thetillyvanilly

Awkward things.

M is for Mojito

So yesterday I had my first ever cocktail! And then I had two other types of cocktail! The rest is kind of hazy… It turns out that Mojitos + Daiquiris + Piña Coladas + champagne = Drunk. Who would’ve thunk it? It has also become apparent that Alcohol + Modern technology = Next day embarrassment. What did I say? What did I do? Oh dear goodness, just kill me now.

Now I believe that when you’re drunk, you’re still you, just more so. The filter that usually shuts you up when you get the urge to call someone sexy or stupid is simply not there. You can say what you want and do what you want and it doesn’t matter! Until the morning. Then you’re in some serious trouble that’s bloody hard to back out of! That’s why people cheat, not because they suddenly lose all control over their limbs and brain, but because they want to, and they forget that consequences exist.

After looking through my phone this morning, and receiving amorous feedback from men that I was in contact with last night, it has all become clear to me. By day, I am a fairly shy person, but under the influence, I am flirty and dirty and offer to marry all and sundry. The weird thing is, that is me, the real me, the inside me that bursts out wearing fishnets and red lipstick the minute rum touches my lips. And you know what? I kind of like it; I would like it more if she left without leaving me a sink full of washing up and an army of builders inside my head, but que, sera, sera…

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Only in Dreams

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I was just wondering, is anybody actually happy with themselves? Like properly happy? I have this crazy idea that I will be happy when I’m a couple of stone lighter, or a couple of million richer, or when I become best friends with Neil Gaiman and steal his talent by osmosis. But will I? I have this habit where, right before I fall asleep, I slip into this magical fantasy world. I am beautiful and skinny, like Angelina Jolie, smoochie lips gorgeous, I am Steve Jobs-style successful, I live in a castle, for goodness sake, and it’s baby blue. This is the life that I crave and I should be happy.

It turns out that in my fantasy world, where I’m given everything I’ve ever wanted, all I do is want more. Yeah I’m pretty, but my nose should be more pixie-like, my lips should be poofier, I should have that posh girl hair that looks like you didn’t try. Do they try? I have no idea. I want a treehouse and a holiday home in Saundersfoot, (I’m not fussy, just greedy,) and even then the picture doesn’t look right to me. Yes in this new world I’m perfect, life is perfect, but I didn’t earn it. I haven’t worked for my castle, I didn’t spend hours drowning my laptop with tears to write my bestsellers. It’s all an obvious lie.

So what do I do? Should I keep dreaming up my modelesque fairy land or should I sit down, shut up and be happy with what I have? I have a lot, it’s true. I’ve had a few successes  and I’ve worked hard for them, earning every damn bottle of Bucks Fizz. I have an amazing family of friends. I have a bloody good life. But I don’t think life is about resting. I believe that you should strive for more, and use what you have to get what you want. So I’m going to be grateful for my gifts and keep swimming upstream; and with all that exercise, by the time I reach my castle I’ll definitely be bikini ready!

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The Other L Word

I like you. Why is that the hardest thing in the world to say? Even harder than I love you, well, in my opinion anyway. Because at least with the ‘L word,’ you know them enough to decide how they’ll take it, and who knows, they might be invested enough to shrug it off and pretend that you were drunk or hormonal or something. With ‘I like you,’ you’re giving all the power away. You’re like, ‘Excuse me, Mr cute, smart, funny, non-insane, possibly soul-mate potential man, what’s your opinion of me?’ That is so utterly terrifying that it’s a wonder that we didn’t all die out millennia ago.

 Life should be like speed-dating, or at least what my idea of speed-dating is, since I’ve never been, due to my crippling fear of rejection and social situations in general. You should just be able to score every person that you meet, on a would date or wouldn’t date basis, then, if you both would, you’d go out, get to know each other, fall in love and live happily ever after. Wouldn’t that be great? There’d be none of this terror, none of this paranoia, because you’d be scoring people every day. Every person you meet is a potential date. The men/women/whatever of the world wouldn’t be lost perfect partners, it would all be definite. It would all be survivable.

I think my problem is Disney. I was brought up on a diet of fairy tales (that don’t exist) and wishes (that won’t come true,) and, not having ever owned a sense of logic or perspective, I keep dreaming. It doesn’t occur to me that I’m not a princess, and so I’m still looking for a prince that never comes. Then again, I would rather wait than settle. It turns out that I’m never going to be Cinderella or Snow White, but maybe I’m just looking in the wrong books. I’m sarcastic and silly and hell-bent on true love. I could always be Elizabeth Bennet. So what do you say Mr Darcy? I like you.

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Confessions of a Procrastinator

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I have to admit something… I’m a bit of a fantasist. Now I know that’s not surprising for a writer and it’s definitely not a bad thing, but sometimes in life, I let it get the best of me. For example, because of my slender grip on reality, I like to imagine that I am a bestselling author, successful screenwriter and am bosom buddies with Neil Gaiman. This may seem harmless enough, but when reality comes along and smacks me in the face with a knuckleduster, it kind of hurts.

Admission number two… (I know, I know, it’s like the Jerry Springer show today,) I wasn’t cool in school, another thing that isn’t surprising, if you have even the slightest inkling of my Care Bears obsession and love of carbs. Being little miss lame in high school and living on another planet, I always had the ill-advised but unshakeable belief that I would shock my peers and become a billion times more successful than their tiny minds could even imagine. Turns out that reality doesn’t like me.

My third admission… I Facebook stalk the people that I hated in high school. On a happy note, their lives suck and they are pleasingly covered in baby poo. The bad news is that the people that I was indifferent towards are very bloody successful. I don’t know why I’m taking this so badly, it’s not that I dislike them and wish to see them bathed in the bodily fluids of ugly alien creatures, it’s just that I’m not successful and they are. That sucks. But while my screen is glaring at me and I’m deep into my book-signing fantasy, I try to remember that someone else’s current success doesn’t make my future success less likely, procrastination does.

On a final, admission-type note, I like videos of sloths.

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Responsibility shmonsibility

I feel out of control, completely out of control. I just want to cry and bury myself under a pile of pillows for a week; until everyone else has forgotten that I exist, and won’t put me in charge of anything ever again. I hate being tossed deadlines that I wasn’t aware of, and I hate responsibilities that aren’t mine, but are thrust on me by, (in my opinion,) people that are a lot more capable that I am. I’m just a child that lives in Fairyland half the time. I should not be trusted with important things.

I can do grown-up things, I can, it’s just that doing them puts me under a heavy weight of stress that makes me nauseous, ravenous and lots of other words that end in -us that I can’t think of right now. I am feeling a multitude of -us words at the moment, and my natural reaction, (rather than to suck it up and plan and make lists and organise like an adult would,) is to have a little rant to my computer and then congratulate myself on the fact that I actually wrote something down; not that this is the writing that I’m supposed to be doing right now, but still…

The fact is that I am not ready for this. I don’t think that I give the impression of being ready for any kind of responsibility, unless the stress-doler’s prerequisites for adulthood are talking to dogs in a baby voice and enjoying the company of bubbles and cushions shaped like cupcakes. I am very clearly wearing a neon sign that reads ‘child’ yet no-one is paying attention to it. Maybe everyone is so wrapped up in their own failure to grow up that they don’t recognise it in other people. Maybe my mum likes bubbles too…

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