Bags and boys.

I don’t even want to get into the topic of balls, or how much time men spend fondling them. But ol’ Carrie was definitely onto something here… I do feel naked without my bag. 

The insecurity that comes with going bag free in public is baffling – especially considering the fact that nothing of any great importance is ever in there. 99% of the time, my bag is essentially made up of makeup that’s not even on my face that day… and a never-ending stock of receipts (Sidenote: I never return anything anyway). But without it, I just feel incomplete. 

Boys do not understand this turmoil.

It’s usually a toss-up between “Why do you need a huge bag – what’s in here?!” and “It’s tiny – what could you possibly fit in here?!” but my answer is always the same – MIND YO’ BUSINESS.

Yes, we may ask you to hold our bag occasionally when we have more important stuff to tend to. But that doesn’t mean that we like knowing the bag is right there, by our side should we need it. Yes, we probably will change our entire outfit in favour of the bag if, when asked “Does this bag go with my outfit?, you hesitate for even a millisecond. And no, we won’t stop our mad bag-lady ways, so quit bugging us about it.

Back off, boys - you're fighting a losing battle. Put it this way - what if we told you that you couldn’t rearrange your bits/heat your mits/grab em in a LAD like manner in public for a whole day? Carnage. It would be utter carnage.

Writings on the wall.

It's 1am on a night out. Drinks have been spilled down my dress, makeup has started sliding down my face, and I've fallen out with everyone except that one girl in the group that I can't usually stand to be around, because "she's the only one who really understands me". Before buying her a drink and planning a summer holiday with her, nature calls and I stagger my way to the toilets.

I breeze into a stall and relieve myself of those seven gins and four jagerbombs. I suddenly find myself in the cubicle of life, pondering all of lives little questions that are sweeping through my brain faster than that last shot at the bar. I feel myself being drawn to the scribblings on the walls, wondering the stories behind them...

I turn and look to my left. Now - generally speaking, Richie is a boys name. I highly doubt that Richie has snuck his way into the ladies lavvy to express his 'eva'-lasting love for Holly on the cubicle wall. Has Holly done this, knowing in her heart of hearts that Richie does and always will love her? Is she a jilted ex who is taking time out of her 'I don't need no man!" bravado to miss him in the safety of the cubicle of life? Let it out Holly... no one can hurt you in here.

I turn to my right, and feel instantly bad for Elaine. Does she really smell like shit? Or is this just the result of a quarrel out on the dancefloor earlier that night? Long gone are the days of song lyrics and phone numbers - we're now choosing to diss while we piss. I'm suddenly suspicious of the use of pen over the popular scratching-into-the-paint method. Who comes out to a nightclub with a Biro? This was not a spontaneous act... Elaine was doomed from the start. I decide there and then not to trust whoever wrote this. Elaine, you probably smell wonderful - I've got your back.

I can't help but wonder if my name is scribbled on the wall somewhere in this world - is someone professing their undying love for me, or stating that I smell like shit? 

The Ex Motto.

I wrote this post a while back, before Bloglovin scooped me up into it's loving arms. Apologies if you've already seen it, but after experiencing my friend almost go through the dreaded ex-meet last weekend, I decided to repost! So here you have it...

The Ex Motto

When it comes to dressing myself in the morning, my motto is simple: kit out like you’re going to run into an ex-boyfriend. Smart or Shallow? Conceited or Insecure? Probably all of the above. But I challenge any single girl to disagree with me! Of course you want to look like the one that got away - but at what cost?

I’m on night shift in a busy bar on the night a local football team has taken home the cup. By the end of the night I find myself sweaty, cranky and stinking of a putrid punch of lager, vodka and jagermeister. Upon my arrival home, I flop down onto the couch and swear to myself I will not, for love nor money, get out of my pyjamas the following day. Yes, I spent the majority of my day lying on the couch. Yes, I made my way through four chick flicks one after the other in a desperate bid to relocate my inner female following eight straight hours of testosterone fuelled singing and banter from the bar the night before. However, in pyjamas I am not. I am in fact fully clothed, hair done with a full face of makeup.

 My justification? That motto. That damn motto.

I’m not alone in this. Take, for example, the unsuspecting girl popping to the shops for a birthday card in her trackie bottoms and hangover hoody after a rather messy night out (this is starting to sound less and less hypothetical…). You think to yourself, ‘I’ll only be out ten minutes, who’s going to see me?’ so head out into the big bad sods law world as you are; a mess. Making it to the shopping centre – success. Grabbing the first card in sight – Success. Not being able to look the cashier in the eye because you know how awful you look – Success. Sort of. 
Walking out the shop and practically bulldozing your ex-boyfriend….absolutely priceless. 

You think back to when you were getting dressed that morning. Back to that moment you couldn’t decide between your sweats, and the tight jeans and ‘I’M OVER YOU’ t-shirt… Why Rachael. Why do you do this to yourself? He looks at you with a sympathetic smile, making a half-arsed attempt to hide his smugness. 

Then, and only then, do you notice the pretty little thing accompanying him. Resist, I repeat, resist urge to punch her right in her cute button nose.

It’s not her fault. She was just following the motto.