My bluntiversary.

I've not always been the stand up and shout kinda girl. Sitting on the fence for so long gives you all kinds of splinters in all the wrong places though. 

It's difficult to changes habits of a lifetime. I'm a serial over thinker, a wisher, optimist and dreadfully loyal. None of this is bad, but it's doormat material. 

I'm nearly twenty- one now, and I'm starting to reach a point in my life where the quantities of fucks I can give is ever decreasing, and I have to ration them out where I see fit. It's not that I have a high esteem of myself: but someone has to give a shit. 

I've found a whole heap of new confidence. I'm not sure if it was lurking in the fucking hench Monster Starbucks I had a few months ago, and some shitty inspirational quote got me quick started, but I found some lady balls. It's not bolshy, or bitchy. I often repelled people with admirable razor sharp bluntness, but  I'm finding my flair. 

So, recently, adapting to this new approach has been tough. People struggle to get onboard with the plan, and those that fall behind get left behind. 

Firstly, I've realised I need to get my crap together- become independent, become responsible, be respectful, be resourceful and accountable for my actions. It's all very well looking at others for the cause of an issue, but I've always had a voice, I just chose not to use it.  Age is a number, and although I'm out of my teens, I've only recently began to grown up. From the simple stuff, like looking after my body... salads and vitamins and moisturising after all this shit you think looks after itself. Money- having a job and  not relying on the good ol' bank of Ma & Pa. Even if it's stacking shelves: I'm really not proud. 

And then the tougher ones... The ones that involve other people. The relationships, the friendships, the family. I have an ever decreasing circle, it would often seem. I'm pissing a few people off because the sucking up and pleasing I used to pride myself with providing is actaully replaced with honesty. Those who stick around are the ones who never abuse loyalty. This is a lesson I will not forget with haste. 

Life is too short for prancing around the bush. I'm really looking forward to seeing where this takes me. 

A thought.

It's not unhealthy to have regrets. I think we often get so pent up with having to appear strong and together that we don't allow ourselves to learn from our hurt, and continue on in the comfort blanket of our repetitive destructive path.

Life is a series of choices: everyone knows this. Invariably, we make ill-informed choices, creating a domino effect. Sometimes, these choices have a way of working themselves out for the best. Unfortunately, we can't have our cake and eat it. There's no restart, respawn or replay. Hindsight is indeed a wonderful thing. 

We are we insistent on not being vulnerable? This mechanism we've evolved that ultimately means we can't admit defeat, or call out our poor choices: because to do so emulates weakness. 

It isn't weak admit defeat. We have to make choices. That doesn't mean you can't immediately make a new one. Cry, wholeheartedly. Respect yourself. Love again. 

Lost in (google) Translation.

I keep finding myself at 1am sobbing into a pack of Minstrels at the sheer sight of Scarlett Johansson looking longingly at Bill Murray.
This isn't a bizarre scenario, and for those who haven't watch it, get educated. Lost in Translation struck a chord, and it's the first film, potentially ever, that I 'got'.

She stares into the abyss of Tokyo from her high rise apartment that she shares with the ghost of a husband. She's young, she's educated. She's lost. She's fucked.

Charlotte isn't a damsel, but she's a prisoner of her own heart. She can't find her place in the world, and she's living the dream of her husband. She married young, settled before her time. She's surrounded by a world of opportunity, none of them for her.

I find myself crying. I'm nearly 21; Charlotte herself no older than 25. We haven't a thing in common: I'm not Scarlett Johansson for a start, with her lips to die for, and husky voice. Yet I feel every tear, every fear, every thought. In a world of endless prospect, I'm struggling to look further than my nose.
I think panic of potential inevitability scare me the most. I love dearly, and deeply. I'd follow, not only because of a fear of loneliness, but the wish to help a SO in their endeavour. I know, that, if asked, I'd put my life on hold. Because like Charlotte, she's doesn't know what she wants to be. She writes, but hates every single word. She takes pictures, mediocre at best.

Even thirteen years on, in the height of technology we experience, we're so lost in the Facebook timeline and Twitter feeds of others, like Charlotte is lost in the miscommunication of Tokyo. I get pangs of jealously when I see others acting upon the repressed wanderlust we all have. I'd do it myself, but I convince myself otherwise. I haven't the time. I'm not brave enough. I'd miss my boyfriend, my friends, my life too much.  All this, I tell myself.

Do we really have a place? Does everyone have a vocation, an impact to make? Do we teach ourselves this extroverted individualism to delude ourselves of purpose?

I'll guess I'll find out.

Things that I don't really understand and why that's kinda maybe okay.

Note: This is a draft of something I was meant to post last year. I had a little giggle at how, I could have, by this point, learnt something. Spoiler: I haven't.

Perhaps ignorance isn't bliss, but I certainly live in my own bubble for the majority of time. The recent reports on the Syrian crisis have left me wholly underwhelmed, because my grasp on current affairs is a kin to the lack of understanding I have around the joy of calorie counting, or why a spin class would be an enjoyable experience.

It isn't a trait I find attractive about myself, or indeed something I am proud of, but politics and economics just don't sit right amongst the glitter, cat memes and music lyrics stored in my grey matter. 

I don't believe it makes me any less intelligent; just because I can't muster a controversial or well- thought out opinion on the current state of the government doesn't mean my IQ is down in the negatives. Instead, I'd rather not make a massive tit of myself by pretending to know what the hell the 'Miranda' scandal is (I only looked at the hashtag on twitter because I thought it would be something to do with the highly acclaimed BBC comedy series). I understand how basic government works, explained to me by a rather patient friend over tea and biscuits one afternoon, when we should have been revising, and I understand why people might find certain political workings flawed. I've read 1984, I've watched V for Vendetta. I get the extremities of dystopian notions- and the undercurrents they were based upon. I understand and comprehend the unfortunate 20th century history. I know why people care, and why people fight and speak out against the way the government sometimes works. 

I do not lack aspiration, it's not simply the small town girl in me trying to continue life that way- I'm not satisfied by the possibility of living life revolving around going back to my hometown and working the 9-5. But I also live a happy little life.
I hear you cry "If you don't care- who will?". That's true. It's not a lack of caring. I just think that a lot of journalism these days is sensationalized, and depressing. We are barely exposed to the positivity of human life. We're almost immune to disaster and scandal because we're consumed by it. In school, we're taught how to find x from y, why 'i' comes before 'e' and the importance of a semi-colon. We're cotton balled from the real world of politics.

I don't blame my ignorance on anyone but myself, but I think journalism needs to be more accessible, and varied. I love sites like UpWorthy and BuzzFeed, because the way they speak to me aren't patronizing and assuming. There is a generation, like myself, who care less and less about issues which, thirty years ago would have halted everything, because we're expected to have former knowledge. Of course it's kind of easy to find it all for yourself, but by the time you understand a small history of North Korea, it's already old news.

Is it just me? Shall I shush back down in the corner with my videos of kittens? Perhaps.

I'm back... again

I have more revivals than a bad nineties pop band (Steps, I'm looking at you) but I need to get back to business on this writing malarky.

I'd really like to say that my absence is through a mighty combination of finding a cure for cancer, excelling in every piece of work thrown at me, learning to bake and being a top class woman but we all know that not to be true. I've spent the first two months of being twenty like a hermit, through no fault of my own.

It's going to be a massive shock, but I barely touch wine. My half a bottle glass is like some distant family heirloom, somewhat mythical. My hand misses it dearly. When I say 'barely touch', it's a comparison to the affliction we once shared- an intimate thrice weekly visit, often ending in headache and regret. It's now fortnightly, if at all.

I'm not complaining. I'm on cloud nine, I'm extremely happy. I just have so much spare time, but not enough time. Does that make sense? I literally struggle to work out where the week has gone. Is this the first sign of adulthood? Losing fucking time? Are we rationed it? I've just looked at the clock and I've been on my own for three hours. In that time, I've eaten a bar of chocolate, drank a cider and perfected my Spotify playlist.

God knows.

I'm back.

Something very strange happened three months ago. 

Thousands believed it wouldn’t happen.

 People in the street gasped when they heard the news.

I found myself in a relationship. A proper, grown up relationship.

My Mum nearly spat her tea out when she found out, but regained her composure to begin what can only be described as the Spanish Inquisition. “Well darling, we do have to ask… are they male or female?” was a particular highlight. To clarify, I am dating a man, which I think shocked people more than the fact I was actually in a relationship. 

I’d like to comment on my father’s reaction, but it sort of slipped my mind to mention it to him, for fear he’d post pictures of me from younger years, arse hanging out, looking rough, with spaghetti on my face. Not unlike present day I hear you say! Smart arses. When he eventually found out, he asked which agency I’d used, and if my boyfriend had a white stick. Cheers Dad.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that the impossible sometimes happen. I’ve managed to find someone who actually likes me for what I am. And lord knows that’s a difficult feat. He’s aware of my love for cats (read: obsession), he accepts that a drink of wine constitutes a bottle, that I can’t spend more than an hour out of my PJs and, occasionally, he even finds me funny. What more could I ask for? I’m blessed.

I’m not a mushy lovey wuuvy type: I tend to shy away from public displays of affection and shouting things from the top of buildings. But I find myself increasingly mellower- I like spending prolonged periods of time with another human being, and I’ll pass up a boozy night in Oceana to watch a film or something. And I’m kinda okay with it.

However, fear not. My new year’s resolution is to get this blog back up and running to its beautiful former glory. I know that my lonely singledom kind of made it, but I’m still as woefully tragic. I’ve sat here writing this eating three Wagon Wheels, listening to Whitney Houston perfecting my cat miaow.

Keep checking back for posts.

Samm.