Sex Education: A little more conversation, A little more action please.

Sex. We’re all sort of doing it- whether it’s with ourselves, or each other (Sorry you had to find out this way Mum). But none of us are talking about it. And by talking about it I don’t mean commenting how you’d “love to have a go on that ass bby 😜😍🍑🍆💦” underneath girls’ Insta pics (seriously, please stop doing that). I mean really talking about it. The real shit. The “Am I doing this right?” or the “I’m not doing it at all” shit. Which is why when Netflix’s new teen phenomenon “Sex Education” premiered last month the entire female generation collectively let out a sigh of relief when it highlighted the groundbreaking revelation that yes, girls totally masturbate too.

Tainted by societal views for centuries (although I’m damn right sure the Tudor’s did some freaky shit in their dungeons, we’ve all seen the tv shows) the arousing stigma that sex is something we should be ashamed of has penetrated– ahem – our soul from a young age. For the day you’re gifted your first training bra from Kylie at Mackays at the tender age of 10 years old, your parents begin to drill into you that sex is bad and you mustn’t do it because yes, you guessed it- you will get pregnant, and die (thanks for that nugget of wisdom Coach Carr). You’re told sex is a grown-ups game which they only engage in for the sole purpose of creating babies and not for any other reason like because it might actually be quite… nice? Gulp. You spend your whole adolescence being force fed by your parents and teachers the idea that buttering the muffin is bad, it’s dangerous, it’s irresponsible- all the while whilst your raging teen hormones are trying to tell you otherwise and you’re being exposed to the other extreme of the spectrum in the shape of blue waffle and two-girls-one-cup at the back of the school bus (it really is a rights of passage). Your token one-off sex ed’ class involves your form teacher demonstrating once, and once only, how to stretch a condom over a banana, whilst a class sheet is passed around detailing how if you ever want to engage in sexual contact, the likelihood is you’re going to catch gonorrhoea- and die. Do you see a theme here? It all ends up being really handy info’ that you definitely remember when you get down to the nitty gritty of a drunken Saturday night/ Sunday morning fumble five years on. Of course, you’re not expecting your parents to shout it from the roof top that dancing the devil’s dance could actually be quite fun- after all, what do they know about bumping uglies, you were dropped off by a stork and we’ll leave it at that shall we? But what ‘Sex Education’ so gallantly provided was exactly that, actual sex education. Not birds and the bee’s, or wooden penises and diagrams. But confused feelings of sexuality, the desperate hunt to lose your virginity, exploring queerness and how an abortion is not the end of the World.

Illustration by Anna Hardstaff

I’m convinced that my early development into womanhood *insert soon to exist period emoji here* rumbled up some confused and curious thoughts in me as a teen. By Year 5 I was bunking off school swimming lessons because boys in my year would laugh at my boobs when I performed backstroke; Whilst in Year 6 the girls would quip that I must’ve been for a numero dos because I was taking so long in the bathroom- not knowing I had to fish around my school bag for the emergency period supply kit my mum had packed for me just incase. Fast forward through a few years of being exposed to high-school life, hormones and and an endless supply of teenage boys and I remember feeling as if me and my not-so-teen-like body were ready to tackle adulthood, when in reality I had just tackled my GCSE subject choices. At 15 I was sitting in an Art class when my phone buzzed with a text informing me that my semi-clothed pics that I had stupidly, and rather passively, sent to a boy a year older than me had been blue-toothed to everyone in the sixth-form centre, and beyond. Nothing prepares you for walking down the corridor knowing everyone in the school has seen you in your hand-bra (no nips thank you, that really was an exclusive for ZOO). Although this experience probably helped prepare me for walking down the street and knowing everyone really has seen my tit pics. That’s spiritual growth for you. But the contrast in the passiveness and somewhat feeling of empowerment and joy of which I sent them, to the shame and gut-wrenching “my parents are going to kill me” which engulfed me in their exposé were an important reflection of what I was actually feeling, to how society was teaching me how to feel. Of course I was underage, so it was bad and my parents were rightfully pissed off, I get that. But the bottom line is that sex is inevitable. We’re all probably gonna do it. And if we’re not doing it, we’re certainly exposed to it. Perhaps if it were acceptable to be more open, and we were given more chances to chat about how we really feel, and informed of what is totally normal to feel, instead of all the ghastly repercussions that could come from it- we wouldn’t be seeking answers and exploring it’s rabbit holes in quite so unsavoury ways (Fess’ Up, who else used to secretly watch Sexcetra as a teen?). Basically, we could all do with a little more Maeve and a lot more Otis in our lives. And don’t forget about Eric either.

This theory doesn’t just lend itself to school life. From University and morning-after pills, to Adulthood and One-night stands- Sex comes part and parcel of exploring this thing that we call life. As sexually charged and somewhat freaky mammals, we are forever expanding our knowledge, our kinks, our fetishes and our feelings around the big event. What is groundbreaking for me about ‘Sex Education’ is it’s representation across the board of not just sex, but the sub-topics in which that feed into it- such as religion, sexuality and childhood trauma. Having a safe space to speak out about sex without having ‘JeSs Is A sLaG” scrawled into a toilet door or being labelled as frigid is a concept that could benefit those across genders and generation’s. Because let’s be honest, getting all your tips from Fake Taxi or Babe Station isn’t the greatest way to bag you a bang (you can have that tip for free boys, you’re welcome). It’s time to flick a condom in the face of the stigma associated with Sex and show a ‘Maeve special’ middle finger to the shame and dirtiness that surrounds it. One visit to Otis’ six clinic at a time.


Series 1 of “Sex Education” is available now on Netflix- I promise you, you won’t regret it.

New Year: Don’t Look Back in Anger

As the year draws to a close I’ve found myself musing over the past 12 months and torturing myself on what didn’t quite go to plan. “This will be my year” is a phrase which has penetrated my vocabulary and exposed itself simultaneously each time January comes back around. The notion that the clock strikes midnight on December the 31st and shunts a “new you” into formation is an idea in which I have indulged in through the seek of pleasure and to rid past disappointments. January the 1st has become a metaphor in so many of our lives; A scapegoat to the trials and tribulations of the past 365 days in which we barely kept our heads above the water. “This year will be different”. We thrust all our hopes and dreams which have built up over past ages into a new realm, beaming with the possibility that things won’t go to shit over the next 13 moon cycles. But what if this approach is only setting us up for failure? You see, the issue which has evolved within me of the decrepit catchphrase “New Year, New me” is that behind it’s glossy and buoyant exterior is the underlying notion that there was ever something wrong with the old me, the matured me, the battered and bruised through approximately 9,371 days on this planet me.

When things are going good, then it’s fucking great. That awe-inspiring feeling of your avenue into eternal happiness finally laying it’s marble tiles in alignment with your dreams. I’ve been on this path way and skipped up my sunflower-lined avenue many of times in my 1338 weeks on this earth. I’ve planted trees across the Atlantic and smelt the roses as far away as Tahiti. I’ve scattered my petals across publishing houses and studio sets, and swam in the most crystal of seas. I’ve rooted myself amongst some of the finest flower beds on this Universe, entangling myself with a unique array of species I now call my best friends. But whilst burying myself in a rabbit hole of disappointment this year, I almost forgot the tunnels in which I have ran. 2016 was a specifically good year for me. One in which I continue to reminisce on whilst stealing any potential future happiness through comparison, with thoughts that nothing will ever live up to those first-time experiences and fire-igniting discoveries within myself. Anything since then has just been catch up. A chase in which to reach the end of the rainbow that I potted approximately 36 months ago. I’ve read that some of the lowest points for young adults often affect the most ambitious. Those who set their bar so high that they are destined to fall before they can fly.

We live in a culture where we are obsessed with setting goals and achieving things; With living our lives as if they are a shopping list, ticking off buying a house and getting married like you’re picking up bread and milk from the supermarket. But our lives are not lists and our journeys do not begin with a trolley and some eggs. Our avenues are not always tiled in marble but paved with cracks and missing stones. A year of setbacks or failing to manifest everything on your calendar within the given space of 525,600 minutes should not be cast down as defeat. Of course having ambition and a vision for what you are going to work towards is a healthy and important aspect of life. It ignites the fire in our bellies and wraps us in purpose, but we must not endorse it as our only purpose.

A handful of some of the highlights of my year ❤️

What I have come to realise this year is that we are so much more than the house, the car, the job, the relationship, the baby, the holiday. We have wasted not one of our 31,536,000 seconds this year. This was our year because we are still here. I was prepared to look back on this year as a write off, a crestfallen chapter to my happy ever after. I placed all my value on my goals and achieving professional and material status. I haven’t done this so I can’t be that. Next year I will be this so I can be that. I was willing so fruitfully to toss aside 365 mornings of waking up alive and healthy as a failure, because I have not reached the industry level that I so nobly set upon myself 365 evenings ago. But whilst my shopping list may not have been complete, I have sank my roots much deeper than they were 52 weeks ago and added an immeasurable and invaluable ring of experience to the pattern of my life. I have spread my pollen further, scattered my petals wider and planted my seeds in a bottomless pot of endless opportunity for growth and hope.

This year saw me pick up a bike for the first time in thirteen years and cycle across France on an invaluable memory making journey with my Dad, whilst raising funds for a wonderful charity. For my 25th Birthday, I raised a glass of bubbles in Beverly Hills with two of my best friends and danced front row at Coachella to some of the World’s most talented artists, surrounded by people I love. I have watched my relationships with my family grow to a deeper level through strength and resilience as we drew closer whilst loving, and losing, the head of our small dynasty. As cliche as it may sound, I have laughed harder and smiled wider with my friends than ever before- seriously, you all fucking rock. I have (occasionally) beat my inner procrastination monkey to finally set up this blog (That IS something I can tick off the shopping list!) and although I have slipped off some stepping stones along the way, I have never given up on chasing my dream; I have never given up on the old me. This January I won’t be saying hello to the new me, but commit to watering the 25 rings of my life with love and gratitude; Preparing to sprout new buds of abundance and seasoning my avenue with lessons learnt, filling in the cracks one marble tile at a time.

Raise a glass of bubbles to your personal achievements of the last 12 months, however big or small, and remember it’s okay to pat yourself on the back and remind yourself of how far you’ve come in- even if that is just waking up this morning.

Cheers to you!

Happy New Year!

X

Naked and Free: Why are you so afraid of sexually liberated women?

It’s the oldest story in the book, and I’m about sick of bloody telling it. Man sees women’s body, sexualises it, fine. Women has women’s body, sexualises it, not fine. The male gaze is a theory developed many years ago by Laura Mulvey and its core beliefs are still present to this day; simply put this is the concept in which women are represented and presented as mere sex objects for the pleasure of- and by – the heterosexual male viewer/audience. From film, tv, magazines and adverts- (my fave thing ever is the spoof ad by Women’s suit company ‘Suistudio‘ which depicts women in suits with naked men, directly touching upon the representation of women as naked objects in fashion ads) a women and her body has often been used to sell products and garner attention. Sex sells we are so often told. But what happens when the power balance flips and the women decide to take control of their sexuality; freely and openly objectifying themselves and using their body for financial gain? Well, they’re all tramps of course.

Little Mix “Strip” Artwork

Last week saw Piers- I will say anything controversial to please Daily Mail readers – Morgan take an un-necessary and uncalled for (like all of his opinions) swipe at girl band Little Mix for posing naked- bar insults they’ve received scribbled all over their bodies- to highlight body-shaming issues in society (oh the irony of his anger towards this specific campaign) and to promote their new single “Strip”; a song which encourages women to embrace and love their bodies with the lyrics “Finally love me naked, I’m sexiest when I’m confident”. Piers shared that “young female pop stars shouldn’t have to use nudity to sell records” claiming it was tacky and going as far as to tell one member to “put some clothes on, if she has any”…. original Piers, really original. He pretended to show concern for their young fans whilst shaming the trailblazing young women that they look up to, all in a lousy attempt to hide his misogynistic views that women’s bodies are something to be ashamed of and their sexuality damaging to young girls. In fact unbeknownst to the old Oaf, his attack only highlighted the underbelly of Little Mix’s campaign that women are constantly attacked and made to feel ashamed about their bodies. Point proven, Good one bruh. But in a World shit-scared of sexually liberated women, Little Mix aren’t the first female popstar’s to be targeted and shamed for their public display of sexuality.

For as long as my FizzTV watching, 12 year old self can remember, popstar’s like Britney Spears and Nicki Minaj have been writhing around my tv screen like the sexy, bad-ass women that they are. From crop top’s and hip slingin’ jeans to bikini’s and thongs, the women of pop have embraced their sexuality through their outfit choices and provocative dance moves, choosing to own their objectification- which would have been thrust upon them regardless -in a historically male-dominated industry, and cashed those cheque$$$$ in the process honey. But the glory years of women in pop (will we ever be gifted someone quite like Rihanna again?) have been tainted with criticism that these explorations of sensuality from ‘supposed role-models’ are damaging our gender with the ever-impending doom of being viewed as sex objects. Actress and writer Rashida Jones whipped up a controversial conversation on twitter a couple of years ago where she called out female popstar’s, asking them to reign in their sexiness and as she so politely put it- to ‘#stopbeingwhores’. Seriously? Who’s setting women back now? *huge fucking eyeroll* Other women engaged in the conversation, chipping in with opinions such as “There’s a big difference in being proud to be a woman and selling yourself” and “What ever happened to class and leaving something to the imagination?” Hey guys, the 1920’s called, they want their views back. Whilst Rashida has since shared her horror at the backlash and insisted “there is a difference between shaming and holding someone accountable”, this hypocrisy of attempting a call to arms amongst the female community by slagging off their fellow peers and labelling them derogatory sexual terms- an angle which is so often taken up by other women in the name of “Feminism” – is an attempt at ‘girl power’ I will never be able to understand.

Ironically, in comparison to everyone’s uproar of female pop artists, my first recollection of seeing semi-naked women in the media was when I loaded 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” single into my PC and a music video featuring Fiddy writhing around with topless women in a bath full of melted chocolate played on my screen. I was around thirteen at the time and I remember instantaneously ejecting the CD whilst coming to the realisation this song was not about licking actual lollipop’s at all, swiftly hiding it under a huge pile of STEPS CD’s and praying my mum never found my new found stash of soft-core music vids. I have to say, Britney Spears oiled up in a bralet and trousers, belly dancing whilst holding a snake didn”t quite have the same long term effect. If you’re searching for somewhere to direct your anger, aim it at the music industry, the executives, the agents, the consumer’s, the male rapper’s who use 50 naked girls in their music video whilst grinding with their tops off and calling them hoes. But aiming your anger towards those who are fighting similar battles as you are in society whilst attempting to break their own glass ceiling is just plain lazy, and to be honest it’s exhausted.

Oh the hypocrisy: Where’s the outcry?

In other “We hate women being sexy” news, last week saw Australian Lingerie brand Honey Birdette face backlash after releasing their Christmas campaign. Not new to criticism for using provocative images, Honey Birdette have often been targeted for their sexy campaigns and shop-window displays, with a petition calling for their ad’s to be banned labelling the pics “porn-style advertising” and “hyper-sexualised”. One big issue which separates this brand from others is that they concentrate on women’s pleasure and sexuality as their selling point. DING DING DING, there goes the women enjoying sex alarm. Best put a stop to that immediately. Women’s groups and journalists alike have attacked the brand for “giving in to sexualised images”, immediately labelling them as derogatory for women, damaging to children and giving us all a bad name. One journalist in her critique towards the brand, saw her reference the recent case in Ireland in which a young rape victim had her choice of lace underwear used against her as a sign of consent, in her argument that this women’s underwear company needs to “have a responsibility to ensure their products- and their marketing campaigns- are socially acceptable” adding how the case “shows in the minds of many men, and some women, sexy underwear equals consent” Sorry, but What The Fuck? These people are so terrified of women being sexual beings that they are claiming lingerie brands should take some form of responsibility for their products and the supposed ‘message’ they give out. The same said critic also added that the image included “a good percentage of side labia” – if the crease which joins your leg to your groin is a labia then we’ve all been walking around swimming pools with our labia’s hanging out for fucking decades. Go back to sex ed’ class love, and give yourself a fondle whilst you’re at it, you might find out you quite enjoy it.

One of the images involved in the backlash to Honey Birdette’s Campaigns

Throw in Chrissy Teigen’s tweet about teem mom star Farrah- “Farrah Abraham now thinks she’s pregnant from her sex tape. In other news you’re a whore and everyone hates you.” and it’s clear to see that women are our own worst enemy when it comes to respecting each other’s sexual prowess. Chrissy continued her twitter tirade stating “Does calling this ‘slut shaming’ make you feel better? Like pulling the bully card? Ladies: you aren’t a super feminist for okaying super whores.” Ugh, sorry Chrissy, but I just can’t stan you on this one. For one, you’re best friends with Kim Kardashian so any validity when mentioning a sex tape and being a whore is void on your behalf… and two, why do you give a shit about another woman’s sex life enough to publicly shame and embarrass her for the sake of a few retweets? SURE the Farrah tape is a little, shall we say, explicit, but can’t a woman just live out her porn-star fantasy without being labelled an above-average whore?! Whether that be on one of the World’s most popular porn site’s or after a frisky Friday night down the local, this judgement and ridiculing has got to stop.

But seriously, does it ever occur to these critics that some women like to feel sexy? That some women enjoy being sexy? That some women like to wear sexy lingerie- or nothing at all- to empower themselves rather than project themselves as sex objects for the taking? This concept of women posing for sexy photo’s is not a new phenomenon. For years photo studio’s have held make-over days where every-day women get all dolled up and indulge in a sexy photo-shoot whether it be for their man, to celebrate their bodies or simply to treat themselves to a day of pamper and a ‘feel-good’ experience in the process. People pay for that fucking shit. Because they know how good it makes them feel. How much pleasure their naughty pics will give their husband. They accept it as a fun experience. Applaud it as a body-positive move. But switch up the roles to the woman being paid to wear the lingerie, to the woman getting all the financial gain and pleasure, and it’s suddenly disturbed and wrong. The mind boggles. We as women should be embracing more ad’s with the female as the dominator, the one in control- as finally switching up the roles amongst the sexes and in the bedroom, rather than attacking them. We should be praising female celebrities for being so open and care-free with their sexuality within the media, and their acceptance of the bodies they’re in, and not publicly shame them for it.

Why are you so afraid of women being sexy? This outcry every time a women sexualises herself is the product of an intense history of a patriarchal society, which has for so long solely viewed women as sex objects for men, instead of accepting that women can be sexy and sexual for themselves. The call for women to feel ashamed of their bodies being seen in public; that women can only be sexy behind the bedroom door is what sets women back and places their sexual well-being and pleasure, along with their health, in the hands of men. Calling for women to ‘stop acting like whores’ or to ‘put some clothes on’ isn’t going to change the society we are in, or a woman’s personal sexual behaviour. And so it shouldn’t. At a time where women’s progress and equality has never been higher, our rights to the choices we make over our own bodies are still in question. The next time you disagree with a women’s sexual way, agree to disagree, accept it, and look for somewhere more important to direct your anger and energy. There are better ways to fight the patriarchy and protect our children from harm than banning women in nipple tassels and getting vibrator’s taken off supermarket shelves (this really happened). In a World full of Piers Morgan’s, be an Emily Ratajkowski. Fight the good fight.

Check out my other blog on sexism within the media here

Have a topic you’d like me to discuss? Let me know! jabberwithjess@gmail.com

“Not another mean comment”: What makes you press send?

The phrase “trolling” is one in which we’ve all become accustomed to since the rise of the 14th district we so lovingly call social media. It’s meaning has seasoned like the funk off some old cheese, tangled in a web of twitter spats and matured through countless blockings on Instagram. It is described by both Wikipedia and the Urban dictionary as an act which see’s people (dickheads) start quarrels and cause upset on the internet by posting “inflammatory and digressive, extraneous or off-topic messages” with the intent to start an argument and provoke a totes-emosh response. Or in simple terms, it’s people being dickheads. But what about when people aren’t saying mean stuff to start arguments or provoke a response? What about when people are just saying mean stuff to well, be mean?

A couple of weeks back I wrote a piece on here about my Life as a Glamour model and accepting your career is over at 25. I dived into the deepest pits of my stomach and laid myself bare for the World- or to the thousand odd people who read this blog- to see. And come thru Miss Worldwide because this led to me being contacted by a Welsh online News site who wanted to run a feature on me about my blog post and what I was up to now. Never one to seize an opportunity to talk about myself (jks my friends, I’m trying to re-brand myself here, a girl needs press) I was more than happy to oblige. Fast-forward to last week and a reporter and photographer showed up on my door. We chatted away casually whilst I overshared my life and once again laid myself bare for the World- or some of Wales – to see. I spoke openly about being a young woman struggling to find my way in life; I delved into being a proud feminist and how we should encourage women to do what they like with their bodies and I boldly discussed how upsetting online abuse and judgement from strangers can be. In fact,the exact words I poured over in the video coverage were:

“The worst bit (about my career), is you do get, you know, a lot of people judging you which people will say well you kind of expect it but it’s one of them things that when people are commenting on you as a person when they’re just strangers, it’s hard to kind of just, ignore it and you kind of take it to heart”

My feelings sprawled across this article as if I were opening up to my closest friends and I eagerly awaited my story to be shared as to find comfort in the hope that I am not the only one out there trying to find my way. But as the post went live this “worst bit” in which I had shared my fears and tried so often to ignore came flooding back in written form.

Shared online without a care in the World was judgement after judgement, comment after comment of unnecessary opinions and hurtful words. I don’t believe you should “expect” people to say mean shit to you online just because your in the public eye of some sort. The job role doesn’t come listed with a mandatory kick in the teeth for every three positive comments you might get. I am not superhuman, and as I told you time and time again in the article in which you’re barrage stemmed from, this hurts. Now, I don’t live in la-la land. Everyone has an opinion and everyone passes judgement. I get that. But what I don’t get is how having an opinion in your mind or bitching amongst your friends (we all do it, again I am not superhuman) has transformed to beholding a sense of entitlement that you can share this opinion so fucking openly online, direct with the one you’re bitching about, with apparently no conscience. Did your mum never teach you that if you haven’t got anything nice to say, then don’t say it at all? Or at least have the decency to say it behind my back? The internet has created a safe space for bullies to share their inner saboteur to the World with no consequence or compassion. If people said this kind of stuff to your face in a public place they would be called out and vilified for being a crappy person. But because these comments are made online you’re expected to take them as part and parcel of the job, or of life for that matter. It’s all part of the game. But neeeeewsflash, playing with somebodies emotions is not a game that entices most humans with a moral compass.

After having an online presence for 6+years, being on the receiving end of mean comments is nothing new to me. Whenever I discuss trolling with people, friends, journalists; I laugh it off and take it on the chin. Everyone tells me I deal with it so well. But the reality is that I don’t have much choice. If I didn’t, I’d be a shell of a person. Being judged and having your flaws pointed out to you by other women whilst the World rides the wave of Girl Power and Self-Love is a beautiful blanket of bitter-sweetness. Comments from men about my looks can relatively be tossed aside with the excuse that they’re just being jerks because they can’t get in your pants, or because they just fucking hate women 🙃. But the remarks from other females seem to cut deeper within, carving out the memories I’ve pushed to the back of my brain of girls in school scrawling my name alongside the word slut on the bathroom walls. These fellow women are all facing similar battles in life as me and yet take the time out of their day to stamp out these words on their keyboards with no other possible outcome than to make me feel shit, or to what, make them feel….better?

They’re just jealous” is a saying in which many have tried to comfort me with over the years. But I don’t believe this is ever really the case. I have scoured the internet for some “professional” explanation of trolling, some sort of psychological justification in which to prove their actions anchor from deep within. But I can’t really seem to find any. Joe Boyd, a writer for Huffington Post describes it as a “virtual road-rage“. You feel safe to say whatever you want within the comfort of the four doors which armour you, but would you really go that extra-step of getting out of the car and saying something to them in person? Some of the other reasons he gave where that it is comforting, it is free entertainment, it is power, it is boredom, and ultimately- it is natural. For unfortunately, some people just can’t help themselves from being dicks.

A comment I received on one of my blogs recently.

A few weeks ago as I was trying to relax in the the bath with a glass of red and £4.95 Lush Bath Bomb (I had planned this bath for days honey) I was interrupted by my phone and the sweet sound of a notification. I opened up my emails and was confronted by the comment above staring back at me. As I sat there alone in my flat, I honed in on this attack of my body, my personality, my feelings that I had so honestly shared with the World. I read them over and over again until, I just cried. These words had invaded my personal space and I had no option but to engage with them. I tried to salvage what was left of my relaxing bath plan- thanks a fucking lot those bath bombs aren’t cheap- and attempted to pull myself together, sending the email to my junk mail and disapproving the comment on WordPress. But as I settled back in with a much needed sip (gulp) of merlot, my phone pinged again with another infringement on my inbox and those words greeted me once more as the poster so desperately attempted to make his feelings known. This time I sent the comment straight to the trash, only for my phone to be infiltrated once more, forty-five minutes later with a third attempt at leaving the same comment about my (once) very fat tits. But now I just laughed. Your life seems great, hun. Best of luck.

All it takes is a simple scroll. A scroll in which would preserve your dignity and keep my emotions intact. But so many people choose not to scroll. Why? The internet has become a thief of reality for those who are lost and those who are lonely. Their boredom lines their hateful words which acts as a coat of arms to their inner collaborator of unhappiness. They spout about freedom of speech as if these three words give them a get-out-of-jail-free card for having the human right to comment on how your weight loss has made your tits saggy. Well guess what Karen* (insert standard ‘Can I see the manager’ name to fill this role) the Freedom of speech isn’t there so you can spend your lunch break spouting shit online to make people feel bad. I don’t know what else I can add, but it really isn’t rocket science folks. Mean comments hurt people’s feelings and there is a human being behind your screen who will carry those comments with them a lot longer than the thirty-seconds it took you to write it.

I’m going to leave you with this inspiring comment which unfortunately *cough* was not made about me but one of my friends, because trolling does not discriminate, we are all fair game to these people. I’m all of a sudden peckish for some pudding, you in?

It’s been a while. I’m sorry.

Hey there. It’s been a while. I’m sorry. Or am I? I started off this blog page with the intentions of living freely; posting whenever, whatever, because I no longer have to conform to deadlines and “do-good” views (or basically having no views at all) that you’re chained to when writing under a brand. I’ll post one blog a week, I told myself. “But it doesn’t matter if I don’t hit those targets”. So Why am I left wracked with guilt that I’ve been a bit shit and not updated this for 10 days?

I never wanted this to be a chore, something that I do for the sake of it and not because I actually have something to say. And it’s not. This guilt I’m feeling doesn’t stem from my blog. The blog is just a metaphor for the guilt towards my lack of lustre for well, anything lately. Anything productive that is.

The reality is, I’ve been busy. Busy drinking with my friends. Busy on a walking holiday with my family. Busy spending money I really shouldn’t be spending. Busy staring at my phone for 7 (yes, seven 😳) hours a day – thanks Apple Update for the screentime setting, really making me feel better about my life. I’ve been Browsing and Shopping and Posting and Liking and Reading and Sharing and doing anything really, anything but progressive movements towards building my future. This is the guilt. This is the procrastination. This is the blaming having to wait on everyone and anyone else to get back to me, instead of sitting at my desk and writing. Writing emails to potential clients. Writing blogs for potential features. Writing pitches for potential jobs. Writing measurements for potential fashion designs. I know what I need to do, but the last couple weeks I just haven’t been able to grasp it. The road up ahead seems such a long one that I’ve burned myself out by doing nothing at all. The irony of feeling fucking shattered by your lack of work, lack of hope and lack of faith in things finally happening, is exhausting.

Oh, but I have wrote something. I have wrote lists. And plans. Fuck yes, lots of them. I’ve wrote lists of plans and plans of lists. I know what I want, I’m just dumbfounded at how I get there. I’ve read about this “planning procrastination”. Writing lists and pinning endless Pinterest posts to make you think you’re being productive, when you’re in fact avoiding all your tasks with pointless projects which never get you any closer to where you want to be. Apparently this procrastination stems from stress and anxiety. Something I think a lot of young people attempting to uncover their golden gated path in life whilst dealing with social relationships and discovering new truths struggle with. I have so much angst about where I want to be in my life and where I am right now, that tackling the middle ground of actually getting there feels like the impossible task. I came across an article on LAPP the Brand a couple weeks ago where Victoria Secret model and LAPP Founder Leomie Anderson shared her fear of FOMOMGFear of missing out on my goals. And boy I felt that. We spend so much of our time comparing our lives to others. Their paths, their journeys and their destinations. We panic about where we want to be. Where we are not. We work ourselves up about how we are ever going to get there, that we forget to give ourselves a pat on the back for where we are now. Right where we’re supposed to be.

Sometimes I don’t want to write a blog post. Sometimes I don’t want to reply to that email. Sometimes I don’t want to hang out with my friends. Sometimes I don’t want to go to the gym. Sometimes I just want to be alone. Sometimes I want to watch a film with a glass of wine. Sometimes I want to go out and get drunk with my friends instead of put together that pitch for a client. Sometimes I want to eat a pizza instead of a salad. Sometimes I want to go for a walk and sometimes I want to lie in bed all day. And sometimes I want to do absolutely nothing. And that’s ok. Because Self-love doesn’t just consist of meditating and yoga and going to the gym and eating kale when you really want a burger. Self-love is about taking care of your mind. Self-love is being able to sit in your bed all day because you don’t feel like moving and not beat yourself up about it. Self-love is about knowing that you’re doing great, even when you don’t feel like it. Self-love is looking after number one. Whether that’s with an Indian takeaway, a spin class or a walk amongst the fresh air. You don’t owe anything to anyone but yourself. ❤️