a journal of annoyances

i'm sure i've written about this before (ULTIMATE IRONY) but i have writer's block and also my dissertation to write. have six days to write 2000 - 3500 words (depending on how much i decide i'm going to try and reach the max word count) and absolutely no ideas. not one. my head is a balloon with a face drawn on it. it is full of air and a bit of spit. i am fed the fuck up. i currently look like this:

in the past five days when i've attempting to write i've written a few pages of very questionable quality, perfected putting on my eyeliner, watched half a season of csi, made bolognese, cleared out my wardrobe, trimmed my hair, watched an entire two series of game of thrones, slept in until midday every day and been furious the majority of my waking hours. i'm also pretty sure i'm developing a rash from stress, or maybe it's because i've trimmed my hair and i'm sitting in a pile of hair and it's gotten into my tights. you never know. also i've got spots on my chest because i'm stressed. also i have a constant stomach ache because i'm stressed. basically i'm a black hole of stress and i'm about to collapse inwards on myself like a dying star. my dad is hoovering loudly on the landing outside my room and banging loudly on the door with the hoover, possibly to get crumbs out of the door jamb (?) but most likely just to irritate me. he's now gotten something stuck in the hoover and it sounds like a dog dying of heatstroke in a car. i am at the limit. if i don't come up with a good idea soon i'm going to explode. i cleverly thought 'aha! i'll write a plot outline, that way i'll know what to write and it'll be structured! why have i never done this before?! this is great!' and then realised i've never done it before because when i write it is completely unplanned until i get a great idea. apparently telling myself i have to write a specific thing has accessed the belligerence cortex in my brain and i am completely stumped. it is just not happening at all. i keep hoping a great idea will pop into my head like it usually does but NOTHING. writer's block is just proper shit.

samantha brick v.s. women

perusing the xojane website this morning, as i am wont to do when i have work i should be doing (dissertation), i came across an article concerning samantha brick's latest article in the daily mail. i remembered back to september or whenever when she graced us with her glorious article about how difficult it was to be bedazzlingly beautiful like she was, and i sniggered. that article was funny! i mean, not intentionally, but it was hilarious because this woman was so bizarre and self-aggrandizing that it was farcical. the article was self-contained, it didn't put forward any ideas, it just remarked casually on how samantha brick is a living goddess made flesh or whatever she was pissing on about. but then i read this article. it was published about a week ago (forgive me, i don't really keep up with the daily mail) but i just got around to reading it now. and i am FURIOUS.
samantha brick has seen fit to declare that 'there is nothing in life that signifies failure better than fat'. she talks about her university years where she 'invented the polo diet' wherein she would eat a only a packet of polos for breakfast and dinner. she stopped only because of the damage her dentist warned her she was doing her teeth. she states that her husband threatens to divorce her if she gains any weight. a picture of him establishes that this is not a threat that goes both ways across the relationship because he is not thin himself. samantha farts on in this egregious 'skinny is better than anything' mentality for a while, casually throwing up facts about her dieting habits which are clearly signifying an eating disorder or at least an incredibly unhealthy relationship with food.  she says a boss will not promote a 'bulging sack in danger of imminent cardiac arrest' because you know, they might do a mr creosote and just explode. this illustrates her complete failure to understand anything about the human body.
one of the faux concerns levelled at fat people is often that of health; aren't they worried what they're doing to their body? aren't they unhealthy? while it's 'very kind' that people are concerned with the health of others (not) you don't see people doing that to smokers. giving them sideways looks and giggling. saying 'can you imagine what her lungs look like?? errr!' you don't see people being rude about thin people who order cheeseburgers. cheeseburgers are just as unhealthy for a thin person as they are for a fat person, but no 'concerns' or judgements are passed off on somebody who is not visibly fat. let me tell you, a person who is skinny is not definitively healthy and a person who is fat is not definitively unhealthy. it's just basic stuff. you can swim a mile a day, have wonderful health, and be fat. what you can't do is eat two packets of polos a day, be skinny, and claim that that's fine. that is absolutely not fine. that is a terrible way to treat your body. by glorifying the way she has treated her body, samantha brick is promoting a really really unhealthy way to live. it might seem that she is just being cosmopolitan or something, but she's doing something really toxic. she's taking her own issues with food and appetite and applying them to everybody. does everybody feel at their best when they're thin? no. does everybody find hunger pangs reassuring? absolutely not. does everybody feel this way? no, no, no and no. what samantha has done to her body is hugely unhealthy, so she doesn't get to play the 'you're unhealthy because you're fat' card because that is complete hypocrisy. what she has a problem with is not health at all, it's an individual's relationship to food.
my personal relationship with food (this is my blog, i get to say stuff about me, so there) in my teen years was tumultuous. i spent the years between 14 and probably until i was 20 feeling fat. fat here does not necessarily mean fat; it was a synonym. a synonym for greedy, for undesirable, for not good enough. there was so much more to my attitude towards my body than actual weight, or god forbid health. like so many girls of that age, i dieted, i went to the gym, i criticised myself constantly. because feeling good enough is only something you can decide you will do, not something you earn through being thin. i could only feel like there was more to do, more to work on, not that the way i looked was satisfactory. what samantha brick is saying about the way in which she approaches her diet and her body is totally familiar to me. i remember feeling like being thin was one of the greatest things i could achieve. i did lose some weight and for a time i was a smallish size dress and i honestly don't remember feeling any better than i do now. i never felt blissful just sitting on the sofa being thin. looking at myself in the mirror was still seeing myself, but a bit thinner. there wasn't any reverence, no ringing bells, no fireworks. i was just a bit thinner. obviously samantha brick has enjoyed being thin, but she doesn't write at any point about her achievement. about what she's done, what her years of self-control have brought her. because even though she knows it's important to her, she knows that she's not actually working towards anything. she hasn't achieved anything, she's just been thin. she's not impressed with herself, she's not proud of her body, she's just hyper-aware and vigilant that she doesn't dare slip up and indulge herself with some delicious human food because god forbid she enjoy herself. pleasure for a woman, you have to remember, is revolting. the idea that a woman could eat what she wants, enjoy herself, put on and love herself the exact same way at any weight to samantha brick is utterly disgusting.
bad enough is her attitude towards herself, but throughout the article she applies it to the entirety of the female gender. 'any woman who wants to be beautiful needs to diet every day of her life.' excuse you but i think i'm beautiful and i'm sure as fuck not on a diet. i had a slice of cake for breakfast this morning; i feel pretty good about it. i haven't been on the exercise bike since last week because i've got more important shit to do. i only even go on the exercise bike because i like watching tv while i run and also i love adrenaline because it makes me bonkers happy. i don't exercise because i feel obliged to to be thin, i do it because i enjoy it, it makes me happy. what samantha is promoting is not purely the pursuit of being thin, it's rigorous self-control and pleasure denial. the same way that women get criticised for openly enjoying sex, women shouldn't be seen to openly indulge themselves. i know this, and i'm happy with ignoring the fuck out of what she says, but some women will read this article and they will feel guilty. they will agree with her. they will continue to self-flagellate for no reason and criticise those who don't. samantha says 'i don't believe that overweight is ever attractive' for which we can award her:

that's her personal opinion. in a normal world, you can just say to that: ok samantha brick, then don't date a fat person. *claps hands* ok we're done, move on. but what she's saying is, i think it because it's true. not only do i have to have this personal belief, i have to make sure that everybody knows i think it, and that people agree with me. apparently, 'we live in an age and a part of the world where men and women regard thin as beautiful'. oh ok then. that's just how it is. samantha brick has talked to every human on the continent and they all agreed with her. oh wait, duh, no. she's saying that contemporary media heralds the idea of being thin as being a good thing. it's a visual standard that everyone is scrutinized by because it's apparently important. apparently 'men prefer slim women'. that obviously doesn't include all the men who don't prefer slim women. you don't just get to make a blanket statement about what is attractive and what is not samantha brick, because there is no universal standard. the media may want there to be, but guess what, that's because they are selling a lifestyle for you to buy with your money. if there was more money in shaming thin people and making them pay to get fat they'd do that. it is not about thinness at all, it is about currency. just because you've taken this ideal on board and are perpetuating it personally does not mean that it is for everyone. some people don't like the idea that they should starve themselves or be thin, because they don't want to be. you don't have the right to shame them for that. if a woman feels sexy in her fat body you don't have to right to say she isn't, because that is how she feels so that is how she is. deal with it.
i would be remiss if i didn't end this tirade of fury on another personal note (my blog, don't care). i personally feel like this obsession with women's weights is just another way to distract them from doing all the fantastic things they are fully capable of doing. women in our culture are raised with a much greater sense of shame and humility than men. they're raised to be embarassed of their sexuality, and of their bodies. women aren't supposed to like sex, it's dirty! and they can't enjoy food, that's greedy! fuck that noise. my self-worth doesn't reside in the way my body looks. my body is my castle, it's my temple. it is strong, stronger than it may seem, and strong in many ways. it supports me, it is warm and soft and it is where i live. it is my dominion and i will not have anybody telling me what to do with it. you don't get to decide that i have no self-respect because being thin is not a priority i have. i have self-respect. i want to accomplish good things, i want to be kind and help people. i want to touch people with what i write. i have ambitions that lie far outside the realm of my body, my body is simply what i will use to punch you in your self-righteous face. that said, while i'm incredibly angry at you samantha brick, i also feel incredibly sorry for you. the standards you place on yourself are just that; self-imposed. they're reinforced by your obvious dickwad husband, by the media in which you work, but they're entirely your choice. nothing would make me happier than to see you pick up a big sandwich with a grin on your face and say 'i want this. i deserve this. i love my body and i want to be happy' but i don't think you're ready to do that yet. i'm in the business of self-love samantha brick. you might not like that, you might think that i'm undisciplined, i'm fat, i'm unnattractive and i'm just a big failure of a human being. but when you're ready to admit that women deserve to be whoever they want to be without judgement, to love their bodies, i'll be right here, and i'll have a cheeseburger with you and give you a hug.

kjhdfgkjdhflfkdj

i've never written about my experience with anxiety before. it's something i find very difficult to verbalise, or write down actually because that's what i'm doing. obviously you can't tell because you're reading the final draft but i've already written this about four times and deleted it four times. i'm even having anxiety about it. bear with me.

WHY I CAN'T GO INTO THE SAME SHOP TWICE IN ONE DAY INCASE THE STAFF THINK I'M SHOPLIFTING: LIVING WITH ANXIETY

anxiety is something that when you live with it you notice it in everything. maybe you get stomach cramps at the idea of entering a room where lots of people will look at you. maybe you have panic attacks. maybe your heart beats painfully hard when you worry about things you can't control, or things that might even not happen. it's a debilitating thing, anxiety. it makes people scared to do the most basic things, and for no reason. personally, i've been dealing with a lot of anxiety related problems recently.
the way in which anxiety affects me is that when i worry, i come up with multiple scenarios in my head. i test out every scenario in my head and i pick the one that stresses me out the least. that's the way i cope with things. i become anxious when the scenarios from which i am choosing are equally dificult. i'm not talking difficult like physically difficult or mentally difficult, i'm using difficult as a synonym for something that worries me, or if you will, triggers my anxious worry-mode. it can be something as trivial as having to go to a shop, even just to leave the house, to have to speak to someone face to face. these things, when i'm feeling anxious, really worry me. so when i'm trying to use my scenario system to decide what to do and there are anxiety triggers in all of them, i basically fold in on myself like a dying star. in theory, i am able to say 'i don't mind speaking to people' or 'i like going to university' but when i am anxious it's like i'm afraid of everything. i can't deal with anything. the ability to talk myself out of this frame of mind is something i have to really try to do because i will become completely internalized when i'm anxious and retreat to a land of worry inside my head. coming out of it to deal with myself is very difficult. also something that i find makes my temper flare up is when people ask me if i'm alright, or tell me to cheer up. i know in theory they are being nice, or trying to be helpful but i get very irritated. this is also something i have to actively tell myself, and even when i tell myself i'm still irritated but i don't say anything because i know it's irrational. it's odd having to act in a way that you know is the right way to behave when it feels entirely wrong. it's very very odd.
the whole idea of anxiety is quite generalised. it's called generalised anxiety disorder in america i think, if you're diagnosed. personally i think my anxiety is just a part of my personality. not the bad internalizing panicking part, but the natural worrying tendencies. i'll always be a worrier there's nothing i can do about that. but what i can do is try and look at the way i react to stressful things, and deal with them in a better way. i've been medicated before but i found that although the physical symptoms (headaches and especially stomach troubles) stopped, i still was/am a worrier (also antidepressants ruin your sex drive so fuck that noise) it's just who i am, it's how i deal with things. i plan, i predict, and i reason. however, some modicum of self-restraint has to be replied or i really lose the ability to be realistic. also i like making plans so the less i don't know what i'm going to be doing, the better. when i'm just floating around not doing anything the potential for me to get wound up rises quite a lot. 
i worry about whether i'll be ever be published, whether i should have bread today, whether i'll push my boyfriend away by being so anxious that i become aggressive, whether i'll want to get out of bed. it's humiliating. it makes me feel like i can't cope with just having a life, and like i as a person am insubstantial, weak. actual kate knows that this isn't the case, that i've dealt with lots of difficult stuff adequately, that i can and will do it again. anxiety kate however thinks that this is the case, that i'm incapable and lazy and just an all-round shithead. the balance of force between actual kate and anxiety kate over my behaviour is very evenly matched. i'm overcome easily by small situations and work myself up into a lather sometimes. but sometimes i'm not. sometimes i can reason with myself and say 'hey. you don't have control over some things and that's cool. you do have control over some things and that's pretty cool, but most importantly you have intuition. you know how to treat yourself. you know the score. you just don't think you do.' my aim is to be able to be actual kate, and when i'm anxiety kate, to be able to reason with myself and not become paralyzed by worry and self-loathing. a big, big part of being anxious is punishing yourself, and criticising yourself for not being able to do things or doing something wrong. not being horribly self-flagellating is really important so i don't spiral into a horrible spiral of horror.
i don't know really where i'm going with this. it's a good thing to get it off my chest and put it into words. i might come back to it with fresh perspective at some point but i feel like i've run out of steam a bit. anyway, if you read this then cool. if you didn't then you're not reading this so i guess whatever.

KJHDKJHDKD

in regards to my lack of interest in writing anything on this blog, here is my opinion on a pop culture thing. as some of yall may have noticed i work in a shop that sells books and music and stuff so i am constantly exposed to everything popular all the time and i either develop stockholm syndrome (re: rihanna's last album which i heard so many times that i ended up loving it) or becoming far too invested in picking it apart and criticising it SO i want to officially throw my hat into the ring fifty-shades-of-grey-wise. yep i'm going to go there.

REASONS FIFTY SHADES OF GREY IS SHITTY

1. it is completely not about BDSM. i admit, i'm not super well-versed in the technicalities of BDSM lifestyles or how they're accurately represented in writing, but the relationship in fifty shades of grey is just dumb. all the main character (anastasia steele) (can we just think on that for a second) does is whine about how much she hates her beautiful amazing wonderful superjesus magic boyfriend constantly belting her/ not letting her touch him/ invading her privacy/ not respecting her wishes etc etc the list goes endlessly on. forgive me if i'm wrong but BDSM is consensual activities that both partners do because they want to, not someone letting someone do something they don't like to them because they feel obliged/ are scared not to let them do. that is ridiculous and paints a portrayal of BDSM as solely for people who are emotionally fucked up/ abusive when that just isn't true.

2. there is absolutely no rhyme or reason for anything that anyone does. seriously the characters do things that literally can be traced back to one motive and that is to make more trouble. drama is meant to develop characters, to test their emotional boundaries and ultimately cause them to develop; it isn't meant to just give people a reason to cry self-indulgently about how much they want their boyfriend to kiss them. reading this book is the literary equivalent of watching jeremy kyle: endless pointless detail, no real reasons are given for you to particularly care about anyone involved because they're so irritating as people, and there is no catharsis because no resolution is reached after all the shouting of trivial details and complete lack of introspection. and i am totes over watching jeremy kyle because i'm a grown up now.

3. the author is english and writing about america. usually this is something that doesn't bother me, i mean i loved vernon god little and thought that was great and that's the same thing, but this is just terrible and unconvincing because the author has done really weirdly thorough research on some things (the building christian grey (lol) lives in is real and describes in actual real detail in the book) and absolutely none on others (spelling paedophile with an a which americans don't do) and the inconsistency really gets to me. i don't care if i'm being trivial, it's true, if i'm distracted by the characters/ world of a book being really forced and uncomfortable i'm not going to care who they are or what's happening to them because they're not real to me. if you're going to write about something but you're not sure that you actually can do it authentically then good grief just stick to what you know.

4. it began as twilight fan fiction. i have talked about my feelings on twilight before (namely that i think it's awful) so it seems pretty obvious that i wouldn't like fifty shades. but the whole nature of plagiarizing someone elses' story and characters seems like a piss poor premise because it's so cheaty. you can't just decide 'oh i like this book, i'll rewrite it so i like it even more and then i'll sell it' because you're making money right off the back of the thing you like, which is wrong even if it's as dumb and shit as twilight. it's lazy and i don't approve of it. once in a while there are exceptions obviously, if the person doing it knows the text really well and has an interesting interpretation and is an excellent writer, but in this case none of the former are even a bit true ever. at all.

5. for a 'dirty book' it seems to have trouble with the female anatomy. anastasia steele literally refers to her vag as 'down there'. like who does that. you have a vagina, say you have a vagina. you can describe a cock in full (alarming) detail but you can't even say the word vagina? nope. not buying it. bull. come back when you have more autonomy.

6. and this is the biggest one: it's just badly written. i can't, won't and shan't forgive bad writing. the dialogue is blunt and on the nose and completely hollow. there is absolutely no characterization at all because having your characters tell each other they're 'bright' and 'witty' isn't the same thing as actually writing characters that are bright and witty. you have to do that, as the writer it's your job. if i call myself a howler monkey it doesn't make me a howler monkey, in the same way that anastasia steele will never be anything over than a wet blanket judgemental weak-willed annoying shit. there is redundant phrasing out the wazoo ( being belligerent and angry at the same time is pretty easy seeing as they're near on the same thing) and the plot is about as well planned and paced as a really badly planned and paced plot. it's just terrible. everything about the book is terrible.

up in the woods, down on my mind

i have portfolio due tomorrow (poetry ugh) and obvs i've left it all to today because really would i be me if i hadn't? i know yall wouldn't love me so much if i was actually productive cos that's boring lame reese witherspoon type shit. anyways i'm taking a lil break from my terrible pseudo-teen emo poetry because it turns out when you only listen to bon iver and elliott smith for two days and don't stop drinking coke you produce some pretty weird stuff. i'm not even going to get into the sexy poem about dogs i spent an hour writing (joking? you decide) but either way i'm getting pretty fed up of trying to think of ideas. i have 57 lines out of 90 which is kind of ok, and i have yet to do some kind of critical thing i don't know what it is but whatevs i'll wing it. i find poetry pretty easy. it's the kind of thing i don't need a lot of time to do, because for whatever reason if i take a week or half an hour on a poem i'll write the same thing. i don't revise a lot, i just do it and it's done. usually i do ok in poetry thankfully so let's just pray i wing it again. in first year i did my portfolio in a day and got 75% so i'm not too worried. all you have to do is use long words and not too many commas and you're golden. lessons on how to be a poet kids!

HOW TO BE A POET BY KATE 'THE POET' MENZIES

DON'T TRY TOO HARD

if you process sentences for too long you kind of stop looking at them too objectively and you forget what sounds like normal human language and it all goes a bit weird. just say a sentence and then forget about it. i'm not saying that once you've said something you can't go back to it, but do it briskly so you don't turn into an alien and need to be taught how to speak properly all over again. i can't be bothered teaching english as a first language any more i have things to do.

FIND A GOOD SOUNDTRACK FOR YOU

i know you're not supposed to work and listen to music, but we had one of those hilarious exam techniques classes in year 11 once where the woman told us about different types of learners. there's kinetic, who need to wiggle while they study, and visual who need to be able to see (it was a long time ago and i wasn't paying much attention bear with me) and then there was one kind who needed background noise NOT to get distracted and i was amazed that they were admitting that these people exist. i honestly get more distracted by silence than by listening to *nsync while i study and i'm glad that that's now recognised as a valid thing. it's all about finding something comfortable and inspiring for you to write to, whether it be bob dylan or nicki minaj, whatever tickles you. personally i head for depressing acoustica a la bright eyes, but that's just me, i have angst.

DON'T BE AFRAID TO GET RECREATIONAL

now i'm not endorsing drugs here, i'm just saying that i take them and i think they're great. the two things are not one and the same. (besides who cares what i think my life is a shambles and if you're using me as a moral compass you're going to end up adrift on a dead sea of special brew on a surfboard made of failure and sick) but i say if you feel the need to get some creative juices flowing with a nice glass o merlot or whatever you have lying around/ have stolen from a tramp then go with it. i've written some pretty good shit tanked up on whisky and calpol, and i don't do it too often so i say it's ok. i mean look at david bowie, he should be made to take smack all the time because he's pretty bad off it. we went from ziggy stardust to that weird techno album thanks to sobriety. thanks a lot sobriety you wet blanket party killer.

DEADLINES ARE NATURE'S PRODUCTIVITY ENHANCER

i never feel the need to do any work until around the twenty four hour countdown to deadline, but when i get down to it, i really do it. honestly it has varying results, but with poetry i find it pretty consistent. i just let myself recline until the stress and accompanying stress rash on my chest #sexy buck me into getting the bastard done. usually involving staying up all night intermittently weeping, working, and watching tv whilst drinking obscene amounts of anything caffeinated i can find. it gives me horrific stomach cramps but what doesn't? nothing. ever.

there. now you have all the necessary tools to be a great and excellent poet. if you're not it's your own fault and you didn't try hard enough now leave me alone i have work to do jesus christ

hurfhujfdjksd

two days in a row holy fuck it's almost like i'm a writer. although this is just for my portfolio so i guess it doesn't count but WHATEVS

A wooden framed swing creaked sadly outside under a sky that looked like supple grey suede. Tucked inside her attic bedroom, a cocoon in the skull of a tall semi-detached terrace house, Genie leant back on her elbows and sighed, the longest, bluest sigh the room has ever seen she hoped. The walls were spattered with spots of damp that multiply and grow down towards the lilac skirting boards. The force of the exhaling, the earthy steam boiling up from her lungs, slowly brought down her ribcage until it was level with her pointed hips and she lay flat on the floor. There was a slow quietness in the dawn hours, a kind of tremulous fog that slithered creamily out of the cracks in the windows and doors. Genie could feel it clinging to her eyelashes and pooling in the twin hollows of her collarbones. It dripped down the cabinets like spilt milk. It seemed to her that she was entirely alone, a feeling that the King children weren’t used to. Genie, her four sisters and one brother had always moved freely through each other’s spaces, slipping in and out of rooms and conversations like silvery minnows in a stream. To feel entirely alone, like there wasn’t a spare sibling or two perhaps curled in a corner reading a magazine or dozing gently, was a strange and unwelcome feeling to them all. Since the relocation of the King family to their new tall house Genie had acquired her own bedroom, a converted attic room with sloping walls and yellowing daisy wallpaper leftover from someone else’s childhood. A flight of warped wooden stairs separated her from the third floor, which housed her sisters Josephine, Mallory and Francine, and the sounds of their pattering up and down to her attic soothed her like a mother’s heartbeat. Tonight however the attic was still and Genie lay prostrate on the carpet next to an open lined notebook, pen between her teeth like a cigar. She twisted her neck and laid her right ear flat on the floor in order to read back what she had written so far:

‘A Thorough and Honest Assessment of the Genetic Benefits and Drawbacks of Choosing Genie King as a Mate*

*Author recognizes disambiguation of noun ‘mate’ and here clarifies that within this report it shall hereto after refer define ‘mate’ in terms of reproductive means as opposed to colloquialism of ‘mate’ as meaning friend.’

Genie was sixteen years old, an age at which she had realised that she had never thought about romance, or love. It seemed romance oozed from every television programme, every advert, every carefully designed mini skirt and choreographed teen ritual, and yet Genie had never even kissed anyone, never doodled their name decorated with hearts onto her notebooks. The decision to catalogue all of her various personal habits and failings had come shortly after her sixteenth birthday party.

jhgsdjhsd

well i finished my essay (explain how two modernist authors enforce and/ or subvert binary gender roles #lesigh) and now i have none left for this semester apart from an exam but whatevs that's not for like a month and a half so yessssssssssss get in there my son howay the lads gan crackers hew! that's all the geordie phrases i can contextually use at this point but rest assured i am thrilled with myself.
SO
i joined plenty of fish and okcupid because let's face it, the mens are not bashing down my door for a date and also i get bored easily and like picking fights with strangers. i deleted okcupid in a drunken blur and that left plenty of fish which i think was worse. i tried match dot com also but it tried to make me pay so i was like hairflip i'm outie

MY EXPERIENCE ON PLENTY OF FISH

you know, the one who has autism

a recurring trend was people telling me that my profile was weird which i personally don't think is true but there you go i guess that's why i'm single




check out this impeccable logic. he kept messaging me after this asking why i hated men and why was i afraid to love after which i sent him a link to 'i wanna know what love is' and he stopped

this is completely true now yall know my secret

STORY OF MY LIFE

this was one of my personal favourites because he looks like what every man on a dating site should not admit they look like. also because he tried to woo me by saying that he's into electro music which i actually loathe and that he used to have pink and yellow hair which i imagine would make him look like a very sinister mr blobby.




this is the guy above's profile which i find really disturbing like if they make another paranormal activity or whatever this should really be featured because i swear after i read it i didn't feel right for like half an hour it felt like the profile was touching me

this one i have no idea what the heck he is talking about but kudos for the word wizardry colin, you're a boss

and they say that chivalry is dead!





......
i still just... no

i also explored the effect of using nice or weird pictures as my profile pictures. as expected, pictures like this:
got a lot more messages than pictures like this:

that does it for another edition of how pathetic my life is. join me next week when i will debate the benefits of something v.s. another thing or whatever i don't know byeeeeeeeee