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It’s been a while and a few things have changed..

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So I started this blog at the ripe old age of 21. When I was young and slightly perkier (in every sense of the word) but it appears also, obviously and absolutely right.
Well of course I was and am, I’m a Leo, and I have a vagina and I’m always right because that’s just the rules. I know this because there’s definitely a Beyoncé hit somewhere about it. The only difference is now we have emojis to showcase how painfully awkward I am, instead of the need for excessive amounts of vodka, or more accurately VK blues. Although now it’s a case of less vodka, more Pinot darling and more pain when it comes to hangovers and wearing heels. 😑(personal fave, as it’s the closest to resting bitch face they have 🙄if I’m feeling adventurous).

Now some of the readers may be part of this infamous (but👏🏼 fucking 👏🏼insanely 👏🏼incredible) group called Girl Crew. But for right now, more specifically GC’s subculture of the lonely hearts, sassy daters and long term relation-braggers. (NB: I’m not being mean I’m just a jealous bitch that you’ve found the one and…well I’ve found carbs)

The dating and relationships forum.
Short of burning my bra, one thing I will say is this group has allowed me to regurgitate the equivalent of what I like to call (no offence intended) ‘disappointment Tourette’s’ that I’ve always wanted to publicly shout about on my own Facebook status, without the fear of sounding like the Katie Hopkins of the dating world, but less wanky and not only be famous because a wanky married farmer bent me over my well kept wanky field in which my wanky child called India probably now rides her wanky pony in. I think I’m actually bitter because India has a pony in all honesty.
Anyway way I detract. So I decided to write about my current dating ‘experiences’ as I’m now 27 and even though I may have developed sudden dark and dubious hairs on my chin, things are very similar yet very different in the dating game (Can you believe when I wrote my first blog piece we didn’t even have apps. Or television. Obviously I’m joking. However I can now watch porn without having to either wait in my room til 3am on a fuzzy tv or if I was really lucky, borrow my mum’s laptop and then delete my browsing history from four days ago (just to be safe and I still do that now on my own laptop), so my mum isn’t able to see that I’ve been looking at ‘how to squirt’ as I can finally afford my own MacBook 👌🏻- high definition Yasss Kween! – (which coincidently reminds me, don’t ever let your 21 year old male cousin borrow your laptop to watch your Netflix as it will destroy your ‘recommended for you’ options and also your faith in humanity).
So the next few posts will be very real and brutally honest experiences, without naming and shaming the other party, so in hope that we realise that in the dating game, it doesn’t have to be all M&S dine in for two (or one- don’t know who they’re kidding with that) meals and out of date references to 90s films about big pants and Mr Darcy.

‘The Things I do for You’

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I truly believe it is the passage into womanhood to make the hideous mistake of dying your hair bright orange in the hope of being a fun loving blonde and having to drive to the midnight chemist the night before an A-level exam or Christmas eve. (Yes both of these incidents happened to me, I have the family photographic evidence, and I can only describe the colour as that of a traffic cone. My mum found it so hilarious that we had to pull over several times in the car in the aid that the only car crash was purely existing on my head).

It won’t be the last time we do this. No, it seems that we have the inanimate power to convince ourselves every time that it will be exactly as it is on the box and once again sit on our bathroom floor, surrounded by bleach smeared towels, in floods of tears, wondering why my original dark brown hair is yet again Duracell battery in colour.  To make matters worse, the boy you did all this for, in the hope that he may want to date your hair, has actually decided he’s into brunettes. And the cycle continues.

‘Sod’s Law’. Probably a phrase created by women, for women. The one time we do forget to shave our legs will almost definitely be the one time we need to get naked.

All the excuses in the world (my personal favorite, ‘need a tissue’, it’s a fool proof no questions asked excuse) and a quick dash to the bathroom to try and salvage the untainted image which only lasts about five minutes as we return with itchy rashy legs where in a quick bid we’ve used the spare bic razor and a few droplets of water as not to cause suspicion.

Another inevitability is that your skin hates you having a social life. By this I mean you can scrub, tone, moisturise but without a shadow of a doubt, we will definitely break out into what seems an unavoidable pre-pubescent acne, normally consisting of one giant crater directly in the middle of your forehead or the nose. So what you might ask, is the next logical step?

Toothpaste. That’s right, toothpaste. Not to mention using an entire tube on three spots, to then wake up the next morning with a beard of head hair stuck to your face and discoloured skin where you forgot to read the label ‘Tooth Whitening’.

Then there’s the clothing. It’s a whole separate story to the beauty regime but it normally involves just as much pain.

Shoes for example, we convince ourselves that we are always a size smaller than we actually are. ‘Break them in’ is a common phrase we like to use instead of saying ‘I feel like a raccoon is slowly chewing off my toes’.

However, the most amusing part of the routine is the jeans. You know what I mean, the jean jig. The hip swivel, the stretch one leg, the squat position and finally the jumping up and down. Only we do this. If we do get down to the no pants dance later that day, you are sure to find that naked, we now look like bread baked around twine. Particularly around the bra and hip area.

All of this in a bid to try and better ourselves. It is a fact that on a night out, women do dress for other women. But solely so that you can assess if you are the better looking female, and therefore hope to bag the better looking male. The hidden generation of the Alpha Female.

When does the time come when we stop trying to better ourselves and just be the best?

The Art of Not Falling in Love

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Now every twenty something woman is probably going to protest at every word I say. I won’t pretend it’s for the helpless romantics and I won’t deny its brutality but I’m not a sceptic or feminist, and I do, despite what you will read beyond this, believe in the big L.

Fifteen or so shoddy relationships later, be it long or short term, I have come to realise the ever saddening fact that the man I may meet tomorrow, whether he ticks every unattainable box that we happen to conjure up (believe me men, if you manage to miraculously cross off everyone of the list, you probably live on our TV screens amongst the Hugh Grant’s and Colin Firth’s) then it will no doubt end in a complete catastrophically built ending where we cease to speak again.

Truth be told, I am 21 and won’t deny the fact that like every other young woman, I too look for that one man that helps me maintain those butterflies and doesn’t decide to kill every one with a shot gun, tell you santa isn’t real and leave you for the dogs.

I’ve had my share of ‘Mr Right Nows’ and quite frankly I’m beginning to feel the unnecessary point in setting yourself up to fall completely over your size six’s. There is a reason it’s called the walk of shame, or the stride of pride which ever way you look at it, because its written over your beer soaked Wonder Woman fancy dress outfit, that that man, is evidently not going to call you to go for a cuppa.

Christmas, Birthdays, ‘V’ day, they’re all an excuse to get so drunk that you end up strolling home armed with a bloke you found in the smoking area and a ‘Give Way’ road sign. I genuinely believe that for one evening, we can truly convince our sorry souls that we are in love, and quickly start assessing them with ridiculous notions that everything about them is exactly what you were looking for and that the wonderful glory of fate has brought you together. Until you wake, fake eyelashes stuck to your chin and the realisation that once he’s gone, we’re going to hound the poor bloke on Facebook within every inch of his life because we suddenly don’t believe anything (or cant remember) that he told you the previous evening.

This not to dissuade you from finding the one. It is in hope that you can relate and start to gain confidence in your own life, without feeling the dreaded empty pitt of the stomach feeling because you thought he was your cup of tea and well really, he only likes coffee. But more importantly, if anything, just laugh.

Growing Growing Gone.

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It all starts from a young age when little girls and some little boys, insist on wearing our mother’s sky high shoes and oversized dresses, tottering towards the nearest staircase. Meanwhile our mothers pounce to save us from tumbling into literal fashion suicide and our fathers fear with irrational panic as they flash forward ten years, where their daughters are erotic pole dancers and their sons are soho cross dressers.

Now skipping forward, we get to the playground years. Once we’d crossed those pearly school gates our parents had no control over the catastrophic ways in which we’d customize our uniforms.

I begin with the skirt roll. And by this I mean rolling our skirts within an inch of our womanhood, revealing pre pubescent fluff ridden legs and a huge tyre where you’ve rolled up half a woolen sheet around your waist.

If any of you had to wear a tie, you will know there is only one way to wear it. The knot that defies all reason and purpose, so huge that you virtually look like you’re wearing a cattle bell on steroids, with a slither of tie poking out of one end, and enough tie to lasso a herd of elephants on the other.

Not every girl was as fashion forward as others, however I fondly remember the phase of hiding a pair of white socks in your satchel, to then later put on over your black tights looking like what can only be described as a scantily dressed mime artist.

I can only then imagine, that someone hideous somewhere had found a solution to the skirt rolling façade and designed the ever-trendy ‘skort’. A pair of nylon polyester flared trousers, with a detachable mini skirt. The absolute height of fashion for a teenage girl, all topped off with a dashing pair of ‘Bootleg’ square-toed shoes and a free fluorescent orange ‘Bootleg’ watch (which bizarrely was the sole reason we wanted the shoes in the first place).

At this stage in our teens, there was not a lot of time left to think about education. Apart from P.E.

Physical Education and being remotely fit and healthy couldn’t be more socially un-cool and unbearable for a teenage girl, and therefore we concocted a very foolproof plan of how to evade this dreaded hour long session of physical torture. The Menstrual Cycle. Regardless of whether or not you had actually reached that stage of puberty yet, the awkward and embarrassed look on the male swim teachers face meant it was easy to get out of those navy blue, all in one, swim suit sessions. Clearly every girl in the school had miraculously synchronized their periods too, as benches teamed with girls, lined the sports hall every Wednesday afternoon.

Except one. Yes that poor girl that was too nervous and naïve to even begin to understand how you could bleed for a week and not be dead. The one sorry soul that had to prance along in lost property plimsoles and later in life realize this was the moment that would inevitably lead to her life time social ineptness.

After the many discussions of which Spice Girl we were (without fail I was always Sporty Spice, the tattooed lesbian dream that nobody wanted to be) and monotonous routines in the playground to S Club 7, you finally reach year 7 (by which time the Ginger and Baby Spice’s of the playgrounds were in labour).

You then spend the next five years, pretending to smoke behind the bike sheds, answering the question ‘How old are you?’ with ‘ Nearly fourteen’ or ‘I’m fifteen in June’, avoiding saying your actual age at any cost.

Creating a fake persona, including the making of the most unbelievable and ridiculous fake ID was an art form that took up most of a sixteen year old’s time and pocket money.

If you weren’t lucky enough to have an older sister’s passport you could tipex and photocopy, the next logical step was borrow on older girl’s ID between three of you, and one after the other, style your hair and practice the exact bizarre strained face that you only ever make when posing for your passport or drivers license, in a bid to fool the door man at the local pub that in fact, despite dressing like a fourteen year old stripper, you were the modestly dressed eighteen year old on your given ID.

Beyond this, involved visiting various ID websites, paying ten pounds, and voila, you were now a twenty something student at the ‘University of South East Arizona’. However much the photo was actually you, it did shortly become apparent that the ‘University of South East Arizona’ didn’t actually exist and once questioned, neither did my attempt at an American accent.

Now I have reached the ripe old age of 22, I have found myself reassuring, backpedalling and using the words ‘only 22’ to stay in this forever young moment for as long as possible, and for now, the grass is pretty damn green.