thetillyvanilly

Awkward things.

All For Nothing

Today I saw my ex-boyfriend. Well, maybe saw is a strong word. Let me rephrase that. Today I walked past a guy that looked faintly familiar; who, after a few minutes, I realised was my ex. Yeah. That happened. I’d always built it up in my head to be a sort of epic battle. We would glare at each other from the corners of our eyes and cross the street to avoid the rays of hatred emanating from the other’s skin. Ok, maybe epic is the wrong word to use, but it would be uncomfortable at least. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not disappointed. For someone so ‘spirited,’ I actually hate confrontation. It was just, I don’t know, weird.

He didn’t even look like him. He was himself wearing a really dodgy disguise. Now, I don’t wanna get embroiled in attacking evil exes. I’ve had my bitch fit, I’m over it. It just made me think. We’re all changing, all the time, and I know that’s pretty obvious, but I don’t think about it an awful lot. I’m not who I was yesterday, I never will be again. No-one is. So how can I hate someone or fear someone that I don’t even know anymore? The people in my past have no power over me now. It’s over. It’s done. I can’t even be scared of an imaginary Mexican standoff, complete with tumbleweed and huddling townsfolk, because I’ve seen the truth and it’s rather lame.

I wasted a lot of time worrying about nothing. Isn’t that always the way? You spend your whole life worrying about getting hit by a bus; then you fall down an open man hole and get eaten by alligators instead. Life is unpredictable and a bit mad, but it’s gonna be like that whether you worry or not. I don’t have to live in the past, so I’m not going to. I’m pretty damn lucky to have the amazing people I have in my life, and I’m going to spend my time appreciating them. Oh, and just because my ex-meet was a drive-by, that doesn’t mean that the first thing I did when I got indoors wasn’t look in the mirror. I won that battle. *Blows smoke from gun*

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A Rose By Any Other Name

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I have an overactive imagination. Like really. That or I’m straddling two worlds, this one and the land of Faerie. I’ve seen a unicorn. I have. Seriously I have. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that my whole life, I’ve been pretending to be somebody else, anyone that took my fancy at the time. When I was in primary school, I decided that I wanted to be called Apple Bell. Yeah, I bet you can guess that that one followed me to high school and back. I got laughed out of my English class when the memories resurfaced. I still think it’s a pretty cool name though. So you can see, I have imagination issues, and in general the world has been happy to hold me down and medicate me with reality. Until now.

Now, instead of forcing me to leave my childhood behind, Starbucks keep enabling me.  They ask me my name every time I go in. It’s like a dare. The past few times I’ve been honest; I have to look them in the eye after all. But yesterday I got cocky. My name? Yes Miss Starbucks lady, go ahead; ask me my name if you dare. Mwahaha! And then I said it. Tilly went out the window and instead I became Pixie, sprinkler of awesome. I was short, skinny, with a button nose and those slightly buck teeth that still manage to look pretty. I wore short dresses without looking slutty. Alright, I was Zooey Deschanel.

For that moment, I felt awesome, like I had robbed a bank and gotten away with it, except something less illegal and wrong; I mean, think of all those people investing their money in that bank. I stole THEIR money. Then it hit me; I wasn’t Zooey Deschanel, I was a big, fat liar, and my pants were, most definitely, on fire. I was a fraud, and they knew it. I could tell by the way they looked at me, like ‘Uh huh, whatever, *Pixie*, we’ve got your number sweetheart. And that was my name ninja-ing career over. The next time I go to Starbucks, I’m going to tell them my name, and I’m going to do it with a smile, because I may not be a Pixie, but I am a Tilly, and that is good enough for my coffee cup.

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Just a Scratch

I taste your smile right through your kiss.
Who needs to breathe with lives like this?
The night burns bright like opium,
I take a hit, I load the gun.
You show the world on shutter reels,
Hello sounds like a long goodbye,
Kick so low I know how gutters feel,
You feed me tears, I ache to cry.
How can I drift to dreamless sleep?
You burst like ice right through my veins.
You run but I’m not letting go.
You flicked the switch, so you’re to blame.

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Your Sense of Humour is Broken…

Yesterday someone responded to a request on my friend’s Facebook wall for dirty jokes. He took the term ‘dirty’ to mean offensive, hurtful and cruel, and ‘joke’ to mean a stab at people in vulnerable states of distress. My friend therefore was gifted a pretty shitty pun about mastectomy patients and bin bags. Not cool. I dunno about you, but since my mother is currently receiving breast cancer treatment, it kinda punched me in the gut, and I’ve been reeling ever since. I’ve also been wondering why. What did that guy get out of his joke? It wasn’t even funny, just biting; it hurt. Is that funny to him? To hurt people? I don’t plan on asking him, because he’s just the type of guy to start a flame fight, and I believe in making a nice cup of chamomile, not war.

I blame Frankie Boyle. For those of you lucky enough to have no knowledge of this creature, Frankie is a Scottish ‘comedian’ who makes his money from kicking people when they’re down. His recent victims have been disabled children, people with Down’s syndrome and the Queen. It’s like he picks anyone that can’t or won’t fight back and smashes them in the face with a handbag built of bitterness and hatred. I don’t see him making jokes about bodybuilders and Al-Queda, but I sure wish he would. At least then, he’d be on even ground. I’m not saying that people shouldn’t make non-PC or even offensive jokes, I’m just saying that maybe it would be a cool idea to use your brain once in a while, wonder if anyone might be hurt by it and rethink. I know Frankie’s argument is that people can say whatever they want about him, but we’re not all built of sturdy, Scottish stuff.

It’s not funny to make someone helpless the butt of your rubbish joke. It is funny, on the other hand, to make yourself the butt of your own joke. Michael McIntyre, Omid Djalili, Eddie Izzard and Russell Howard are just a handful of awesome comedians that take the piss out of themselves, and it’s funny because they’re just like us, and we can see ourselves in their jokes. So if someone asks you to tell them a dirty joke, don’t start on the cancer patients and starving African children, because what they really want is what they’ve asked for: A dirty joke. They want nuns and vicars, doctors and nurses, peanut butter and jam; they do not want an idiot with a grenade targeting a cancer ward, and that is what he was.

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Kamikaze

love hurts sometimes - love-hurts-lh Photo

You’re a wasp nest caked in glitter,

A poisoned slice of pie,

You taste so God damn bitter,

But you’re such a pretty lie.

You smile as though there’s something

On the inside looking out,

But now I know there’s nothing,

Cause I know what you’re about.

You slit their wrists with kisses,

You drown them with your words,

You let them know what bliss is

Then you kill those little girls.

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The Picture of Samantha Brick

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It’s official. We womenfolk are all ugly, fat and freaking jealous, because we have the misfortune to share the planet with Helen of Troy, I mean, Samantha Brick, the loveliest creature you will ever see in your life; more beautiful than a unicorn frolicking in a forest, thinner than a Victoria’s Secret model on a juice fast, and more likely to make you jealous than Michael Fassbender’s girlfriend having just acquired a basket of puppies and a lifetime supply of Nandos. Yes this is sarcasm, no that doesn’t make Samantha Brick any less of a pain in the arse.

For any of you living under an actual brick, Samantha first entered public consciousness by writing an article for The Daily Mail, complaining that we hate her for being beautiful. Incidentally, she’s alright looking, I mean, she’s hardly Megan Fox, but she’s not hideous. However, the audacity and vanity that she continues to spew at the world have brought her fame, notoriety and death threats. According to Wikipedia, which we all know is the Mecca of knowledge, “The article got 1.5 million hits on the newspaper’s website and nearly 5,000 readers left comments, many of which were negative.” So you can kinda see why The Daily Mail keep her stuff coming, and why she keeps churning out the same, vapid shit. This week, she’s hit the news again, insisting that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, and we’re all fatty fat fats if we disagree. Oh yeah, and Joan Collins hates us too. Burn.

The Daily Mail, as all British people know, is a racist, homophobic, xenophobic, young people-phobic, future-phobic, every type of food because it causes cancer-phobic, misogynistic piece of trash that’s barely worthy as toilet paper. However, if you like that sort of thing, it’s a jolly good read. I personally think they’re trolling, morphing Samantha into some sort of Marvel super villain, ‘The Brick’, (she makes your blood boil with a single paragraph of stupidity, bringing us closer to the end of the world.) What we need is a hero to save the day, the antithesis of Mrs Brick, someone humble, fat and fugly to save the day. I can’t think of anyone that fits the bill, but maybe they’re laying low in their secret lair, putting the finishing touches on their modesty cape or whatever. I bet Samantha Brick is quaking in her super sexy boots, but hey, maybe I’m just jealous.

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Summer Skin

Today this blinding ball of fire appeared in the sky and everyone FREAKED OUT. We were almost convinced that the sun would never re-appear and that the world would be plunged into another ice age. We would have to survive on (non-yellow) snow, icicles and acorns stolen from saber-toothed squirrels. Ok, that might have just been me, but we all got pretty comfortable with snow, jumpers and not going outside. Then this happened and people went crazy. Sunglasses were donned, hoodies were casually wrapped around waists and I saw someone wearing flip-flops. Flip-flops! Lemme tell you, things get pretty wild in the UK when the sun shines, and that, for me, is a big problem.

Summer fashions are designed around the prototypes of Victoria’s Secret models and David Beckham. No-one that lives in the real world and has ever even snorted the scent of a French fry should don these clothes. Mere mortals cannot pull off Daisy Dukes. They just can’t, ok? And I might be a fashion Nazi or whatever, but I just want to be happy and I want other people to be happy. Does it make you happy when your butt waves to the world? Do you smile through the pain of bikini season? Or do you dip your body underwater and refuse to come out of the pool until someone says the magic word: Barbeque. Sarongs exist, and that is a blessing, but so do skinny girls with absurdly big boobs. I know, I’ve seen them.

You should love your body, but that doesn’t mean that you should wear the same clothes as Megan Fox. I like my face, but I’m not gonna wear blue eye shadow ’cause it makes me look like an Eastern European prostitute. In a bikini, I’d look like a hippo out on the pull. I do not suit those things. Instead I shall stay inside in my poncho and glare at the light lapping at the ground, because it is not my friend and I want it to leave me alone. Now. As for you, stupidly hot girls that have fallen out of the pages of catalogues into real life, I have my eye on you, and come rainy season, I shall watch you melt from under the comfort of my umbrella. Bitter, moi? Of course.

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Beauty and the Bald Patch

Let’s talk about Price Charming. We women are a curious lot, aren’t we? We go on and on about intelligence and sense of humour, but I bet you, the minute I mention Mr. Right, a vision of him pops into your head. Not a brief list of attributes that create a jolly nice person, but an image. Is he tall? What colour is his hair? How big are his feet, and other, ahem, body parts? I bet you could do an FBI profile on him if I asked you to. According to the Washington Post, when looking for love, the most important thing is personality, with a whopping… 30%. Looks come second with 23% of people actually being honest.

So why are we all so beauty mad? It would be reasonable and convenient to blame the media. Disney movies, fashion magazines, Jane Austen novels and Ryan Gosling all add up to one big melting pot of sexy. You would have to be facing the other way to not get seduced by the idea that you can have your very own Romeo, complete with floppy fringe and spirit level teeth, for just the price of being in the right place at the right time. But isn’t it all a bit, I don’t know, shallow? Why should we expect men to be perfectly groomed and too good for the GAP when all we wanna do is slouch around in our onesies, sporting dubious stains down the front and a hole in the crotch? Or is that just me?

I’m not talking about dropping all of your standards and plumping for Mr. Average. Average is after all, in my opinion, a synonym for boring. What I am saying is maybe give the bald spot guy a chance, and the one with the teeth and even the one with the dainty feet, (I can verify that the foot thing is so mythological it’s not even funny.) No-one is perfect, and our imperfections are what make us awesome, or at least interesting. I can promise you that your Mr. Right is out there, possibly rocking a mullet or crocs, (which you should sort out as soon as you find him.) He exists, he’s just undercover. After all, princes come in frog form too.

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398.2

They used to call me cynical
But now they call me crazy.
Life isn’t getting longer,
But it sure is getting hazy.
It’s blurring into rainbows,
And my shades are slipping down.
The light of you can burn my eyes
But all you do is frown.
You can’t see your own sunshine,
You’ve buried yourself blind,
You’ve lost the touch of truth because
Untruths can be unkind.
But I believe in magic,
Dreams can and will come true.
I believe in love at last
And I believe in you.

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Forever is Composed of Nows

“You’ll never again be as young as you are right now.” I try to remember that, to live in the moment. But sometimes, the moment gets so heated and quick and heavy, that all my intentions flutter away like butterflies, and I’m left with the past and the future, yelling at me, louder and louder, each adamant that they must be heard. The past is a snot-nosed brat, making snide remarks about how no-one liked me in high school and how I’ll always be fat and plain, no matter how hard I try to change it. The future is a rumpled old hag, tending to agree; she wags her finger and screeches that I’ll never be anyone, never do anything worthwhile, that my dreams will keep two steps out of reach because I’m just not good enough.

How hard is it to just live in the now and to be content with what we have? Pretty bloody hard in my opinion. We’re given histories that stick; they’re the cement that the bricks of our lives are laid on. They’re always there to whisper vicious memories into our ears, desperate to see us stay the same losers that we’ve always been. Then there are our foggy, distant futures that speed past us like trains, hell bent on not stopping for anything. It’s all against us but the present. The present is our friend, bobbing along like a boat on a pond. It’s not going anywhere, it’s a lovely view, but if you’re desperately seeking the train, or stuck inside the house, you’re not gonna enjoy the frogs or the fish.

I guess what I’m saying with all this metaphorical nonsense, is that I need to slow down and calm down and pay attention to the now. I’m so busy hurtling forwards whilst glancing over my shoulder that I’m in danger of tripping and falling. I want to live my whole life, not just snatches of it caught on film. I want to be able to enjoy everything rather than glancing at photographs when I’m eighty and cursing my lack of gratitude. Eighty year-old me will remember the way the sun shines on the river, and the feel of my favourite blanket against my skin as I fall asleep, and even the smell of my dogs when it’s raining. So from now on I will appreciate it all, with eyes wide open, in my boat on the pond.

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