are Pinks kicking legs).

At this point I'm at a loss. As I've already established, I'm not a great conversationalist at the best of times. So, I ask you: what is the correct conversational protocol when someone you don't know sticks their waggling fingers in your face because they don't know what the word trapeze is?

(I'm not insinuating that this is representative of all hairdressers, this is just a snippet of what has happened to me).

There must be other women out there like me who:

1. Fucking hate getting their hair cut.
2. Are socially awkward on an insane level.
3. Can't talk to other women.
4. Don't want to talk to other women even if they could.
5. Don't go to Vodka Revolution on the weekend.
6. Have a mortal fear of hairdressing capes.

I refuse to believe I'm the only one. Your support would be appreciated. As would any awkward conversational encounters of your own. Comment away.

Nice Guys Finish Somewhere In The Middle

Everyone is familiar with the aphorism, "nice guys finish last". It's become as ubiquitous a concept in the dating game as the concept of dating itself. We all have friends who we consider to be the quintessential decent guy, (in fact I have a few), and we all agree that they shouldn't still be single. Yet, despite their keenness to attract a long-term girlfriend, that's exactly what they are. Which is endlessly frustrating to them, because they're of the opinion, (like everyone else), that single women are desperately yearning for a special man in their lives. I mean, of course they are. Right?

Well...yes. There are of course, varying degrees of desperation, depending on the individual. (I, for instance, am not explicitly looking for a boyfriend, but am not averse to being found - so yes, pretty desperate). But allow me to shine a clarifying beam of truth into the dark recesses of your understanding of women: being a guy with amiable qualities doesn't automatically make you boyfriend material. Women don't want to be treated like your grandmother. They also don't want to feel as though you're only interested in entering into a relationship with them because they meet a basic criterion, i.e they're single, straight and live nearby. They want to feel as though you've chosen them based on individual merit. Complex isn't it?

This isn't to say that amiable qualities can't be endearing. Of course they can. The trouble is words such as nice and amiable harbour both attractive and unattractive qualities. The attractive are that of caring, respectful, committed and virtuous. With the unattractive being boring, lacking in confidence and essentially a door-mat. So, when faced with the prospect of a man who is nice but unsure of himself, and a man who is confident and assertive, yet lacking in any qualities that a loving relationship can be built on, women will choose the latter. Or the bad boy, as he's often referred to.

Yes, confidence really is that attractive a quality to women. Even if it is accompanied by, selfishness, an aversion to fidelity and arrogance. Women don't take pleasure in experiencing any of these qualities, but they often feel it's a small price to pay for the sexy appeal of a man who is self-assured and assertive.

Here's the key: women don't want a man who is too nice. Someone who encompasses a little of both is a far more attractive prospect. We'll call him, Mr. not-so-nice. A man who knows he's a catch and isn't afraid of rejection, but who doesn't objectify a woman and isn't conceited enough to assume she will respond to his advances because it's worked for him before. I'm just as likely to reject the affections of an unassertive nice guy, as I am to ignore the arrogant presumptions of a bad boy.

A popular misconception though, is that women enjoy being treated poorly. I can't stress how vehemently untrue this is. When it comes to affairs of the heart, there's a difference between liking a person's behaviour and tolerating that behaviour. The treat them mean to keep them keen philosophy only works to an extent. It shouldn't be abused to justify hurtful actions. Instead, it should be used as a precursor. You see, women, as with men, enjoy feeling a sense of achievement. Make room for her in your life by all means, but still show her that you actually have one, i.e. commitments and responsibilities. It's important to keep a woman on her toes and not to be constantly available to her.

Because even though, women are more successful, intelligent and independent than ever before, their emotional needs are still the same. They don't need to be protected, or depend on someone else. But they do want a man who can offer these things, which they can then rely on - should they ever need to. 

Over the course of my adult dating life, I've experienced both sides of the equation. I've been both the enabler of bad behaviour and the callous objector - with each being equally unfulfilling. I've tolerated having no contact for weeks, being lied to, being cheated on and being stood up. Not because I took any pleasure in it, but rather I was holding on to the idea, that if I kept tolerating it the person in question would soon grow to reciprocate my infatuation with them. Of course they never did, and eventually I either had enough or was dumped for being so uninteresting to them. Which was a good thing, because it taught me to respect myself and stop pursuing people who weren't prepared to treat me the way I deserved to be treated.

(NB If you're a man reading this, gleefully thinking you've found a loophole and you'll just find a woman who will tolerate your appalling behaviour, because it appears to work for a while - then you might want to consider the fact that by not wanting to make someone happy, you're yet to discover what makes yourself happy. So, I suggest you concentrate on that first, before you attempt to pursue a mature relationship with a woman).

And as a semi-reformed Ice Queen, I've also doled out my fair share of hurtful behaviour. I knew instantly what behaviour I could get away with and what I couldn't. If I ever met a nice guy, sure, I took advantage of their patience and understanding. And like a little puppy who has been spitefully rapped on the nose, after I displayed a hint of remorseful kindness, they were all too willing to come back for more. Because, even though I wasn't interested in them romantically, they were a significant ego boost for when I was feeling lonely, depressed or generally bored. (Usually because I was being kept waiting for a response from a bad boy I was relentlessly hounding at the time).

But, sometimes it doesn't matter what you do - she's just not going to be attracted to you in that way and will exile you to her safe place: the friendship zone. Sure, it might seem as though you're making head way; she refers to you as, "sweetie", sometimes replies to your messages at lightning speed and seeks you out for advice. But, face it, you've got predictable, vulnerable and eager-to-please written all over you. She's never going to regard you as that person who will be strong and take charge of a situation.  Sure, when she pulls that cute expression with those big innocent eyes, you'd swear butter wouldn't melt behind that perfectly formed pout. But she knows she can have you, and therefore doesn't want you. So, stop wasting your time fixated on winning over this girl, because that's exactly what it is: time wasted.

 

Here are a few helpful hints, which the nice guy should consider the relationship weapons of mass destruction.

She says:

• You're SUCH a nice guy."

Translation: I'm never going to have sex with you. Not even out of pity. Maybe if I'm horny or depressed. But probably not even then.

• "I wish I could find someone who understands me the way you do."

Translation: I'm looking for a guy who is going to have sex with me and never have anything to do with me ever again.

• "You're going to make some girl very happy one day."

Translation: And she's going to be a less attractive un-funny watered down version of me. 

• "I feel like I can tell you anything."

Translation: And everything about all the men I'm actually interested in.

• "I just don't deserve you."

Translation: I just don't find you physically attractive.

• "I'm really nothing special." 

 Translation: I really am, I just don't want to be special to you. 

• "I've reached a time in my life where I want to focus on me and my career."

Translation: Please stop asking me out on dates, I'm trying to let you down gently here but you're making it damn near impossible.

And by she said, of course what I really mean is I've said. Yes, it's true. I really have said ALL of those things, at one time or another. 

But, don't get disheartened. You're a catch. Really, you are. Women do appreciate nice qualities. It's just sometimes, they don't believe it's real unless they're made to work a little for it first.

Snap Happy

There’s an epidemic of irrational and unnecessary photography sweeping the internet since, well forever really and I’m no exception, (in fact I’ve just had the pleasure of being tagged in several photos of myself in various poses with a novelty moustache). So, I just wanted to shine a bit of hypocritical light on the absurd commonalities of online photo sharing.

The Myspace Pose

It’s become as ubiquitous as the site itself. And when the Myspacer’s eventually jumped from the sinking ship, (sorry Tom but it’s true), aboard more attractive social networks, they brought with them an unwelcome stowaway. Pointing a camera directly at a mirror while holding it from various angles can often give the illusion that you’re thinner and more attractive than you are. But that’s all it is: an illusion. You can’t hold a person in quite the same manner and make sure their eye line is viewing you at your best. You just can’t. They’re going to see you and your gut in all its conspicuous glory when they inevitably click on view more pictures. Why does this never occur to people? I personally like to have a mixed bag of good and not so good snap shots of me, so as to ensure if anyone ever met me in the flesh they wouldn’t be too disappointed and even dare I say it, pleasantly surprised.

Scenery

Holiday snaps. They’re very effective at elevating your smug sense of self-worth to the online community. They confirm that you do in fact leave the dreary location of home once in a while and are a very cultured member of society. (Not to mention own goal-ing yourself, by intensifying an already prevalent bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder). And I know being a tourist with a camera is likened to that of a junkie looking for their next fix, but the need to fill a memory card with shot after shot of landscapes, sunsets, animals and the bed in the hotel room remains a mystery to me. The moment can never be captured, because when you get home you’re just going to bypass the photos of the horizon in favour of the ones of you enjoying yourself. Which is why you went on holiday in the first place, right?

Food

When you’re hungry everything looks appetizing. I’m often hungry because I have a secret fat girl inside me. Many a time she’s seen strips of cardboard which resemble a succulent cut of sirloin. She’s mentally ill. The appeal is in her head. So listen carefully, just because it’s a meal that you’ve warmed up yourself, doesn’t mean it’s photo-worthy, in fact it’s mediocre at best and really quite forgettable. Your taste buds have momentarily taken control of your better judgment and convinced you that this dish wouldn’t look out of place in the likes of a pretentious yuppie establishment with a french sounding name. A picture of an “epic sandwich” isn’t timeless, it’s time consuming. Just eat it, experience a sense of self-loathing if you’ve just cheated your diet, be full, forget about it, be content for a few hours, then do it all again. And so the cycle of endless consumption continues.

Your Car

Immerse yourself in this knowledge: NO ONE CARES. That’s all I have to say in this category. No witticisms. No picture. No tolerance.

Kissing

A few months ago I blogged about the online presence of relationships and their public display of awareness. Which you can find here: http://bit.ly/c99299 Newsflash, you’re not on the cover of a gossip rag and neither is your relationship. No one cares that you’ve been photographed kissing, (the fact that our celebrity obsessed culture cares that anyone of fame and wealth is kissing, frankly frightens me, but that’s a separate issue). You’re a couple, it’s what couples do, we know. And believe me, no one is more thrilled than I am that you’ve found a life companion within this hostile world in which to exchange various diseases with, but, as a popular pop punk quintet would say, “save it for the bedroom”. And don’t leak a sex video to be passed among the local Smart phones either, because no one wants to see that. (That’s not a lyric in the song, but it really should be).

Gigs

Watching and enjoying a gig used to be the primary motives as an audience member. But as technology has soldiered on, so has our idea of a good time. I used to have my view obstructed by people’s heads and now, my vision is consistently accosted with rows of camera phones. You think you’re immortalising the moment, but what you’re going to end up with is, well arm ache, primarily. And an image that might have a silhouette of a figure, clutching what looks to be a threatening weapon, that has become an amalgamated part of them. Not to mention a ream of blurred images that resemble a child’s water painted interpretation of a rainbow.

Sabotage

Recognise her? No? Well, I do. It’s me. How refreshingly original. I’ve taken a regular word and manipulated it to fit a different context. A lewd context. I’m living proof that maturity isn’t acquired simply through age. Don’t do this. It will come back to haunt you, I guarantee it. This also goes for moronically grinning and pointing at an advertisement for a company which has the same name as you. Yes, the world exists outside of your own bubble. It’s mind boggling.