Updates and Promises

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Sorry about that.


The last two weeks have been frantic to say the least.

My first day back at school was last Tuesday. Upper Sixth is killing me already and I haven’t even finished the second week yet. The workload is ridiculous and the pace is slaughtering my brain, one neuron at a time.

And nowadays, all anyone can talk about is UCAS and university and predicted grades and resits and modules and applications and references and personal statements and futures and jobs and preparations and the rest of our lives and life and life and life and more life rolled on top of it.




On a lighter note, I had my first driving lesson! It scared the bejeezus out of me, but it was good. I managed to get up to 60mph on the drive home, which I was pretty proud about.

Aaaaaand, I’ve recently been finding a load of new music since I’ve started to use SoundCloud, so if you have any spare seconds, check out Ben Khan (listen to Youth) or Made In Heights (check out All The Places). They’re both amazing and I’ve been listening to them both on loop for days.



I will post more. No, really.

I will try to stay more positive and not have these stupid falterings in confidence that translate into shitty blog posts about how purportedly fucked up I am as a person.

I will try to make my blog posts less shitty overall, to be honest. I’m uppin ma gaaame mothafuckah.

Oh, and I’ll try to stop swearing as much. I know some people don’t like that. So I’ll try to replace said expletives with nicer words. Like… flowerpot.





I have a new post in the works, so that’ll be on its way out to y’all soon. It’s about a book I read yesterday (yes, I read it in a day) called Wintergirls, and it’s accounts the story of a girl called Lia Overbrook who suffers from anorexia nervosa. This book made me wince in all the wrong ways, and I want to hate it but I can’tI can’t because it’s true. It’s the truest book I’ve read in a long time.


Much like to y’all



When I Grow Up…

First off, anyone who even thought about the Pussycat Dolls song when they read the title should get the f out (but you get an honorary highfive on the way out for trying).

When I was younger, I wanted to be a new thing every week. It was anything from an air hostess to a mountain goat (no, really.)

This topic came up in my mind as I was filling out a section of my UCAS form yesterday. For any of you not hailing from the land of A Levels, UCAS is basically the system through which we apply to university, kind of like a huge directory, if you like.

It sprung to my mind that I was making huge life decisions based on what I think I want now. What if that changes in the next year? What if I decide to make a U-turn and dedicate my life to the conservation of a rare species of potplant? I wouldn’t have the qualifications to do so, and I have therefore shut a series of doors that would take some serious legwork to reopen.


So it occurred to me that I’ve never really wanted to be just one thing. I wanted to be everything, and in that way I’m quite selfish (I’m sure there’s a Simone de Beauvoir quote in there somewhere…)

And I still don’t know.

I’m no closer to knowing who I want to be and what I want to do than when I wanted to be a spy when I was nine, or a koala when I was five.

Obviously now my dreams of transmogrifying into an small, furry animal have been dashed (goddammit!), but even then, decisions with such large ramifications are a daunting prospect.

I don’t like the idea of being confined to one, or even a small selection of things. I want to live an extraordinary life.

Don’t get me wrong, it sounds like I’m talking about fame and fortune and worldwide adoration. I don’t want that kind of burden. All I would ever desire is a life full of small, private freedoms and joys that, if I’m ever-so-lucky, I could share with others.

In an embarrassingly clichéd phrase, I want to live fast and free and wildly and deeply and I’m not sure if the world will let me. There are so many things I want to do (as can be seen on my bucket list) and getting them done seems… unlikely.

In all truth, I don’t like the prospect of growing old. It isn’t about the appearance, about youth or beauty or vanity.

In my mind, I see it almost like an ever-narrowing tunnel of prospects: as you grow older, the prospects become more sparse, you begin to lose options and the ability to choose or go back on your choices. I don’t want to be in the position of no prospects, being a burden to others around me.

Equally, I don’t want to have to fit into the parameters set for me by common expectation: school, A Levels, university, job, marriage, children, retirement, grandchildren, death. Charming, isn’t it?

Because of all this, and I haven’t expressed this anywhere but in my mind before, I can’t see myself living past my thirties. Again, don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying I’m about to top myself. I’m saying that I don’t think that kind of life is for me.

I don’t want to live my life preparing. Education as a preparation for a job, a job for a promotion, a promotion for more money, more money to pay for children and a pension, preparing children for life, preparing to retire, retire to prepare for death.


No, fuck that.

That isn’t me.

I’d rather die having lived than fade away having survived.

I sound like a belligerent teenager right now, but I’ve never been more sure about anything.

I wasn’t cut out for ordinary.

So, what do I want to be when I grow up?

Well, it’s a bit of a cop-out, but I want to be free.

Just free.


Damned Teenage Ambivalence.

Right, okay.

F*ck I’m bad at this.

I’m in two minds about everything right now.

It’s as if I want myself to be in these positions.

This post is going to go down like a confession.

I’m going to be utterly artless and declarative about this, because otherwise I may just start to implode.

I like a guy, codename J. I went to a party a few days ago. He had told me last week that he couldn’t go. He turned up for an hour at the start to show his face. We spoke about 4 words to each other. He left. Fine. I won’t see him for another month or so, now. Fab.

People got drunk. I was bordering on tipsy. The basic synopsis of the rest of the night is that my friend, a guy, codename W, was being close. We were hugging, arms around each other, holding hands, he was kissing my head/cheek etc.

I saw W on Friday with a girl. Looking like a couple.

My friend likes W.

And the only thing I know is that I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I may have inadvertently caused collateral.


Body image is down the pan.

Confidence, as a consequence, is eliminated.

Appetite is gone.

Optimism is absent.

I can feel it creeping up on me again, pressing out from inside my ribs. It’s that weight in the back of my mind, the heaviness in my limbs, that fucking cloud of nihilism that pulls my whole mind into a state of permanent existential crisis, a condition that any activity or superficial physical distraction can only temporarily repress.


Why am I even trying to describe this?

Just listen:



I’m sorry.

Sorry for this post.

I needed to let it go.

This is my shitty attempt at resolution.

Am I a bad person?

None of this is what I wanted.

Would it be stupid to ask for a sign?

Hell, I’m not feeling human at the moment.

I’m sorry.


Please believe me.

I’m sorry.


Ah, teen dilemmas.

If you have not already surmised this from my other posts, I do not like being a teenager.

“These are the best years of your life!” they said.
“Being a teenager is great!” they said.


Source: triggerplug.com

All it is is a combination of raging hormones and conflicting information that result in stupidly insignificant things being blown up to seem like the flipping apocalypse.

I am facing some terribly petty teenage dilemmas at the moment, too.

For instance, I have recently been elected as a senior prefect at my sixth form (hell knows why, I shun authority like it’s the black plague) and we have a residential weekend at an activities centre coming up in a few weeks. We’ll be camping out, doing high ropes, archery, raft building and so on.

Sounds great, right?

Weeeell, it would be if I was close friends with any other person going.

Sure, I talk to the vast majority of them, and I’m friends with them, but not familiar enough that I would like to share a tent with them.


Awkward situation guaranteed.

What’s more, I have a doctor’s appointment next week for something and I’m still not sure whether I should go, because if this turns out to be something, then it’ll go on my medical record and I won’t be able to pass a medical exam for anything for the rest of my life.

Again, hurrah.

I realise I’m complaining about miniscule, insignificant trivialities right now. And I apologise.

Let’s lighten the mood, shall we?


Source: quickmeme.com

Oh, Scrubs. Sigh.

INSTEAD, let’s think of reasons to be happy. (I feel like I’m in therapy right now… LET’S ALL HOLD HANDS AND SING SONGS ABOUT RAINBOWS AND UNICORNS)



Happy reason #1:
I have time off school at the moment, and am currently spending my days reading, watching films and drinking tea without feeling as if I’m neglecting schoolwork. Heaven.

Happy reason #2:
The Fault In Our Stars is out soon in England.
No words can express my excitement. I mean, just look at it.

Source: hypable.com

Source: hypable.com

Happy reason #3
I’ve actually managed to finish a post for once (you would not believe the state of my drafts folder, sweet mother of jasmine is it full of rubbish.)

But anywhoo, I hope this hasn’t depressed you too much.

And I hope I haven’t wasted too much of your time.

That owl makes me laugh though.



So long, amigos.



This post was sparked by me reading an old diary of mine from a couple of years ago. I was leafing through it and it seemed alien to me, and yet distantly familiar; like seeing a postcard of a far-off country I’ve never visited but feeling a strange déjà-vu sensation anyway.

The diary accounts a time when I was in a low, low place. The world seemed grey and what colour remained inside me was slowly fading. Self-esteem was nonexistent in my mind, and whenever I looked in the mirror, all I felt was revulsion. I couldn’t fathom how I was worthy of friendship, worthy of love, worthy of life. I felt as if I was in some kind of dream state, experiencing a faint detachment from myself, wandering without purpose or cause.

And within me, somewhere beneath it all, my core felt like pure resentment: for others around me for not understanding; to myself for being so damn unworthy; to whatever ultimate being – if there be one – for making me as I was; to whatever inside me that was making me feel so angry. Every single minute stimuli felt so amplified that at times I wanted to implode; I felt like there was an infinite amount of matter squeezing itself into the finite space in my ribcage, pushing out until I wanted to tear down every single wall that surrounded me. But still, I felt empty. I felt cold. I felt utterly alone.

Whenever I tried to open up to someone, even my closest friends, it felt like there was a gulf between us. If someone said I know how you feel, I’ve been there too, that did not feel like consolation; I would never, never want anyone to feel like I did then. There didn’t seem to be anyone who could fully comprehend whatever was in my head, including myself.

There wasn’t a definitive point at which everything stopped being like this. I still have issues with myself a couple of years on. The truth is, it never gets better, you just learn how to deal with yourself as you are. The emotions that were once red raw dull themselves, like a bloody wound congealing. It never fully heals, the scar tissue will always be there (mentally and physically). And this is the ultimate cliché, but being in that state makes you more grounded as a person. The amount of perspective you gain is huge.

The main message, I guess, of this is that if anyone who is reading this feels even slightly like what I have clumsily and dumbly described, what you are feeling is not your fault. You are not unworthy. You are not inferior. You are not stupid, unattractive, undesirable, weak, childish or pathetic for going through this. This is you. You know yourself better than anyone, and somewhere, somewhere inside you there is a flicker of hope, a spark of something that you can draw on to stumble through this.

You’re doing okay. Just keep doing okay. Okay is good. Okay?




When someone asks you, “Who are you?”, how do you reply?

A name? An occupation?

But if that questioner could peel back the layers, the walls, the masks, and peer into your mind/soul/spirit, what would they find? Names and job titles are not branded on your brain, they are constructs created by humans to give themselves parameters for comparison.

So, who are you?

Are you a product of your experience? (This platitudinous phrase perpetually regurgitated by supposed ‘deep thinkers’ seems too clichéd to hold any actual sense of profundity, but the idea is still there.)

Or is a person defined by their actions? However, something I have come to learn is the fact that some individuals who present themselves as selfless are in fact only interested in ameliorating their self-image, and so this cannot be depended on as a measure of character from a third party’s perspective.

The point (to which I have taken an overly loquacious and circuitous route — sorry) is when I, myself, try to reflect my thoughts inward and deliberate on my own psyche, me as a human being, I draw a blank. I consider my experiences, I contemplate my actions, but nothing comes.

Simply put, I don’t know who I am.

Is this a symptom of the fatal condition called being a teenager, or is this something else?

Maybe there’s something wrong with me.

But where’s the joy in being normal, right?



This is something I’ve had tucked in my drafts for a while now, and I’ve only just had the courage to send it out into the wide world. I have no idea if it’s poetry, a monologue or a piece of crap, but I feel as if it should be thrown out there.

taking less time for myself
talking about
pipes and relative pipes
stars on your iris
dilated pupils
smoke inhalation
sleep deprivation
cave wall shadows
seeking eldorado
taking less time for
each time i try to try
to stay on feet and ground
that’s level
level up
walking high rise cities
low rise jeans
rebel by any means
taking out more time
than i have
left behind to stay
stay to grow away
apples and trees, falling
two seeds to go away
taking more love
than i have saved
growing to
leaning to
towards so-tolds
nebulous kaleidoscopic
visions of your façade
masqueraded gowns
cloak and needle street battle
taking more luck than i had
subsidiary entities
that you call ‘youth’
taking less care of myself each
sun’s rising
moon’s waning
trying to get my head on straight
straight and narrow
gone curves and open
curving of your silhouette
calling me ‘woman’
like my name has never
met your lips
taking less thought for
myself each day
mirrors are bending
my reflection is sending
shockwaves down
my spine
reading my body like open books
you leave like the others
rip pages out of me
taking less damns for the world
each day
fusty rooms
tobacco plumes
studying me
looking like you’re chewing jaborandi
taking less respect than i was told
when i was
taking more time
to find
the space in my mind
more than i can give
myself to be a stigma
to the world