Awkward things.

6 Reasons Why Rebel Wilson Should Be My BFF

 I love, love, LOVE Rebel Wilson, in a totally non-creepy way of course. I just think that she’s super amazing and funny and should totally be my BFF, before the creepiness sets in and I find out where she lives and quote her movies at shadows that pass by the windows. Here’s why:

  • Two words: Fat Amy

Ohmygosh! Fat Amy is who I wish I was; out and proud with her big, beautiful self, with the boys all over her like flying Mexican food. Fat Amy has all the best lines, and why is that? Because Rebel rocks. She’s an epic improviser and brings her own brand of mad awesome to every film she does, including THAT crystal meth line. Yeah. She went there.

  • Her family sounds Ah-mazing!

Her siblings are named: Liberty, Ryot and Annachi. No joke. Those are their actual super freaking cool names. I kinda wish that I turn out to be her long lost sister, who was stolen away by ninjas, and my actual name is Revolution or Freedom or something. That could totally happen.

  • The fantabulousness that is Bridesmaids

Did you know that the role of the strange, diary-reading, infected tattoo-getting roommate was created for Rebel? How cool? She originally tried out for the role of Megan and was too young, but the amazing Kristen Wiig made a whole new role just for her. And, AND! Because of that movie, Rebel and Matt Lucas are now roommates. Yep, my brain exploded with awesome too.

  • Body acceptance

Ok, so Rebel may not be totally at peace with her own sexiness; she used to be a Jenny Craig spokesperson and has said that she wants to lose weight. But just having her there, on our screens has shown young girls, (and me) that it’s ok to be heavier and it’s ok to talk about it. Sometimes it feels as if larger ladies don’t exist in Hollywood, then someone like Rebel comes along, rips off her clothes and declares their hotness. Now THAT is a role model.

  • The 2013 MTV movie awards

Rebel was a robotic, singing, exercising bondage QUEEN. And she was on fiyah! Ok, I don’t even really know what was going on, but I know that it was awesome, and that’s enough for me.

  • Every interview that she has ever done or will do

Someone NEEDS to make a movie of Rebel’s life, because it is EPIC. Her parents were professional dog showers, she has a rap alter-ego called Rebelicious, and she’s just pure hilarity. Bonus points: She loves Bring it On. Anyone that can quote that movie like I can, has a special, fuzzy place in my heart. Spirit fingers!

So yeah. I love her, like proper love her. We will be BFFs forever and never fall out over a boy unless it’s Christian Slater and he has vegan Oreo cupcakes. Then it’s ON. 


7 Reasons Why I Belong In An Eighties Movie

Ah the eighties, an era when everything was big and neon, teenage weirdos were THE people to be and I wasn’t even born yet. But that doesn’t stop me wanting to be part of it all. Every time I watch an 80s movie, I want to jump through the screen and say, “Hey! Molly Ringwald! I’ve remembered your birthday, and I bought you this awesome, lime green scrunchie, please be my friend.” This might sound bizarre to anyone born long after shoulder pads were made illegal, so this list is for you, my I-can’t-believe-you’re-driving-a-car-you-were-born-in-the-nineties-aren’t-you-like-twelve friends…

  • Christian Slater.

That’s really all I have to say, but for the sake of bloggeristic integrity, I’m going to add the word eyebrows. Seriously Christian Slater, I will do anything you say. I have no idea why Winona said no to blowing up the school, when clearly the answer was YES! I mean, eyebrows, come on.

  • Terrible, horrible, AWESOME fashion.

How in the world did they get away with it? Scrunchies, leggings, shoulder pads, leg warmers, neon, I mean, if you donned all this today, you’d be shown an intervention sign faster than you could say ‘Heathers’.  Still, I want to live in that world. I want it all, even though it’s bad for me and will make me set fire to photo albums. I want to crimp my hair and look fabulous for all of five seconds, and think I look like Princess Diana when actually I look like a colour-blind man disguised as a poodle, but a really, REALLY cool one.

  • Unlikely friendships.

If I lived in an eighties movie, I wouldn’t have had a terrible time in high school. Well, I would, for a while, until I decided to kill myself with a sparkler or something and got caught by the incompetent teachers that roamed the halls. Then it would all change. Illegal substances and detention would bring criminals and princesses and weird ol’ me together, and we would all live happily ever after, punching the air until it begged for mercy, because everyone hates their parents.

  • Science was AWESOME.

In the past they knew all about the future, oh yes. There would be made to measure women and time travel and all sorts of super cool things that NEVER HAPPENED. What the actual?! We are letting the eighties down with our lack of awesomeness. Where is that flux capacitor I ordered? Um, not here yet. I would be annoyed at my lack of computer-generated man, but I have Christian Slater, so it’s all good. Apart from the time travel. Get on it scientists!

  • The lingo.

“How Very.” How is it that even speaking is cooler and way more awesome in 80s movies? Every time someone opens their mouth – BAM! Why yes I am super smart and witty, thank you for noticing. Even the Heathers and the Mr Vernons are a zillion times more likeable because of the gold that falls out of their mouths.

  • Weirdos were celebrated.

In what other decade could Beetlejuice exist? Every time I watch it, I seriously can’t believe that anyone but freaks and geeks could, you know, get it. Actually, I think that about all Tim Burton movies, but this one in particular. I mean, it’s about a creepy, pervy, drunken ghost. How can that possibly appeal to ‘normal’ people? I have no idea, but I’m glad, because now we can bond over more than a mutual hatred of grown-ups. Alive people also suck. Except Winona Ryder, she can stay.

  • The tunes.

I wanna groove to the Beatles on a carnival float. I want Simple Minds to sing to me as I bound off into the sunset. The music! And day-um they could dance! Check out Anthony Michael Hall! Watch his little feet go. I’m sure if I was in the brat pack, my two left feet would be eightiesified and I’d be able to twist along with the best of them. And shaking your dandruffy hair all over the library? Cool as.

So yeah. I’m a bit late to the party, but I’m wearing leg warmers and carrying a boom box. This is me pledging my love to the decade that told me that anything is possible, as long as you don’t water the Gremlins.

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I Met My Hero

Yesterday I met Neil Gaiman, Mr Scary Trousers himself. I met him and it was the most amazing moment of my life. I hadn’t anticipated it would be. I’d heard good things; he was nice, very nice. That was Neil, the ‘n’ word was reserved and preferred for his crazy-haired self. But really, how nice can someone be without being fictional? People are people, they have emotions and shortcomings. People can be stupid and malicious and angry, even when that’s not who they really are. People fail big time, just by being alive. So I was scared, scared that this vision of loveliness that the internet had concocted would be as fantastical as his stories.

And guess what? He was nice. He was so, sooo nice. The word nice has new meaning now, all because I have met him and known what nice actually means. It is the feeling you get when you are alone, in front of the fire, with a well-worn friend of a book. It is that moment, where everything is right with the world, everyone you love knows that you do, and you could die and it would be just fine. Nice is comfort and fate and magic, all in one little, misunderstood word. I am not exaggerating when I say that he is nice.

Neil gives free hugs, he’s easy with his squiggles and he makes you laugh without meaning to; you can see in his eyes an awkward, accidental gleam of ‘yay’, like he’s surprised himself with his own genius. He says everything that I wish I could say, with the eloquence I never bothered wishing for because it seemed impossible. He likes people, all of them, even the villains, who he doesn’t see as such. When he looks at you, he sees you like he knows you, as if living in so many worlds and so many minds has given him a skeleton key to us all.

If you’ve ever seen or heard or read Neil’s ‘Make Good Art’ speech, you will know the power that man has to reach inside you and tug at your inspiration strings; he lights tinder that engulfs the world in flames and fairy dust; he sets procrastinators to work. Because of Neil, good art exists where before there was none. Pictures, poems, paintings and plays, stories, movies, books and songs have emerged, by magic, by him. He, to me, is the most wonderful person in the world, because he sets the dominos clattering down. The beautiful thing is that he would deny this, all of it. He is just a man, a man with an imagination, a pen and rebellious hair, a man that changed my world. And yes, I cried. 


6 Reasons Why Books Are Better Than Real Life

I don’t just love books, I live in them. The moment I get a fresh one, I run my hands over the cover, feeling the silky newness, and then I dip my nose inside and sniff. Books are worlds made of paper, adventures carved of ink, lives lived through the eyes, and they’re a damn sight better than real life. Ok, I can hear you laughing; I can see that snide smile. So let me explain why books rule, avec bullet points to prove it…

  • The sexiest men you will never meet.

The first, most important reason is also the most shallow. In real life, men are as human as we are. They burp, they fart, they pick their noses, they call us fat whilst mistakenly thinking that they have done nothing of the sort. In short, real men have faults, and faults are not sexy. In books, you can let your imagination do all the work, building them up to be demi-gods with furrowed brows and fat wallets. Fictional men don’t even go to the toilet! If they do something unsexy, hey, you can just skip that paragraph, and go straight to the part where he calls you, I mean her, the most beautiful woman in the world. I’m allowed to perve at Mr. Darcy and Angel Clare all I want, without being slapped with restraining orders like in real life, and there’s nothing that Lizzy or Tess can do about it.

  • One word: Bed.

If you’re anything like me, your favourite thing is lolling in bed, snuggled up in a onesie, hot chocolate by your side, book in your hands, head in the clouds. Ok, you might not do that exact same thing, but I’m sure you agree that being in a warm, cosy bed is a lot more like happy than being in a thunderstorm, or in the midst of childbirth, or worse, in work. Real life requires you to participate, to move your legs, to pay attention to what’s going on around you, lest you get hit by a bus or eaten by a bear. Books are friends that ask you over for a cuppa and tell you all the gossip without having to be prodded. Books care about you and want you to be warm.

  • Attention deficit look! A bunny!

Ok, I am not the most attentive of people. If you’re talking to me and it’s boring, I’m off on grand quests in my head. FYI, my definition of boring is anything that doesn’t involve llamas, Neil Gaiman, Care Bears, sloths, or me. Even if it does involve me, I’ve probably heard it before anyway, so I’m off. Books don’t talk at you and expect you to listen; they lovingly welcome you to flick through their pages. Sure, have a go at chronology, but don’t feel bad if your eyes flutter a bit. If I’m reading Anne Rice and she gets a bit too into her description, I can just turn a few pages and Bam! I’m back in the game. If only real life were so easy. If work gets tedious, I can’t just fast forward to dinner. We’ve all seen Click, and however terrible it was, it scared me into living.

  • Getting wet

I don’t care how old you are or how much cement is caked around your heart, you will not be able to read The Silver Linings Playbook without convulsing into fits of sadness. Books exist to make us feel. I don’t know how many times I’ve soaked a paperback with my own salty depression, much more than I’ve dropped them in the bath anyway, and that’s saying something for me. Reading allows us to let out all the sorrow inside ourselves in a safe environment. “Why are you crying?” “Snape just died.” “Fair enough.” It makes sense to cry over tragedy in books, whereas in real life, crying over a red number at the cash point, or your crush hanging on someone else’s arm will just make you seem, well, pretty sad. Fiction lets us go undercover, allowing us to pour it all out under the guise of a death scene. And if it gets too much? Just stop reading.

  • We don’t need no education

Everything I learned about life was taught to me by Enid Blyton. That probably explains my love of dogs and strange way of speaking, but it also explains my good old fashioned sense of right and wrong. I followed the Five Find Outers and a dog as they got into scrapes and saved the day, I climbed up the Faraway Tree after Moon-face, Silky and Saucepan man, and I had macaroons at midnight in Malory Towers. I did all this and I learned lessons along the way, just as they did. I didn’t have to come from the City of Turmoil in order to never go back. I read the stories and I got the gist. Books let you see all the terrible stuff that can happen to you if you’re not a good boy or girl. They tell you to go through not around, to dust under things, not just on top, and to always, always tell the truth. Got that Pinocchio?

  • Getting away with murder

Readers are voyeurs. We are watchers, detectives, nosy parkers. We get all up in other people’s grills and they don’t even know about it. Mwahaha! When, in real life, do you get to read someone’s diary, guilt free, or watch someone having sex in a non-creepy way? Ok, I don’t know what you’re into, or what sort of clubs exist out there, (see my Blyton-esque moral code,) but I know that for me, books are the best way to release my inner curtain twitcher, without any repercussions. Plus, I’d have to be some sort of mind-reader to know enough about strangers in real life to keep me satisfied. I’m not a mind reader, I am a book reader.

I think that what we can gather from this list, is that I am a lazy pervert with ADHD. Maybe all bibliophiles are, I don’t know. I would do a survey, only I just got to this bit in my book, and I can’t put it down, so until I get to the adjective overdose I’m gonna trade life for fiction, because it’s better that way.


The Smiley, Cheery, Shiny Theory

Sometimes I get sad, but then I stop being sad and be awesome instead. Happiness is a choice, a bloody hard choice, I’ll give you that, but it’s there all the time, ready and waiting for you to pick it up and say “I choose you Pikachu.” I’ve been thinking about this lately, about how moods are fickle, tricksy hobbitses, about how they thunder off like slippery snowballs sometimes, and about how the end of the world can happen Every. Single. Day. If you let it. One bitchy comment can send me spiraling into the gloom world and it’s so hard to climb back up for air, but it’s doable. NB: I am not talking about depression. Depression is a mood disorder that is not like simple sadness in any way. I am not advocating rainbows and butterflies to cure mental illnesses AT ALL. K? Alrighty then…

For something so super crappy, you’d think that misery wouldn’t be popular, but it is. Absolutely everyone is doing the grumpy cat right now. And why is that? Because it’s easy. Life is hard, people can be mean and the weather is unpredictable. This is like the superformula for sadness. But what not many people know is that there is a variable, and that variable is stubbornness. If your life sucks, all your friends hate you, you’ve gained two-hundred pounds and you’ve just lost your job because your boss is a Cacomorphobe, then you can get through it by sheer pig-headedness. You can, I’ve done it. I’m the sort of person that is no good at any kind of activity until you make it a competition, and life, my friends, is a competition.

Smile because it pisses people off. Smile because it makes your face prettier. Smile because you’ve just had your teeth whitened and you wanna get your money’s worth. It doesn’t matter. As long as you are smiling, you are winning at life and happiness is your prize. Brains are funny old things and it has been shown that if you smile, you can trick your mind into thinking that you’re happy; how cool is that? And here’s another secret: You deserve happiness. How do I know? I just do. Everyone deserves happiness. I have a theory that if Hitler had just cheered the eff up, nothing bad would have happened ever. Bear in mind that I’m not a historian or a scientist or any kind of Hitler expert, but that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

My favourite book in the whole world is The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch; I pimp it out to everyone and you are no exception, so go read it right now, or watch The Last Lecture on youtube. Basically, Randy was a super amazing guy that knew what a gift life is. He was dying of cancer and yet he found the time, the inclination and the awesome to teach the world about happiness and dreams. Even tumours couldn’t smack the smile off his face. That’s what I try to remember every time I’m having my dumb idea of a bad day. Everything is awesome if you stop and look at the best bits. When you’re frowning or crying or whacking walls and imagining they’re people, you’re missing rainbows and puppies and bookshops. Your favourite song is on the radio, the ice-cream man’s outside, that cute boy is giving you sidelong glances and YOU’RE MISSING IT! So stop and smile and be happy because you deserve it, and if you can, you should.

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You Are Awesome!

ImageI read the other day that a quarter of British people never, (as in EVER) feel good about themselves. Now that is sad, not sad as in pathetic, but sad as in I’m-not-even-gonna-pretend-there’s-something-in-my-eye-I’m-actually-tearing-up-right-here sad. You don’t like yourself? Why not? You’re awesome. I don’t even know you and I know that you’re awesome. You’re looking goooooooood. Did you do something to your hair or something? I almost didn’t recognise you because you’re glowing with super cool and lovely. Oh what? You don’t believe me? Then sit yourself on the naughty step ‘cause I’m feeding your dinner to the dog.

It is not ok to not like yourself. It’s just not. Why don’t you like yourself? If you’re a serial killer or something, ok, I totally get that, I don’t like you either, murder is not a cool thing to do. At all. But there’s a choice here. When you don’t like yourself, you must have a reason, so you need to either deal with it or get over it. You don’t like the mean way you treat people? Try to be nicer, buy cookies and dole out compliments like fairy dust. You don’t like your nose? You’re beautiful, focus on your cute freckles or the way that you make your friends laugh.

I see it like this: Everyone has someone that loves them, even if they can’t see it themselves, because they’re drowning in an icky swamp of self-hatred. You need to look outside yourself, find a person that loves you. Got one? Good. Now why do they love you? A million reasons right? When you love someone, it isn’t because they’re a size zero or because their fringe is never greasy, it’s because you can’t help it. You just do.

I want you all to look at yourselves in the mirror, right now. Look at the fear in your eyes, look at the baby hairs at the edge of your face, look at yourself in all of your humanity and realise that you are a person, unique and worthy of love, just like everyone else. Look at yourself like your best friend would. Yeah, sometimes you’re annoying and needy and your jokes are lame, but they love you anyway, because of your awesome you-ness. You are awesome, trust me, I know.