And right now.

And right now I’m overwhelmed and it’s stupid. I want to tell you that I already feel like I’m in too deep but you’ve barely dipped your toes in the metaphorical water and I feel like you’d drown.

I get the impression that I’m suffocating like a water surge. I’m overpowering and constant and that shit is heavy.

Water is heavy. I am heavy. I am water.

You’d be rolling your eyes at this analogy so I’m glad you’ll never read it. 

I am honestly so genuinely thankful that you’ll never understand the extent to which I like you.

I mean it’s painful and eventually it’ll take over my ability to talk to you like a normal human being but right now it’s manageable and I can put more than four words together and they make sense.

I’m inclined to say that sometimes you’ve felt the same way but also I’m aware that you probably haven’t. 

I just kinda want you to realise how incredible I think you are. 

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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.

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. 

Why?

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? 

Just me.

My therapist asked me what I could offer to my friends. I felt targeted. I felt like it was a leading question. 

I began to say how I shared the same sense of humour with my friends and that we had been through a lot together. She told me that she wasn’t looking for an answer like that.

I felt angry.

She explained that friendships are either one person depending on another or two people running parallel lives to each other. She hinted that I had a lot of friendships where I relied on people but I said that the opposite was true.

She then went on to ask me what I had to offer my friends if we did lead parallel lives. We no longer lived in each other’s pockets because of school and we had less in common because of our respective careers.

I froze. I had nothing to offer.

Then I cried.

She changed the subject but I thought about it by myself for the next week.

One day, it hit me. I had me to offer.

I am unique and that alone is a lot to bring to a friendship. 

I may not be able to talk to my friends in depth about their jobs and their relationships and their experiences but that doesn’t mean that I don’t offer them anything.

I think my therapist did that deliberately; she wanted me to realise that I am enough. 

I am enough.

Just me.

Not so sober October.

This year, I vowed to do sober October with a friend from work. Last night me and said friend had a drink. Well I had more than one but that’s another story.

At about half one in the morning I decided that Ben and Jerry’s ice cream was needed and that it would go well with some cream. So, I had ice cream and cream. Dairy overload.

For a while, I felt sick and very dizzy but, once the cloud of cider began to drift, I used my awake time wisely and evaluated my life. Here is how I scored.

p>Diet – Currently: 2 out of 10, before 9pm yesterday: 8 out of 10. The diet is going pretty well and I’m starting to enjoy going to the gym. Yes, I do know what I just said and, yes, I did mean it.

Christmas present buying – 9 out of 10. I have out done myself this year. Not only are the majority of presents bought, they are also lying dormant in labelled bags for each person.

Love life – minus 12 out of 10. Basically non-existent and not looking hopeful. Apparently the fact that I can nearly lick my own elbow isn’t a key attribute women look for…

Overall life score – 5 out of 10? I’m striving in some areas and failing in others.

At least now I can comfort myself with alcohol. Goodbye sober October, you were naff.

ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK – A REVIEW.

Wow.

I could describe the entire series in just that one word but that would be very boring for you and very lazy of me.

I didn’t have high expectations for OITNB for three reasons:

  1. I had to get a Netflix account to watch it.
  2. I don’t like being told what to watch.
  3. I’m not a huge fan of prison dramas.

But I can honestly say that I’m glad I put these three things aside and watched it because… wow.

Because some of you are yet to watch it (and I envy those of you who are seeing it for the first time through fresh, hungry eyes) I won’t go into too much detail about what actually happens as I don’t want to ruin it for you so, if you haven’t seen it yet, you can read this review safe in the knowledge that there won’t be spoilers.

It’s not often that a series can make me laugh, cry and stay up until 2 in the morning watching it but OITNB did just that. I cried for both good and bad reasons and sometimes it crept up on me and sometimes I knew I would end up a blubbering mess.

You only have to look up OITNB gifs on Google to see how quotable the entire series is and see that there is humour in almost every minute of it. If you were looking for a hard, factual, gruesome prison drama look elsewhere.

I have never watched a series so avidly before, and I’ve definitely not given up hours of my precious sleep for it but OITNB is addictive and so fast paced that you won’t feel like you’ve lost half a day watching it. (I recommended it to a friend of mine and she got through the entire series (13 episodes) in less than a week.)

What I love most about it is the realness. Yes, it was based on a real book by a real woman about her real sentence at a prison in America but often these “reality” based programmes are dramatised and exaggerated. You see the back story to almost every key character and this helps to build an understanding of them and why they’re there which is what drove me to tears on many occasions: most of the women are good women who have made mistakes.

This series not only challenges perceptions of prison but also class, race, gender and sexuality amongst other themes such as age, position of power and drugs. Whatever your opinion on these topics, I think you’ll find it hard not to be moved by the stories that portray them.

I could write about OITNB all day (if you like this review and want me to write another where I look at the storylines closer and reveal spoilers then let me know!) but I’m going to leave you with one simple instruction: watch it. I don’t care if you have to get a Netflix account or borrow a friends’ laptop or watch it after a 12 hour shift. And, if you’ve watched it before, watch it again (although I’m sure you need no prompting to do that!).

I’ve been drunk and thinking a lot recently.

I haven’t blogged for a while (which a couple of my friends mentioned to me) and I feel like I owe you an explanation. The only real reason is that I am lazy but have good intentions; something I’m pretty sure my teachers said about me at school.

So I was having a little scout around my old diaries trying to find a particular entry and, instead, I came across one where I seem to be struggling to explain how I feel about women. At this point, I know I like women and have come out to a few people but, alone at night and doing some deep thinking, I try and rationalise how I’m feeling; and it doesn’t end well. I won’t include the passage as it contains plenty of swear words and, in all honesty, it’s a bit embarrassing. However, in light of recent conversations and thoughts I decided it would be a good idea to think about what I would say now to the younger me, hunched over my diary, scribbling away furiously at 11 at night (that was very late for me then – don’t judge!).

Let’s go.

You know, kid, they’ll come a day when you’ll be sitting in your friend’s car and you’ll be more than a little bit drunk and Macklemore’s “Same love” with come on the radio and you’ll be furious. Not because you don’t like the song though – you’ll be angry because the radio presenter will say his name wrong. But it kind of won’t matter in the grand scheme of things because your friend will say, almost to herself,  “I really like this song” and, even though you know all the words, you only sing a few lines because you kind of like hearing your friend sing a bit. Because she sent you a link to it on Facebook because she knew you’d like it. And it doesn’t stop there.

One of your friends will be able to list at least three Tegan and Sara songs and she’ll know the difference between stone butch and soft butch and you’ll wonder why you were ever worried about coming out to her. I mean come on kid, she knew from the beginning; and I can bet you she’ll be there to the end.

You’ll have a conversation with two straight friends about sexual fluidity and you’ll realise that you’re not the only person who thinks that it’s possible to love outside of your “normal” gender preference and you’ll realise that if you three think the same then it’s likely to a lot of others do too.

Your friends are at a pub across town and you’ll walk there and tell them what’s happened and how you feel used and how you have no faith in women anymore and they’ll hug you, make you laugh and offer to buy you more drinks until you’ve lost your key but you don’t care because you have a group of people dancing to “Play hard” to get back to.

It’s one in the morning and you ring your friend and cry down the phone to him. He’s barely awake but he still manages to humour you as you ramble on about how shit you feel and how drunk you are and how you actually really liked this one or how upsetting it is that she’ll never like you back because she’s straight. He listens, not because he has to but because he wants to.

One Sunday you’ll text your manager about a Facebook message from a woman. Not many managers would be willing to talk to their twenty year old employee about their lesbian near miss. It’s a shame it was a near miss, because it wasn’t a near miss in my mind – just a miss for me.

And so right now you can’t explain how you feel but you don’t really have to because in five years’ time people will know you and they’ll get you. They’ll understand what you’re trying to say by the way you sigh or the way you look longingly at that woman. And they won’t care. They want you to be happy, regardless of what makes you happy. They’ll moan about the women that let you down the same way they rant about the men that have screwed them around and it’ll just feel right. It’ll all be alright.