FYI Men; Read and LEARN.

Do you know what absolutely pisses me off about the male species, and I quote 'species' because 99.9% of the time they're unhuman, like a rare, animalistic breed that somehow tend to look human, but fail to act anything near to.

Why do men think that it's their god given right to be so inexcusably crude about females on a whole. Like because they have a penis, it's a gift that runs in their blood and pathetic DNA that allows them the divine priviledge to degrade women in such a tasteless, vile way.

'Nice rack!' '
Crackin' arse, darlin'!'
'Oi, love! Get ya tits out!'

I can't explain the extent to which my blood boils how those men think that its perfectly acceptable to view women as some kind of meat that they can pick apart with their beady eyes.

Yes, we have a bust. And yes, some of us were gifted with satisfactory, pert bums. And if we want to show off what we were born with, then we have every right to do so without you the male species using this as a time to take complete advantage, regarding us as some kind of feast put in front of them to enjoy.

So we have two breasts. We have bums. We also have two legs, two arms, and a face - just like you men. So, instead of judging us on what flesh you can wrap your perverted little eyes around, how about you open your mouths and say 'Hello.'



It's hardly rocket science, now.

The Perfect Guy.

I am one of those hopeless romantic girls. I fit into that category with a big fat green tick. Forget God, rom-coms are my bibles, and the perfect guy . . . he exists. Somewhere, in this world. In a place where i've not yet discovered.

Sleepless in Seatle, You've Got Mail, The Proposal, Serendipity . . . faith, fate, hope, romance, love . . . they're something I so deeply believe are real emotions. And the people that tell you real men aren't like the types that grace us in all of our favourite movies, then they're the people who gave up looking for him, and settled for something less. And they're negativity is most likely regret, because we still have our hope in tact.

I've dated the cheater, and he broke apart my trust, and heart.
I then dated the player, and instead of butterflies, he gave me jealously, and insecurity.
And then I dated the illusionist. The one guy who feeds you these lies. Empty words that tell you you're perfect, that he's nothing like previous boyfriends, and he's never going to hurt you. And then he does, and you realise it was a facade. It was fake. A lie.

And i've been single for ten months. It's not that i've been so put off by my exes than i've turned to celibacy. I don't aspire to living the life of a nun. But neither do I aspire to have a life full up of bed notches, where instead of finding Mr. Right, I sleep with a dozen Mr. Wrongs. And what for? For him to forget my name after our one night, and move onto the next girl, leaving me feeling used?

No. I'm single through choice. Don't get me wrong; Guys have asked to date me on dates. They've expressed interest. And they're decent, and they could make me happy. But there were no butterflies, or that instant attraction where you make eye contact for the first time, and your heart is racing so hard you can't breathe.

And that leaves me wondering, what's the point? If there's not that first connection, a moment where you two are connected into a world which only you two are in, and everyone else fades away, it's just you, and him . . . why bother?


But I also have a fear, deep inside, that he might never show up. That fate won't introduce us. And, like every one of those bitter, disapointed woman that swear the perfect man is just an illusion, I'll end up single until my thirties, where the pressure to have a giant rock on my finger, and a bun in the oven with take over and I'll become a complete and utter desperado and then I won't just be one of those women, I'll run the club.

Music Makes the World go Round.

Top 5 Songs atm;

1- If I Die Young; A Band Perry
2- Adele; Someone Like You
3- Who You Are; Jessie J
4- Loving You; Andrew Allen
5- L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N; Noah and the Whale

So Many Dreams. So Little Time;

One Day.


It's a phrase we all use, or have used at some point in our life.
One day i'll stick to my diet and have a figure like a Vogue model. One day i'll visit New York and seriously abuse my credit card limit with excessively expensive clothing.

One day . . . Well, one day what?

At nineteen, my ambition, my goal, was to secure an agent at Curtis Brown and to have published a book by the time I was twenty one. And here I am, twenty one in almost six months, and I have no agent yet, and a book that doesn't even have a first draft complete.

I have so many dreams, and aspirations, and to me, they all mean something. I will write that bestseller, and I will have an agent who truly believes in my ability to be as successful as all though writers i've admired over the years. I will own my own cafe in London, and it will be thriving with new-age authors looking for a secure, quiet place to pen their first novels. I will visit all of the countrys that I dream about visiting, but have only come as close as googling.

And I can't help but think, what if? What if life passes me by, and I keep pro-longing all of these dreams and ambitions, and before you know it, one day has already come and gone, and i've done nothing. Made no impact on the literacy world. Or my bank balance.

The speed at which life is passing by scares me. It's already 2011, and two months have gone. Soon, before we know it, it'll be 2012, and we'll all be sat saying the exact same thing we say every New Year. Where did that last year go?

I want to change my life. To really make something of myself. I graduate from University this October. I want to prove to all those that have faith in me that i'm talented. That my scripts will be turned into award-winning films, and people will be queing round the bend just to be at my book signings.

I have incredibly high expectations from life, and I know that it doesn't owe us anything. In the words of Hayley James Scott, we probably owe something to the world. But I want a lot, I admit that. I want a wardrobe full of LouBoutin shoes. Maybe the odd Jimmy Choo or Blahnik. I want to wake up every day and get some kind of fan mail. And I want to feel like I have a purpose in life. That I made the best of myself, and that I fullfilled, or at least tried to make my dreams a reality.

So tomorrow morning, before I can say one day another time, i'm going to send out my submission to Curtis Brown, and hope, pray, and cross my fingers that someone in Curtis Brown sees my potential, and has faith.

Romance is Dead.

I think that i've well and truly lost faith in the entire male species. They're all the same; they play mind games.
It's not just enough for them to know that a girl likes them. They have to proceed to lead them on, dangling them on a rope as if they're some kind of fish, toying between the idea of keeping them, or throwing them back into the murky depths of water.
And an FYI to all men out there; it's getting boring.

Where is romance? Shakespere, Lord Byron, Romeo . . . where are the men like this? Men that express their infatuation, their lust, their love for women though their art, their work, their words. To make a woman feel wanted, and adored.


All I want it to meet someone that deserves all of my kindness, and passion.
Someone that won't use my traits to manipulate and take advantage.
It's probably too much to ask that he remains faithful, after all this is the twenty first century and the nearest to faithful we get is a relationship status update on facebook.

I want that big romance. I want the butterflies, and the huge smiles, and all of the other tidal wave of feelings.
I want him to occupy my mind all day long, making me giddy with excitement, and shy with nerves.
I want to spend hours kissing him, then look in the mirror and find our mouths are swollen.
I want to lay beside him and listen to him breathe as he plays with my hair.
I want to trust him without any ounce of doubt, knowing that even if the prettiest girl he'd ever seen just spoke to him, he wouldn't care, because he already has me. And that's enough.


It's a shame he doesn't exist.

Dirty Minds DO NOT Think Alike.

One thing that annoys me about girls, is the way they talk publically like absolute whores just to catch the attention of the opposite sex. It conforms to every sexist theory that women are only good for cooking, cleaning, and sex.

Years ago, women put their reputation, their pride, and their beliefs on a line to fight for us to be equal to men. To get equal wages. To work in the same work places as them. To mean something. They didn't go through all of that for women to dress without pride, displaying every inch of flesh possible without being arrested for indecent exposure. To see them talking like some kind of unpaid sex operator to anyone that shows them the slightest attention. For them to shed any ounce of shame, and to degrade themself in an attempt to be noticed, just to feel good about themselves.

So to those girls . . .
Use your intelligence, your intellect, your passions for life to speak for you. If you have the most amazing set of legs and want to show them off, do so. But cover up everything else. Less is more, and you can bare all, and for one night he might want you. But after that, he's had you. There's no expectation, there's nothing left to imagine, to lust . . . he tried before he even though of buying.

Being able to hold down a conversation is far more attractive than being an exhibitionist. I'm not saying you should adapt to life of a nun, or become a prude. Send him filthy texts, flirt your arse off, but make him want you. Seduce him with your personality. With how interesting you are. With your views, and beliefs. If you don't agree with him, say so.

Don't let your body do the speaking for you.

Pancake Day..

I don't know about anyone else, but I can take or leave Valentines Day. It's just a commercialized supposed 'holiday' where people feel like they have to be on the brink of bankruptcy just to show their partner how much they love them.
And then there's Easter. Now I'm not religious, and I never did understand how a chocolate egg came to represent how the oracle, Jesus, rose from the dead after being nailed to a cross for three days solid. But I usually view Easter as a time for us to binge on the 3 for £5 ASDA easter egg offer, constantly stuffing chocolate down our throats until the point of bodily comubustion. And then what? We spend days afterward feeling guilt, affraid to jump on the scales to see the damage we've brought upon our bodies.
But a day that I am only too willing to celebrate is Pancake Day. Now, I've never once in my twenty years of living, stuck to my lent vow,but I am only too willing to oblidge to the indulgance part of the fat, butter and eggs consumption which make up one of the most delicious foods; My mums pancakes.
Every year I practically starve my body of food until the time when my mum gets home from work, the cooker goes on and out come the bowls as she proceeds to whip up the batter mix.
And then my brother, Matt, and I face one another like some kind of sibling duel, as we battle to eat the most pancakes. He, blessed with a high matoblism that allows him to shovel food down his throat like we hide him under a cuboard all year long and starve him, and still resemble a rake, usually wins. But this year, pancake is a whole month late. Which means, i'm craving pancakes. Which means, come Pancake Day, Matthew O'Brien, it's war.