Twenty Being

Yet another blog about a twenty-something coming to the realisation that being twenty-something is shit. 

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[thrillervevo]

[bi-villain]

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Netflix & Chill the fuck out

Mercury is in retrograde, I am still single.

Apparently, when Mercury is in retrograde, issues in communication are rife. Oh fab, I thought - he hasn’t text me back because of planetary alignment, not because he’s a dick! What a relief. It’s not him, It’s Mercury.

Something niggled me, however, and made me want to dig deeper. No, he won’t get off that easily. I know, I’ll read my horoscope! That’ll shed some clear, omniscient light over all of this.

Haha good one. What a fucking joke.

I should point out that Horoscopes aren’t my gig, I haven’t read one since the days of pre-teen mags with free body glitter. Turns out they still aren’t my gig. My twenty-something self doesn’t appreciate their condescending, must-try-harder tone.

The first one said something about a career change blah blah but don’t actually do it because Mercury is in retrograde IT’LL BE A BIG MISTAKE. Great. Top tip.

The next one said something similar. Mercury is in retrograde DON’T LEAVE THE HOUSE. DON’T LOOK AT YOUR PHONE. BOARD UP YOUR LETTERBOX JUST IN CASE.

So far, all this is doing is confirming why I don’t read horoscopes. What a load of heebie jeebie nonsense.

The third (and final) one took it to another level, however. Personal, catty even.

“You could meet a potential love interest later in the week, but you have to put yourself out there - You won’t find the one sat in bed watching Netflix.”

Meow.

Alright, valid point. I’ll put on some red lipstick, down a bottle of wine and find a man who WILL text me back in spite of the moon and the stars.

I did find a man, he did text me back - whilst he was drunk and trying to get me to go to a strip club with him. He stopped texting me back the next morning when he apparently remembered he had a girlfriend (confirmed by some expert stalking on my behalf).

Turns out I should have soul-searched a bit closer to home, on planet earth. Mercury might be in retrograde and I might still be waiting on that text back, but a friend saw through the mystic fog and came to the rescue with this gem: -

“The One is probably also sat at home watching Netflix so even if you do go out, he won’t be there.”

I wonder what Mercury has to say about that.

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[etsyifyourenasty]

Fresh To Death

[corporateslut]

that rare moment when a guy actually knows what he’s doing in bed

and you’re like

[quarterlifepoetry-blog]

[twentybeing-blog]

Amen.

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Karen summing up my post from yesterday spectacularly.

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Modern Romance

I am not a romantic person. I have never had a committed relationship. I once attempted to love a man and it was a terrible mistake.

 Every time I see a man carrying a bunch of flowers the first thought that pops into to my head is, “He’s shagging someone behind his birds back.”

 So no, a fairy-tale romance, or even bog-standard romance, is not something I’d concern myself with.

 But that’s not to say I’ve stitched my vagina shut and won’t entertain a mans advances after the best part of a bottle of wine. Quite the opposite in fact.

 The problem is that once you tell a man you’ve never had a boyfriend, but you’re comfortable in your sexuality, that romantic gestures make you cringe and compromising the way you live your life for a man who happened to swipe right on tinder is akin to tattooing ‘mug’ on your forehead they seem to give up.

 They give up trying. They give up treating you with basic human decency because you dare challenge the storyline fed to you from before you could talk.

 I am not a princess who needs saving from an ivory tower. Nor am I a bitter hag destined to live with nothing but eight mangy cats for company. I am a twenty-something woman who dreams of nothing more than being shown the respect I deserve.  

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Pizazz

A year or two ago my partner in crime and closest ally lost her pizazz. A bad breakup, essay stress and a job waitressing at the Holiday Inn sucked it right out of her.  This girl invented pizazz. No one did it like her. And then all of a sudden it was gone.

 I had no choice but to put my best friend boots on and fix this. So I made her a jar of what I term ‘metaphorical pizazz’ – a jar of sparkly bits of shit to you. It was supposed to represent the pizazz that was in her and needed to resurface. The pizazz that made her the most confident, outrageous, emphatic girl I knew and who I selfishly needed back asap.

 The jar stayed on her desk for the rest of the year; it followed her back to uni the next year and is with her still to this day. That jar of tinfoil, marbles, glitter and confetti from inside a Christmas card is more than a souvenir from a more naïve time – it’s a poorly packaged reminder for you to keep doing you, because no one else is going to, it’s a reminder that somewhere deep inside you there’s a well of magic and even though it might not seem like it, that magic is always simmering away, ready to spill over.

 I could do with my own jar of pizazz right now. I’m going through a pizazz drought. It’s in there; there wouldn’t be life without it. I just need to dig a little deeper.