Here’s the thing.

Here’s the thing.

I want to hold you.

Maybe not even in a sexual way.

I want to hold you so much right now.

I want to take away that fear that I hear in your voice. I want to stomp back in time like Godzilla and right the fucking awful wrongdoings in your life.

I want to hit her so fucking hard that her teeth fall out. I want her to feel the fear and pain and shame that you’ve felt most of your life.

I want to make you smile. That water spilling out of the corner of your mouth kinda smile. I want to take a picture of it and frame it and look at it every time I doubt myself.

I want to be the person you message at 5:18am bleary-eyed. I want to be the person you message at 11:32pm drunk. I want to be the person you message when you’re happy and when you’re sad and when you’re inbetween.

I want to be the one who changes your mind and softens you. Don’t put up such a wall. I don’t want you to be Trump, I want you to be anything but.

I want to be the person you’re proud of. I will find ways to make you proud.

I want you to want to hold me. To love me. That’s the thing.


I, a 24 year old, love fanfiction.

There’s something about the crude details and the even cruder sentence structures that lures me back to fanfiction.

I have a couple of specifications that a piece of fanfiction must adhere to however:

  • It must be filthy. I don’t want to read a five chapter piece about a vanilla friendship. I want graphic descriptions of outlandish sex acts.
  • It has to be set on this planet. I haven’t got the mental capacity to imagine that it takes place on Mars. I can’t relate to Mars.
  • It has to be similar to the actual tv series/film. I don’t want it to be about two people that vaguely resemble their tv namesakes.

    Basically, I crave an x-rated version of events and I can happily say that the internet provides!

    I’ve tried writing fanfiction myself but my fiction is appalling and seems to revolve around unrealistic relationship expectations. 

    I went through a stage when I read fanfiction at least once a day and recently I’ve been looking at it at least once a week.

    Tell me this is acceptable.

    That sting.

    This week I’ve felt that sting a lot. (Not that water infection kinda sting, thank goodness!) I’ve felt that sting of hurt when someone has said something that I find offensive.

    A colleague told me that the only way I could have kids would be adoption (not true) and a friend undermined a situation which, for me, was very real and very serious but for her was little more than a passing phase.

    And so I feel stung.

    How does one deal with feeling stung?

    A year ago I would have been bitter and angry but, as anger is a secondary emotion, I want to allow myself to feel hurt.

    And boy do I hurt.

    I’m not very good at being hurt. I hate being vulnerable and I associated being hurt with being vulnerable. I struggle to, rationally, admit that something has upset me.

    Right now, I’d take a wasp sting over this emotional sting that is happening inside me. 


    Last week, I saw a video of people running away from the area where the terrorist act took place.

    One of those people running was a woman wearing a hijab.

    She was running for her life.

    She was running for her life yet some people will say that last week’s terror attack was an act carried out in her religion’s name.


    I am fed up of hearing such things.

    Every day millions of Muslims go to work and school and live their normal lives. They forget to get petrol on the way home and they help their kids with their homework and they fall asleep midway through a programme and have to watch it all over again. They tread on an upturned plug, have to untangle their headphones and they get crumbs in the butter. They miss work deadlines, get caught out in the rain not wearing a coat and they take their unwell pets to the vets.

    They lead normal fucking lives.

    Muslims are not terrorists. Muslims are people who believe in Islam.

    Terrorists are morons who do not represent a religion.

    No more intolerance. No more easy scapegoats. No more fear.

    More love, support and unity.

    Song of the week: week 33.

    This week’s song of the week is Gold by Ria Mae.

    I was lucky enough to see Tegan and Sara earlier this year and Ria was one of their support acts.

    Her stage presence is amazing and she’s cute which always helps! Gold is crazily catchy and is definitely a song to blast in the car.

    Places I’m drawn to. 

    My nan moved to a flat and out of the “family bungalow” about 6 years ago yet, for some reason, when I thought about visiting my nan today I was thinking of going to said bungalow. 


    I have loads of extremely happy memories from the bungalow; including hundreds of my grandad who died before my nan moved out. However, I also have unpleasant memories from it and I’m realistic to know that the building is just bricks.

    Having said that, when I found out she was selling the bungalow I was fuming. I had spent a lot of my childhood there and it felt like a second home to me. I would go there after school when my mum was working late and I’d had learnt to ride a bike in the back garden.

    But without my grandad it wasn’t the same.

    Her new flat, whilst spacious and light, is missing a presence for me.

    Similarly, I’m drawn to Derby where my paternal grandmother lives and where my dad spent a lot of time.

    I was talking to a friend recently and I expressed a yearning to go to Derby, even though I don’t feel like going there fulfils me. 

    “You’re looking for your dad.”, she said “But he’s not there.”

    It’s true. He’s not there. Pictures of him are scattered everywhere and half of the person who created him is there but he isn’t.

    I stopped myself from making a last minute hotel booking in Derby recently and the yearning to go has gone.

    I feel like Derby is where I run away to when my actual life (the monotony of work and the stress of relationships) gets too much. 

    So how do I find peace with all of this loss and no substance to fill the space? 

    Lying to my therapist.

    On Monday, I lied to my therapist. 

    It was the first time I have intentionally lied to her in the hope that she wouldn’t think I’m a bad person. 

    I realise this is flawed, and I shall list why now:

    • She is, as far as I know, pretty damn objective and I don’t think she’d judge me.
    • She doesn’t believe that people are “good” or “bad”; she understands the complexity of humans and knows that people are more than a three or four letter word.
    • Even if she did think I was “bad” she certainly wouldn’t tell me.

      Some people might say that it shows some disharmony between the two of us if I’m willing to lie to her but, instead, I’d suggest it shows disharmony within myself.

      I’ve just sent her a text telling her that I faced one of my fears this morning. I’ll face the rest of them next week.