Awkward things.

Dear Mr. Right…


Dear Mr. Right,

Where are you?! You know how anal I am about time keeping. Hopefully you’ve been using your time to foster a healthy obsession with Neil Gaiman and a love of anything sparkly. Oh wait, that’s me. Ok, so I don’t really know who you are or what you’re into, since we haven’t been formally introduced. That’s the crazy thing. I could be passing you day after day, maybe throwing change at your face when I serve you, because hand eye co-ordination is not my forte, possibly doing the pavement dance with you, because anything involving actual movement is not my forte. I could be perving at your glasses or drooling over your shoes. I could be not even seeing you because you’re a member of the X-Men. Oh my gosh, PLEASE be a member of the X-Men. Preferably Magneto, I would settle for Wolverine, but definitely NOT Cyclops. Just no.

Perhaps we’ve never met because you’ve been busy crafting a masterpiece in your basement, that consists of twenty-seven sporks, a selection of dead flowers, original WWE wrestlers dowsed in the aforementioned glitter, (predominately The Undertaker and Chyna, because who else, really?) and five thousand packets of Pez. That’s definitely what you’re doing, and you’re wondering where I am, and why I’m not in your basement, (which probably has a pool table and a non-alcoholic bar) telling you what a creative genius you are and pouring you mocktails. Or maybe you’d prefer me to chatter incessantly about nothing and everything, swaying the conversation wildly every five seconds because I caught something shiny out of the corner of my eye, and you’re the only person on the planet who can tolerate me doing this. Trust me, I checked.

Wherever you are and whatever you’re doing and whatever really odd hobby you have, it would be awesome if you put it on pause for a second and came over here. It’s not like I need you or anything, (who says romance kicked the bucket) but I’m in a really good place right now, the best place in my life actually, waaay better than Bristol in the summer, with my bare feet in the fountain, eating vegan fish ‘n’ chips. I’ve never been this good. I’ve spent my whole life changing direction and falling down and scrambling back up. I’ve had so many bloody knees that there’s grit stuck under the skin, but now I’m ok. I keep moving forwards and I haven’t fallen back in a while. My world keeps getting bigger and brighter and I want to show you all the magic there is. Not everyone sees it, but I do. There’s stardust in my eyes to share.

I sound mad but you’re going to have to deal with that. It’s not too bad, I promise. It would help if you’re a little unhinged too. We could fall through the cracks together and walk underneath the world, staring up at the feet of the people who don’t know how to see things. Or maybe you’re a rock of a person, and I could hold onto you, bobbing above the waves on a doorframe that’s perfectly big enough for two people Leonardo, seriously. You could teach me things like history and science, and I would care for once because your voice would bring the world to life, sparking atoms and starting wars. You could take me everywhere with your words. I would like that. And I could tell you fairy tales and show you where the trolls live under the bridge, and let you know that they’re not as bad as people say. Nothing’s ever as bad as people say. There are two sides of the earth and we could see both, together. I know that writing this won’t speed you up in any way, but you know how I hate waiting. Patience is something I’m learning though, along with calm, organisation and making appointments on the phone. Oh and I’m also awesome with money. I’m building my way up to being an adult, even though I don’t really intend to grow up. I could pretend though, play house, bake cakes, do grouting, I’ve always wanted to do that. I can put up shelves and splatter stuff in paint until I lose interest, and you can dust things, because I really can’t be bothered when they’re just going to get dusty again. I’m now a full-time washer-upper though, and I put the recycling out like all the time. I pretty much think of myself as Wonder Woman without the epic costume. But I could get one, if you’d like.

All I’m trying to say is that there’s a you-shaped hole in my life that isn’t super intrusive right now, but it could be if you don’t get a wiggle on. Until then, I’m just going to amble on with my life, making plans and creating a future that shines like the back end of a Bentley. You’re more than welcome to join me.

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I decided today that I would write a list of things that I’m afraid of. Not because I’m a raging masochist who likes to seek out new and interesting ways to embarrass herself in a public forum, (although if the cap fits… Come to think of it, I’ve never tried on a cap that didn’t fit, apart from kids’ caps that is. I totally understand wanting to wear one of those though. Children know the value of glitter and being so cheeky that they would inadvertently enter a pub brawl involving crocodiles and ninja stars, (that they would definitely lose) if they were a grown up.) but* because I really need to get over the whole being afraid thing, and if I’ve learned two things during my time being alive, the first one is that lists solve EVERYTHING.**** So here is my list of things that freak me out and why:

  • Phone conversations

How can anyone enjoy this?! In old movies, girls would wrap the phone cord around their finger, whereas telephone communication makes me want to wrap it around my neck. You can’t see the person on the other end. They could be saying all this nice stuff whilst simultaneously throwing darts at a hideous picture of you, (taken just after your skin had decided to self-destruct and, in an act of solidarity, pizza decided that its calories totally counted and, oops, hello Shamu) and hacking up your best friend with a collection of sporks duct taped together and dowsed in lemon juice and salt, in order to create a surprisingly effective method of ouch. Ok, it might seem far-fetched, but how can you know for sure? You can’t. And don’t ask me why texting is fine, because I never said that I was logical, just paranoid.

  • Ordering food in restaurants

Now don’t get me wrong, I am sooo awesome at eating food in restaurants. It’s a talent, it really is. But ordering it? Nuh uh. I believe that science should have figured out a way of getting food to you without any form of communication necessary. Why are they dilly dallying with this Higgs boson malarkey when I’m still having to tell an actual person what food I want? Why don’t they know already? Also, why do they want my name in Starbucks? It’s the Illuminati, I tells ya! Alright, I don’t actually believe Starbucks staff are part of an elaborate plot to steal my highly coveted identity, (for one thing, it’s not even lowly coveted) but it does freak me out to have to tell people what I want. I don’t want them to think I’m rude when I correct them, I don’t want them to think that my name is lame or fake, and I don’t want them to spit in my food because I’ve offended their religious beliefs by not wanting a loyalty card. Come on scientists, step it up.

  • Over-Confident Children

Since when did being seven grant you the gall to speak back to your elders? Also, why do you have an iPad?! When I was that age I had a day off school to see the doctor, (being on the brink of death or, as my mother remembers it, a bit sniffly) and I literally shrank down in my seat when I saw secondary school students wander near my mum’s car. I honestly thought that they would attack me. Today, so many children are pretty damn certain of God’s gift-ness, and will let you know about it in their Rihanna-esque attitudes. It scares me, it really does. How does something so small get such an inflated ego? How does someone so young know that a police officer won’t arrest them should they be caught being overly shirty? I don’t understand it and that (just like the knowledge that someone must obviously be buying Justin Bieber’s music) terrifies me.

  • Public Speaking

This seems to be a common one, so I’m feeling pretty normal right now. Standing up in front of a crowd and making words happen is one of those things that can strike the fear of God into someone’s heart, especially since Jesus was pretty swish at it. The last time I had to talk in front of a group, I nearly died. Ok, I didn’t nearly die, but the world went fuzzy and the ground disappeared and my legs became an electric fence. I have no idea what I said, but it was probably a load of nonsense. Plus, imagining your audience naked does NOT work. Have you ever given a talk in front of a colony of nudists? How could you focus when there are all those interesting bits to look at? It might help to imagine that you’re yapping to yourself in the toilet, but then you come out of the daydream and there are a hundred people IN YOUR TOILET. Perhaps the best plan is to not do any public speaking ever. Haven’t these people ever heard of Skype?!

  • Clipboard People

I am walking down the street, happily waving a shopping bag containing more books than I can read in a year, and desperately searching for some vegan cake before I have to eat my best friend’s (non-vegan) arm. Suddenly, from nowhere, a cheery chap with sexy dreads appears. He’s smiling at me. I think I love him. In my mind, we are getting married on a beach. There is a bouncy castle, a pig waddles down the sandy aisle, bearing rings and he’s written his vows in sonnet form. The rose-tinted fog clears and I’m about to embark on a beautiful future with dreadlocked soul mate man when I see it. He has… A clipboard. On one hand, I understand that it is his job to appear friendly and raise funds for worthy causes, but on the other hand, noooooooooooooo. I had everything planned and now I find out that you’re just scamming me with your gorgeousness for charity? Shame on you, no longer future husband of mine. We could have had something special, and now I have to seem REALLY interested in my phone in order to avoid a possible happily ever after, because I already donate to that charity, but if I tell you that, you’ll think I’m stingy or Satan. I hope you’re happy.

  • Making Grown-up Contact with Childhood Bullies

I know, I know, they can’t hurt me anymore, we’re all older and wiser now, blah de blah. You’re speaking gibberish though. In my head, they’re still the same, evil, Satan-spawn that spat in my hair and put gum on my seat. Their words still hurt, because despite the rhyme, actually, words will always bloody hurt you, because they stick in your brain, unlike gum, which can be snipped out of your hair, leaving an impermanent but still mildly scarring bowl haircut. I don’t get how someone so intent on pushing someone over a metaphorical (and possibly physical) ledge could suddenly grow wings and learn to play the harp in the time it takes to bag themselves a job. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I haven’t suddenly discovered the joys of socialising and cigarettes, just because I no longer need to panic that I haven’t done my homework. So every time I see one of the people that made my life hell, I hide. I literally hide. Yeah it’s not cool, but that’s what got me into their bad books in the first place, and as you can tell, I’m into the idea of consistency.

All of these fears can be encapsulated into one scientific-sounding term, which makes me feel as if I can just burrow into a cosy cave, because I have a condition, damn it. That term is ‘social anxiety’. In layman’s terms, people freak me the eff out, and I would be much happier staying in bed and calling in sick on this whole ‘real life’ deal. It’s hard to talk to people and hope that you’re not offending them, or convincing them to hate you, or behaving like you’re high or frisky. Also, who says frisky?! I don’t even say frisky. Well, I guess I do now. But the point of all this isn’t to wallow in my pathetic-ness, but to fix it. Since I haven’t crossed all the way into self-help nut, I’m not planning to toss this list into the fire and do a dance and cry a bit too much on some guy I just met named Paulo, who has a vegan chutney business and a love of hand-woven bracelets. That’s mainly because this is written on a computer though, and not because Paulo doesn’t sound like he’d be good to cry on. If you’re reading this, Paulo… Anyways, yes, self-improvement. I’m going to do things that freak me out. I’m going to talk to strangers, I’m going to phone people, I’m going to order my own houmous, and I’m going to give far too much money to charity, because I need to get the hell over it. People are not demons, (well, some of them probably are) and I need to calm down, go outside and say hello.


*yep, I was in the middle of a sentence back there and drifted off to the subject of child accessories, because it’s my blog and I’m fricking Chuck Norris, so I can do what I like**. Look at me deviating from a point as if I actually had a point in the first place. Girls gone wild!!!***

**I’m not actually Chuck Norris. Sorry to disappoint.

***I’m fully clothed, typing quite sedately in an empty room, and possibly a closet compulsive liar…

****The second one is that I am not cut out for the outside world. At all*****

*****I’m going to stop with the asterisks now because, despite them being pretty and everything, I’m even annoying myself.

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So if you’ve been paying attention, (or if I’ve ever even looked you in the eye in real life, because that’s how annoying and fanatical I am) then you will know that I am currently doing a juice fast. Because I am a writer and because I really am obsessed with juice at the moment, I decided to keep a diary of my experiences. The good news is that I didn’t murder anyone, and the great news is that I’m still going strong. The bad news is that there is no bad news. Sucks to be an unrequited pessimist, huh? Anyway, here are my undiluted experiences. Enjoy…

Ok, so it’s day one of my juice fast and I have made a million new mortal enemies. Basically anyone holding food, talking about food, eating food, or with a history of having eaten food. Alright, so I hate everyone in the world. My best friend was talking about soup earlier and I nearly stabbed her to death with a drinking straw. I am psychotic, more so than normal. Well, I say am, I mean was. Right now I’m quite chillaxed. The murderous impulses passed straight after I drank some juice. Yay juice! Stupid juice! But it’s ok, I won’t panic. I have my towel and I planned for this. Today is supposed to be hell and people are supposed to be dead. Wait, no. There’s no death, only peace and love and sweet, sweet murder. On toast. Bring on the Zen…

Day two of my juice fast and I feel like I am on crack. I am bouncing off the walls, falling over, giggly, singing, nonsensical and very, VERY annoying. I’m pretty much an amplified version of myself. Think feeding a five year old a bucket of candy, giving it a few sporks and throwing it on a bouncy castle. That is something you should never do, (unless there’s money in it) and that is me right now. But at least it’s a zillion times better than being tired and cold and ending up in prison for cutlery-related, smell-of-chips-incited murder. So yay for my annoying self! Hopefully I’ll be more bearable tomorrow…

It’s day three of juicy juice-ness, and my mood is a bit meh. I’m sure I would have been fine, verging on bouncy if my boss hadn’t been on his period. Otherwise, I’m energetic, super strong and not tired at all. I am yearning for yesterday’s hyper annoying-ness though, if only to upset my boss. Yeah I’m petty, but life is too short to not annoy annoying people. Maybe that’s my toxins talking though… Yep, totally the toxins. I am sweetness and light and butterflies and baby bums and whatever else normal folk like, but the toxins are toxifying my soul and transforming me into the wicked witch of the west… wait east. West! God! I sound like a fucking psycho. A gold star to whoever gets the reference, because fruit and veg also turn me into a school teacher. More Miss Trunchbull than Miss Honey atm, but we’ll see what tomorrow brings…

It’s day four and I’m my normal self. No juice superpowers today, but I do have the new joy of backache, which, so the internet tells me, is due to toxins sorting their shiz out in my kidneys. I also have butt ache, but that’s less to do with juice and more to do with falling off my unicycle yesterday. I’m less hungry than I have been, but I am LITERALLY salivating for my dinner juice, which will be a homemade V8 juice with garlic. Garlic! Oh, how I have missed my darling garlic. I’ve made my mind up that this is going to be the best juice in the history of the world ever, and if it isn’t, I might die. I probably won’t die, but if I do, my mum will set fire to my juicer, (if she liked me even a teensy bit) so the juicer is very motivated to create delicious acts of yum.

It’s day five and today was a majorly mixed bag. I mean, inside the bag is a wrench, a possum, three magic beans and a love note from a pirate to a whale. You see what I mean? In non-metaphorical terms, I am happy to announce that I woke up super bouncily at 7AM on my day off. Oh yeah, check me out. I was hyper for about six hours before I got tired. Juice number one was during the bounciness, but juice number two was after and perked me up a bit. Then I fell asleep, on the floor, with my face on a book. When I was walking home, people were giving me some intense hate-stares, so I may have just spoilered An Abundance of Katherines for them. Oops. My bad.

It’s day six and I am on top of the world. Literally. Ok, not literally, but I’m in SUCH a good mood that the misuse of the word ‘literally’ doesn’t make me want to go on a killing spree with nothing but an ill-kept hacksaw and a vat of lemon juice. Life is freaking good. Today I am feeling amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good actually. A friend majorly betrayed my trust today and I was fine. I mean, I’m obviously not cool with it, but it just wandered out of my head, letting in awesome things like novel plots and article ideas. I am so creative at the moment, it’s crazy. Ideas keep invading my brain without knocking and not wiping their shoes on the mat, and I don’t even mind, because they’ve brought delicious, wondrous, amazingtastical and oh so frabjous JUICE!

It’s day seven and OH MY GOSH. Yep, that’s how fan-dabby-dozily-freaking-frabjous I feel. Also, alliteration rules. Life also rules, and juice and sunshine and writing and reading and everything in the world ever. I have completed the conversion into mutant hippy robot. Next step, world domination with a dream catcher and a chunk of rose quartz. Ok, so maybe I haven’t gone that far yet, but life is good. I feel happy and bouncy. My energy seems limitless and ideas are bubbling in my head like I have teensy elves living inside me with dreams of a Costa Book Award, and a cup of tea and a chinwag with my new bestie, Neil Gaiman. In short, juice rules. Do it. Do it or DIE! Only kidding, we’re all gonna die, juicing will just make us glow more whilst doing it. I’ve really sold it to you, haven’t I? Nope? Ah well, more juice for meeeeeeeeeeeeee! 

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Truman Syndrome (Or Reason No. 5,340,265 Why I Should Not Be Allowed Outside)


Have you ever seen the Truman Show? Obviously you can’t answer me, so I’m going to assume that you’ve either said yes, and all is well and good, or you’ve said no and run off to watch it right away so you can understand this blog post and the odd tangent it already seems to be taking. In both cases, well done, you are awesome, stickers and bubbles and all the balloons for you! Ok, so now we’re up to speed, I can continue…

So because I am mildly delusional and have a tendency of putting a wildly positive spin on things, (which may involve llamas, smiley faces or copious amounts of forever-lasting glitter) I decided a while ago that I have my own TV show and the world is watching me go about my life. I decided this, not because I go on epic quests to deliver magic jewellery to scary places that one does not simply walk into, or because I skydive into laser shark pits whilst wearing a meat costume for shiggles, or even because I got up the duff at ten years old with a nun’s pet panda’s alien dog baby. My life is actually pretty tame; well, apart from that time I defeated Voldemort and that moody dude took all the credit. I decided this because people look at me. A lot.

I recently discovered that this was an actual thing, (epically named Truman Syndrome) and I AM psychologically tarnished, rather than famous. But until I unearthed the evidence of my upset mind, I thought that I was onto something. You see, I might not be Steve Irwin or Batman, but I am talented at something that doesn’t take courage or brains or heart, or anything on Dorothy’s gang’s Christmas list. I am really good at screwing up. Like, if there was a job that required me to do everything wrong, whilst refusing to ask questions and make eye-contact with strangers that I could only speak to in a series of mumbles and shrieks, I would be in, plus tips, bonuses, and a company car that probably wouldn’t work because, hey, twisted irony is my jam.

We want an example, I hear you say. How can you hear us through time and computer space, I hear you say. This is getting silly now, I hear you say. Stop it, I hear you- Ok fine. It just so happened that something deliciously terrible and TV worthy happened to me this afternoon. First you need some backstory, unless you have been watching me on TV all this time. In which case, why are you reading my blog?! Is this like some Big Brother’s Little Brother style stuff? Is Russell Brand leading a celebrity panel? Ohmygosh, I need to see this. Someone drop me a package from the sky or something. If I’m on TV send cake, if not, send me… I don’t know, sprouts or something. Anyways, so I was in Cardiff Comic Con today and had such a wondrous time. Everything was frabjous. The sky was blue, people were lovely, and life was shiny. In short, it was amazingtastical.

So, to the backstory… There’s a gentleman that works in a shop in Cardiff who is super cool, who totally needs to be my friend. I can tell this by his t-shirt collection, his beard, his sarcastic/grumpy/confusingly pleasant manner and also because I just know, alright? Last year I saw him at Comic Con and, being the shy person that I am in life outside the internets, I didn’t speak to him. I was so annoyed at myself because it was the perfect opportunity. We had obviously common interests, I had a better t-shirt than him and good vibes penetrated the air like Nag Champa. It would have been awesome, I’m sure, and we would have lived happily ever after, referring to Benedict Cumberbatch as Bumperstump Cabbagepatch and complaining loudly about the way that the TV series of Game of Thrones veers wildly from the already perfectly perfect in every way books. Alas, I left to buy vegan carrot cake and berate myself.

Today I was reminiscing, as one does when one screws up. And, as I was walking down the street, (in Cardiff, which is a big city, with, Wikipedia tells me, almost 325,000 peeps as of 2001, plus the zillions of awesome folks that rocked up just to meet Hodor. So lots of people, OK? LOTS.) I was reminding my friend of last year’s mistake and saying that if I see him again this year, I have to talk to him, because he’s sooo awesome, and sooo cool, and his t-shirts are AMAZING*. It was very clear who I was talking about. I mentioned his shop name, a brief description and, I’m pretty sure, his hair colour. I am very descriptive alongside the gushy, an extra talent there. Anyway, in real life, where I was, today, I turned around mid-fan-girl-gasm and… HE WAS BEHIND ME.

I died. I am dead now. I am speaking to you from beyond the grave in order to explain the dangers of being a freaking social train wreck. It’s bad guys, don’t do it, just don’t. The high is not worth the sudden death when the ground falls away and, look, there’s Australia, and you’ve been beaten to death by a kangaroo, because even they think you’re a massive loser. If you’re expecting a neatly bundled story with a beginning, middle and end that has me waking up because it’s all been a dream, you’ve come to the wrong place. I specialise in randomness, confusing moral overtones and self-flagellation. I’m still pretty sure that I’m famous, and if not, I totally should be, because my life is pure comedy. Also, if you’re Jerry Springer give me a call because I’m not sure that this alien dog baby is mine… Dun, dun, duuuuuuuuun!


*General fawning fan-girlery. Imagine this guy is Jason Momoa. A ginger Jason Momoa with a collection of geek shirts that would make Sheldon Cooper lick his (probably Converse) shoes. Uh huh.

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