I’m a giver.

Friend: “If I was in your situation what would you tell me to do?”
Me: “I’d tell you to walk away”
Friend: “Well then…”

It’s so damn easy to dish out the advice like I’m in some kind of mass produced fast food restaurant. “Order 201 here is your meal of ‘he’s obviously moved on’ with a side helping of ‘have enough respect for yourself to walk away, it’s his loss’. Enjoy your day, if you need anymore fish the sea is over to your right”. Advice is better given than received. It always tastes sour, off, especially when you know they’re right. EEEEEUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHH *SPITS OUT THE “YOU CAN DO SO MUCH BETTER” SPEECH*

Take mine.
I won’t take yours.
Nothing personal.
I’m more of a giver than a receiver.
You dirty minded lot. There’s a time and place for that shit guys, grow up.

Love you..

Questionable questions.

Are we afraid of being without them?
Are we afraid of being alone?

That’s the question.

On a lighter note I was just writing a text message that included ‘I’ll do’ in it and just because I forgot to add one little space between those two words, my phone spelt ‘dildo’. Dirty fucker. It’s too late for that shit.

Luck, problems and a possible sex change.

I create my own luck.
I create my own problems too.

If only I was a man and couldn’t multitask. I think I’d love my life a bit more. I’d also never have to push anything out of my unmentionables and never admit that I’m wrong. Of course I’m being stereotypical here, not with regards to the labour thing though..you really can’t do that. Just incase you didn’t know.

Monday night issues.

That’s the problem with wearing a giant baby grow, you have to time toilet breaks perfectly. You almost need to know you’ll need the toilet before your bladder does. Three minutes ago I was doing the toilet dance across my landing. For those of you that aren’t familiar with this, this is a dance that consists of: crouching, the crossing of legs, hopping, occasional jumping and galloping. Bit of ‘ooooooo’ing and ‘bloody hell’ing too but that’s optional.
I thought it was too late.
I thought it was game over.
Turns out I made it.
My first thought was ”I must buy a onesie with a zip for easier access”. It should’ve been “stop wearing giant baby clothes, act your age and wear normal pjs you idiot”. Naa screw that, eBay do rabbit onesies! With zips! Get in!

The last note.

So here is the last, promised, piece that I wrote for the novel:

I can remember everything. Is that normal? Is that obsessive? I can remember it all. The first kiss. It was slow, lingering and meaningful. The whole world stopped as I closed my eyes and it hurts too much to admit that I’ll never feel that intoxicated by someone ever again. Never. I’m roaming around looking for an answer, a way out, a way of making me stop wanting him, us. But what happens if I do find the answer? Am I going to grab it with both hands? Or am I going to bury it and pretend I never saw it? Am I trying to convince myself that I’m moving forward whilst I’m looking over my shoulder? Am I? Am I trying to prove to myself that I don’t need him when every part of me wants to run to him because he feels like home?
He makes me feel like a woman and a little girl all at once. The way he looked at me, like I was someone you know? Like I meant something. Can that type of love ever be over? The type of love that makes you weak enough to surrender and strong enough to fight? Can it just be over? Maybe. Or maybe it’s unfinished business. I know I’ll love him for the rest of my life and I’ll never let it go. I’ll never be over him.

So here it is. My last lickle bit of writing. The publisher may well scrap it or alter it but what comes from the heart can never be wrong.

My good deed.





I’ve finished my stint as guest writer in my friend’s novel. Thoroughly enjoyed the experience which can only be described as heartbreakingly therapeutic. The last piece I wrote is coming your way tonight. I collected quotes for inspiration and these four are now in my scrap book. I’m not sure why but they make me feel closer to whatever it is I’m looking for in life. I also love words. It’s handy I’m an English teacher. Y’know all that ‘enjoy your job’ shit.

Ps…still haven’t been to ANY museums. FML.

A lesbian pussy.

“Been out tonight?”
“No, night in tonight”
“Pussy. Go out and get fucked”.

I’ll tell you who can get fucked. What is it with people and their opinions of your life? Why does one night in mean I’m boring? Why does this person even have to exist? Why are words coming out their mouth into my direction?

Anyway…in other news my mum found a piece of folded up A4 paper in my room the other day. Sounds pretty harmless. Except this piece of paper had the word ‘sensual’ on it. Me and a friend had to drop random words into a conversation one week, to spice up a training session, and mine was ‘sensual’. Mum looked at me, then at the paper, raised her eyebrows and said: “I’m not even going to ask”.

It was a game.
Don’t judge me!
I’m not a sexual predator or a sex pest.

I then thought this would be a great reply: “oh no me and *insert girls name* were playing a game….”

Tops up she now thinks I’m a lesbian.

So I’m a pussy and a lesbian. All in one week. I reckon this is fates way of saying: “NO MORE MEN”. And that is fine by me.

Aimee and Craig.


Bloody know it all.
I’ve chosen to walk away (cue Craig David) and you can go ahead and think I’m a coward but I can honestly hold my hands up and say that I did everything I could to be the right person. The good person. The shoulder. The heart. The two feet on the ground. Truth is, I’m exhausted. Tired. Defeated.

And so….

As one door closes, somewhere there opens a window. To a great big shopping centre with Mulberry handbags, cupcakes and homemade lemonade with those vintage paper straws that everybody knows will disintegrate but buys anyway to upload onto Instagram. “Let’s be vintage” they say. No “Let’s be a fucking idiot and ruin our drinks for the sake of creating the illusion that we’re ‘Insta-cool’ “.

Ps. Still haven’t been to a museum yet. Being cultural takes planning. Eugh.

Embracing me.


I read a self appreciation article today. It was all about accepting who you are and not beating yourself up for being something other than the perfect vision. So here I am. I have curly natural hair that wasn’t burnt that night with hair appliances and here I am in New York enjoying an oversized meal because it’s okay to eat. Here I am smiling because pouting makes me feel like I’m a prat but it’s okay to show emotion. I’m not a wax work or a poxy blow up latex doll.

I’ll never be ‘perfect’ in society.
Fucking good job.
Society and it’s judgemental eyes can go to hell.
You are who you are.

Happy mountainous endings.

Are you happy?
That’s a huge question.
Happiness. Happy-ness. Happy. Ness. Are you?
Am I?
Is she?
Are they?
Will I be?
Do you think God made things a mystery so he could sit on his golden throne and laugh at us mere mortals? Trying to figure shit out like it’s going to miraculously make everything better if and when we do?
I bet he does. Staring into his mystic ball, plotting someone else’s destiny, planting great big fucking mountains just before you get to the happy ending to stop anyone from believing it can be that easy.

I’m getting a grip.
I’m still going to the museum.
And you should feel somewhat honoured that you experienced two blog posts in one day.

I’m done.
In fact I’m over done.