Friday, 13 December 2013

Superstition IS The Way

I'm going to jump straight into this and tell you that, owing to the fact that Friday 13th has taken me by surprise, we're about to discuss how superstition matters and how Bad Luck is a real thing that exists if you don't adhere to the rules of the aforementioned superstition.


I am about to present you with some irrefutable proof.

I have a sweatshirt that I must never touch. It's hideous and I think I might be the only person in the world who likes how it looks, but that is not the problem. The real reason that I don't wear it is that it has been horribly cursed at some point in its existence.

How or why remains, to this day, a mystery.

Every single time I wear this garment, a terrible thing happens in my life.

I began to realise this at Wear #4 but, as you will see in a moment, I CONTINUED TO WEAR IT REGARDLESS.

Here is an abbreviated summary of my relationship with this sweatshirt:

Wear #1: Got stranded in Salford for three hours, broke my phone, lost £20 to the wind, accidentally ate a bit of mushroom.
Wear #2: Went to the hairdressers, was overtaken by some kind of spirit who made me ask for a pixie cut.
Wear #3: Fell down some stairs in a dramatic and public fashion.
Wear #4: Set off for work, got hit by a car on the way in, went home.
Wear #5: Set off for work, almost drowned when a bus drove through a puddle, went home to get changed, two hours late.
Wear #6: Attacked by a cat.
Wear #7: Baby sick.
Wear #8: Food poisoning.
Wear #9: Arrived at work, realised that bad things were starting to happen (I broke a mug, my login failed), requested permission to go home and change, request approved due to the above evidence.

And so, following this, the active avoidance of this item of clothing was added to my list of rules that includes not walking under ladders and never crossing anyone on the stairs.

I honestly don't know how you could argue against the necessity of superstition for human survival given everything I have just said, but apparently some people are willing to try.


Monday, 30 September 2013


Usually when I post like this, it's off the back of some sort of argument. This time, though, it's been brewing for a while.

I've been feeling sad and insecure for far too long and, unfortunately for my incessant need to assign blame, it's not really anyone's fault. Except maybe mine.

I thought our current situation was finally getting somewhere.

Not in a relationship sense, because that's really not happening.

But in terms of just sort of chugging along, I thought we were alright.

We sleep together, we spend time together, I've been introduced to friends... I didn't really think he had room for anyone else because I certainly didn't. And yet it seems that he has been keeping his options well and truly open.

I think I tricked myself into thinking that this wasn't or wouldn't be a problem, but then a few weeks ago I overlooked what we'll call "an indiscretion".

Despite being informed that this reaction was not allowed - I had, after all, entered into this hideous non-relationship quite knowingly - I was upset. A little bit of that was out in the open, but to the casual outsider and to the boy in question, it was short-lived. If it's ever mentioned now, it's in something akin to jest.

Privately, though, I was absolutely crippled with grief. I can't even begin to put it into words, lest it spark mass suicide. I wish I was lying when I said that I was heartbroken, but there you go. It was - in the worst twelve months of my entire life - the thing that hurt the most.

In his defence, it's not even the first time, really, so I don't know why I expected anything else. I'm certainly not angry about it anymore. He's probably right about it being okay. He's certainly right in the sense that I was forewarned, anyway.

But recently, I've just been getting a little bit too cosy, I think. What a little idiot.

Granted, it was probably naive of me to think that we'd be alright. We're just not. It's absolutely fine being almost-friends who sleep together, and in many ways that's probably the ideal, but that only works as long as one of you doesn't get carried away with stupid feelings. And I always get carried away with stupid feelings.


It has come to my attention in the last few days that I need to protect myself. I was flung into a state of panic the other day by the mere suggestion that IT could be happening again at some point in the coming weeks, and I just CANNOT COPE.

I agreed to be in a non-relationship. I agreed to devalue myself. I agreed to be a stop-gap until someone better comes along. I agreed to settle for something that I told myself I never would.

So I can't blame anyone else for the way I have felt or for the way I am currently feeling. I put myself here. I put my already-broken, barely-functioning, battered and bruised self here. With someone who has THREE TIMES demonstrated that my absolute weakness for them is something to be taken advantage of.

So in exactly the same way as I got myself into this mess, I think I'm just going to have to take myself out of it.


Tuesday, 17 September 2013


Emotionally-speaking, I have had a hideous couple of weeks.

At first I tried to blame it on social networking, because it seemed that my incessant over-sharing and passive-aggressive bitching was at the root of a lot of the arguments I was having.

But now, having now completed ONE WEEK without twitter, it is safe to say that I am actually WORSE without those things. As some of us have come to learn this week, I find it nigh on impossible to deal with anything if I can't tell everyone about it in 140 characters or less.

And, also, I am just a terrible person.

In real life, I could spend a year with people before I'd dare to bother them with how I take my tea. I have childhood friends who couldn't tell you what my favourite colour is. There are people I eat fifty percent of my meals with who don't have A CLUE that they should probably be protecting me from a dangerous kiwi allergy.

I basically work on a need to know basis. If you've got my name and general location, we'll be okay. I feel like I'm bothering you with the other stuff.

AND YET on the internet, I will happily tell anyone anything, and I'll do it without them asking (or wanting) me to do so. This is partly due to the fact that my talents as a writer far exceed those that I have acquired as an actual live human person, but also because the internet gives you the power of takesies backsies. If I accidentally say something terrible or expunge an emotion, I can delete the tweet, blog or conversation and never have to deal with it again. Or explain it away, using skills that I do not possess in a one-to-one situation.

Speaking of which, I alluded to some sort of emotional turmoil back there. AND I WASN'T KIDDING. I have been a mess for a while now and it does seem like this has finally tipped me over the edge.

I'm crying a lot, I'm eating basically nothing and nobody loves me and I want to die.

I just can't SPEAK to people anymore. It is horrible to live your life with I Love Yous on the tip of your tongue and Help Mes stuck in your throat. I do think a lot of it is a fear of rejection or something, but some of it comes down to me essentially just not having the social skills to be able to approach people when I need them. And this past week I have really needed them.

So, I'm going to go and work on that, and you people should all go and focus on developing psychic abilities so that my intense feelings of loneliness, abandonment and depression don't get me launched off a bridge before Hallowe'en.


Saturday, 10 August 2013


I'm a uk size 16.

Big boobs. Small waist. Massive arse.


On Sunday I wore a cropped vest. LET ME BE THE FIRST TO TELL YOU THAT I LOOKED CRACKING. My waist is not bad to look at and the fact that it is covered up so often is a tragedy. The bits surrounding it are a bit wobbly, but I think that's okay because MY BODY IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. 

I posted a photo online because a) I'm vain as hell and b) the occasion of me getting dressed and putting make-up on is so rare these days that I feel it should be documented.

(Note: The photo is no longer there because I have been shown the error of my ways.)

Some people reblogged my naked stomach to regular ol' fashion tumblrs. This was exciting. Some other people reblogged it to fat fashion tumblrs. Also exciting.

I started to feel quite smug and popular, which is exactly how stories of my downfall usually start.


By studying commentary on reblogs and by referring to the messages sent directly to my tumblr inbox, I ascertained that many people thought that I would benefit from weight loss and hair extensions and also that they felt that it was their place to tell me.

This was to be expected. Tumblr is full of children and psychopaths.

However, what I did not expect was the response from people who thought that I was NOT QUITE FAT ENOUGH.

It was at this point that I became upset.

Several plus-sized blog owners - some of them self-proclaimed activists who refer to their friends as allies and think that any store that does not stock a size 36 is somehow working against them - had begun questioning why I was even on the fat pages.

Some of them got rather personal.

These women, it transpires, do not want to play with me. I am not fat enough to join their club because I can shop wherever I like. Apparently meeting society's criteria for attractiveness (by however narrow a margin) means that I don't understand (actual quote) "the struggle".

WELL READ BACK. I'm being called too fat, too small and also someone said that my hair was stupid. This is not what I wanted from my Sunday.

Basically, fat people, if you're trying to tell me that the average big-mouthed shouty person in the street is making some kind of distinction between a size 16 and a size 24, you are hideously misinformed.

We're all fat.

We've all had it shouted down the street or whispered on a beach or said by a stupid ex-boyfriend.


Because, congratulations, you're now as awful and bullying as the girls who told you you were too fat for the thin pages. HOPE YOU'RE PROUD, BODY POSITIVITY.


Saturday, 3 August 2013

Clear Out

Earlier today I decided that I needed to clear out my wardrobe.

It had reached breaking point, frankly, and such was the overflow of clothing that I recently started hanging things on my doorframe and making full use of the floor.

Time to be ruthless.

As it happens, I am doing rather well.

I have thrown away about half of my clothes which, I suppose, might sound a bit extreme.

However, if we consider that my wardrobe still does not shut, I think we can probably agree that it was necessary.

Nevertheless, even though I was so without ruth during this exercise, I almost crumbled when I got to one stupid dress.

I've had it for about five years. It's black, floral, mid-length, cinched in the middle AND ABSOLUTELY HIDEOUS. It is still, remarkably, considered to be my 'back-up dress'. If ever I am stuck for something to wear, I reach for this monstrosity.

It always seems like a good idea for about an hour, and then I catch sight of myself in a window or something.

No clothing item on God's green earth is more capable of making me look and feel like a frumpy middle-aged housewife and I KNOW THIS.

So why can't I throw it out? And why do I go back to it so quickly? AND WILLINGLY?

As you read this, I will probably STILL be sitting in a pile of clothes with this dress on my lap.

And I think there might be a metaphor in here somewhere.


I Hate Everyone

If it were up to me, I'd cut about 95% of the people in my life out of it.

Unfortunately, I am not in a position where this is possible, sensible or acceptable.

For the sake of avoiding any unnecessarily injured feelings, allow me to assure you that if I am spending time with you, you're probably safe.

Although I do mean actual quality time. More than an occasional catch-up in Costa, let's say. As you may remember, I am a trained professional something and I can quite literally deal with anyone and anything, no matter how unpleasant or dull, for well over an hour. So don't be fooled.

I understand that the problem lies partly with me. I am hideously intolerant of other people.

People who whistle, for example. DON'T FUCKING WHISTLE.

I've lived and worked with people who would whistle FOR NO REASON and subsequently claim that they didn't realise they were doing it. I was forced to murder every one of them.

While they might be the worst, whistlers are not the only people I hate.

Here are some more.

It's been that kind of day.

People who act stupid.
People who are stupid.
People who retweet compliments.
People who retweet 'sodamnrelatable' and other such accounts.
People who tag instagram photos with #nofilter.
People who tag instagram photos with #nomakeup.
People who tap their fingers on surfaces.
People who knock on my desk to get my attention.
People who suffer from plain-face.
People who sing under their breath.
People who sing under their breath and then make a big show of squeaking out the high note.
People who answer the phone with 'Yello'.
People who fill silences with their own personal catchphrase.
People who say 'at the end of the day'.
People who refer to their boyfriend as 'the boy'.
People who lick their knife at the end of a meal.
People who lick their knife after buttering bread.
People who allow their cutlery to scrape against their plate.
People who take a sip of their drink while they still have food in their mouth.
People who have life rules.
People who start every story with "we were really drunk -".
People who preface music recommendations with "this probably isn't your thing -".
People who adopt the opinion of the most popular person in a group.
People who do not have opinions.
People who swear a lot.
People who don't swear.
People who laugh passive-aggressively.
People who disguise a lack of personality with odd hair.
People who won't give Game of Thrones a chance.
People who are vegetarian for moral reasons.
People who interrupt.
People who call when their text has not received a reply.
People who call to let me know that they've sent me an email.
People who are later than I am to any event.
People who say they're going to be late an hour in advance.
People who are early.

EDIT: I thought of some more.

People who get toast crumbs in the butter.
People who laugh at everything.
People who are any kind of bigot but think it's okay because they have a friend who is black/gay/a feminist.
People who, upon hearing that I don't like to eat fish, say "but you'll really enjoy [insert type of fish]."
People who order salad as a main course.
People who 'do' my accent.

EDIT: I remembered another one.

People who put kisses on the end of tweets or @replies.

Basically ALL PEOPLE.


Wednesday, 10 July 2013

Liverpool's Finest

When I was about nineteen, I was living in Lancaster with seven other undergraduates: three girls, four boys.

One of the boys was from Liverpool.

Now, it's probably worth saying that he was exactly the opposite of what you are probably imagining, given that single fact. He was quiet, he was clever, he was soft-spoken and he was well-dressed.

Granted, the soft-speaking came with a scouse accent, but you'd be surprised how much nicer that all sounds when the volume is turned down.

Oh, how I've misjudged the people of Liverpool, I thought.

And then his cousins came to stay.

There were three of them.

Two were your standard itv-crime-drama-style Liverpudlians, so for the sake of keeping this as neutral as possible, I will leave it there. Even though they were both wearing tracksuits.

The third, however, was basically the most beautiful young man I had ever laid my eyes on. He looked EXACTLY like Tyson Ritter from The All-American Rejects except BETTER because I had a chance.

Anyway, to their credit, the first time they came to stay they were very well behaved.

(Probably. I was very busy kissing the third one and planning our wedding.)

Cut to three months later.

I had been ill for approximately forever.

In the seven days prior to the incident we are about to discuss, I had been out of my room on one occasion and this was only because I got it into my head that crawling to the shop to buy three cartons of orange juice would fix me.

Just as I was reaching the end of this hell, on what I believe was a Saturday, I was terrified out of my death bed by the sound of one of my female flatmates - Girl From Essex - screaming BLOODY MURDER.

I was vaguely aware that we had been expecting visitors from Liverpool at some point, and I was lucid enough to want my future husband to believe that I was the attractive young woman he had met a few weeks earlier.

So I didn't exactly RUSH OUT.

And this turned out to be a good decision as, seconds after I peeped my head around the door, I was violently accosted and dragged into the kitchen by Girl From Essex.

Hold your breath, she said menacingly, before placing me in front of the kitchen sink, which was inexplicably filled with vomit, urine and a bit of burnt carpet.

As the smell hit me, and I was forced to leave the room, I noticed that every visible wall from my door to the kitchen was covered in what was either blood or ketchup.

Then I tripped over the bit where the carpet was supposed to be.

And found another female flatmate wondering what it was that had made all those tissues stick to her door.

But at least I had lipstick on.


As if in response, our resident scouse and his three cousins appeared at the end of the corridor. Entirely naked, mostly drunk, but remembering enough to be TERRIFIED.

Then Girl From Essex sent me back to bed so she could deal with them.

There are basically two lessons here:

First of all, people from Liverpool should always be supervised by a sober adult. Evidence suggests that they are very good at cleaning their way through a bad hangover when someone bossy is stood behind them glaring.

Secondly, you don't want to get on anyone from Essex's bad side. So when your born and bred flatmate tells you that if she ever catches you kissing that boy again, she'll 'take your kneecaps', YOU LISTEN.


Wednesday, 19 June 2013

Distress And Impairment

I'm a little bit het up this week.

I've got myself all worked up about a thing and a boy, and I can't settle.

So, rather than write another post that's going to get me into trouble, I thought I'd share something a bit more inconsequential, and ultimately cathartic, inspired by a documentary I just watched on the making of Jaws.

Well, cathartic or stroke-inducing. Let's see.

Things I Am Scared Of 

(Or, Why I Should Probably Be Under The Care Of A Psychiatrist)

Fairly common, except that I am rendered mute and motionless by them. So, when they eventually organise an attack, I will be useless.

They give me the heebie jeebies. I'm only actually FRIGHTENED of ones that are really thin when you look at them from the front, but not when you look at them from a different angle.

Blue ones, specifically. They are too big and too invisible. You could be in the sea and have one of them underneath you and not even know. Granted, you'd have to be quite a way in, but I think my point still stands. Also, it's all well and good saying they're not going to eat you, but one of these things could SNIFF and you'd probably be dragged under.

Meat That Is Still Animal-Shaped
I enjoy chicken nuggets, but I would rather rip my own face off than eat a chicken leg. I can't even watch someone eat one without breaking into a sweat. Apply this to all meat. I like my food well and truly processed, thank you.

I don't really mind listening to them when I am in a safe place with no violins around, so it doesn't affect my enjoyment of popular music. However, I feel a horrible and instinctive need to shield my eyes when I see them, regardless of my proximity to them, and particularly if they are being played. It's a very physical reaction, and leads me to believe that I would have to be put into a padded room were I to accidentally touch one.

Foxes That Have Been Turned Into Scarves
If you ever watched Round The Twist, I suspect that you remember the episode in which a dead fox starts coming to life in a cupboard and cries about a lemon tree. If you don't, I would strongly suggest that you don't go looking for it. This has been the basis of a recurring nightmare that has haunted me for ABOUT eighteen years.

Piles Of Paper
I'm okay with a pile of paper that includes no more than, say, ten sheets. However, I would slit my own throat before I'd be the one in the office to open a new packet of paper and put it in the printer. I was once caught trying to use two rulers as chopsticks to avoid touching too many paper edges at once. There are worries that this could impede my professional development.

The little metal ones. I have no idea. I think this is another eye-related thing, like the violin business.

The Flappy Bit Of Skin Between Your Index Finger And Your Thumb
I've been forced to develop a way of washing my hands that makes contact with that bit of skin as trauma-free as possible. Sometimes, though, when I'm feeling a bit self-destructive, I touch it to see how long it will take to give myself a nervous breakdown. Like how some people poke their stitches or touch their eyeball to bother people.


I think I've covered all the things that I don't mind telling people about.

You saw 'spiders' and thought that this would be lovely and straightforward, didn't you? Silly reader.


Saturday, 15 June 2013

Be Selfish

I usually go out of my way to avoid posting overly-sentimental stuff on my public tumblr, but today I had one and a half chocolate oranges and subsequently threw all of my dignity to the wind.

The post that caught my attention and alienated about half of my followers, however, resonated with me in a way that surprised me so much that I thought I'd bore you with it as well.

I'm not going to link it (because I got embarrassed and deleted it and now I can't find it) so I'm going to quote a point that I saved. Just this bit:

"Don’t kiss him because he’s broken. Don’t kiss him because his laughter never reaches his eyes. Don’t try and fix him. Fix yourself first. Be selfish. He can’t save you."


I suppose that's something that will only move you if you are (or have been) where I am. Everyone else reading this is just rolling their eyes at my all-too-predictable emotional collapse. But I'm going somewhere with this, I assure you.

In fact, I think I may have had an epiphany of sorts.

Not long ago, we briefly addressed some unfortunate feelings that I am currently suffering - and we're doing a daily play-by-play over on twitter - but what we've never really talked about is my history of putting myself in this position.

(Just less than a year ago, however, I did write this. About, I should warn you, the same boy that we're dealing with now. I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU HOW IMPORTANT IT IS THAT YOU GO BACK AND READ IT. Past Me is proving my point better than Current Me could ever hope to.)


The most frustrating thing about being a bit 'emotionally troubled' is that there isn't a foolproof way of dealing with it.

There comes a point when you run out of woe and don't have the energy to fall into an Ophelian heap every time something goes wrong. You're just stuck, right at the bottom of an empty emotionless well.

You might stay there for a while, but sooner or later you realise that you need to get out.

Here are your options:

1. You wait around to be rescued.

2. You concentrate on helping someone else to get out of the well.

3. You climb out by yourself.

My sanity absolutely relies on option number two.

If I'm not dealing with someone else's problems - emotional or otherwise - then I have no choice but to deal with mine, and there always seem to be too many of them.

That's why, you see, I have allowed myself to be second best in every relationship I've ever had. It's why I've been, essentially, a rebound girl for every boy I've been involved with. It's why the girl who shows up after I've gone (or sometimes while I'm still around) always seems to be the one that works out.

Because I've been the emotional punch bag, and I've allowed someone to mend at my expense.

I seek out men who have no interest in commitment and who couldn't care less about me. I have some kind of radar for emotional problems and traumatic childhoods. I fall in love with broken people, they become my everything, and then they leave.

Because when you don't mean as much to someone as they mean to you, that happens.

They can walk away without a second thought.

And it's not fair.

I am worth so much more than I let myself have.


Thursday, 13 June 2013

Laura Does Something Different


I don't usually do this, but I NEEDED AN OUTLET FOR SOME FEELINGS.

Feelings, mind you, that are about a television programme.

So, basically, the latest season of Game of Thrones ended on Monday, and I have been left with a horrible hole in my life. Usually by this point in the week, I am already excited about the next episode. BUT THAT HAS BEEN CRUELLY HALTED.

I am taking this harder than most, I think, because I watched the first two seasons WELL after everyone else did. My ex-boyfriend and I hunkered down last September with a duvet and six boxes of Maltesers and watched all twenty episodes at once.

This season, therefore, has actually been rather difficult for me because I couldn't just put the next episode on. I HAD TO WAIT LIKE SOME KIND OF PEASANT.

Another fatal mistake was reading the books, I feel. Because I know what's coming and I can't wait a year for it. Sorry. We're going to have to move some dates around.

Daenerys, by Gavin Bond (not Gil Elvgren)

H'ANYWAY. To help with the necessary closure, I have decided to furnish you with a list of my favourite moments, all while going into far too much detail


7. Give Me A Hand
The Jaime Lannister we knew from seasons one and two was, at best, a complete dick. He's sleeping with his sister, he is fifty percent responsible for the birth of Joffrey and, of course, he threw a child from a window. The fact that this man is a Knight makes me seriously question the application process.
However, his relationship with Brienne of Tarth, who has been charged with returning him to King's Landing, actually turns him into something vaguely fanciable. Sadly for Jaime, developing a conscience, and being quite against the idea of Brienne being raped, ends with him getting his sword hand lopped off.

6. Sam's Dagger
Samwell Tarly has had a rough old time of it, really. Forced to either join the Night's Watch or be killed by his own dad, he arrived at Castle Black with less than adequate self-defence skills.
I'd also like to take a moment to express sympathy for Gilly, because if you and your baby were running away with ANYONE, would you want it to be Sam? No. The fact that they are alive is sheer luck. Well, luck and those magic daggers that Sam found in the snow.
In a move that shocked everyone, including himself, Sam became the first person to kill a White Walker in centuries. He also dropped one of the magic daggers while he was running away and left it there but, you know, baby steps.

5. Strangled in your Sleep
Cersei Lannister seems to be losing her grip on things a little bit, doesn't she? At least when King Joffrey was all set to marry Sansa, she had some control. But now that Sansa is married, reluctantly, to Tyrion Lannister and Joffrey is engaged to Margaery Tyrell, she's a bit stuck. Largely, of course, because Margaery is a proper little minx. However, not one to be beaten, Cersei had a good go at warning Margaery off with a little story about the last family who tried to better the Lannisters, but lost all points for subtlety with the line "If you ever call me 'sister' again, I'll have you strangled in your sleep." Gorgeous.
All that aside, now that Joffrey is shooting prostitutes with crossbows during his downtime, I think it's probably safe to say that Cersei wouldn't have much hope of reining him in regardless of Margaery's cleavage-focused presence.

4. The Climb
Visually, the climbing of The Wall by the Wildlings and their temporary companion, Jon Snow, has been one of the most pleasing. This wall, of course, is 700ft high and built to keep the creatures beyond away from the realms of men, so it wasn't exactly your average hike.
(Oh, it was all going so well back then, wasn't it? Jon and Ygritte were in love; she'd managed to make him break his vow of celibacy within five seconds of taking her clothes off; they managed not to die when the guy from Pirates of the Caribbean cut their safety rope; Ygritte saw a windmill and thought it was a castle. Romantic. Unfortunately, since then, Jon has upset her so much that she felt the need to shoot him with not one but THREE arrows. Men, eh? I bet Ygritte would benefit from a blog.)

3. Family Reunion
Arya Stark has spent two whole seasons trying to get back to her family after her dad went and got his head chopped off in King's Landing, and in episode nine of season three she finally did it! Yay! Oh but HANG ON, they're all getting murdered by the Freys.
Poor Arya. At least she didn't see anything too awful though. ENTER ROBB WIND.
In a surprising bit of by-the-book accuracy, the mutilated corpse of Robb, our King in the North, was paraded around for all to see following the events of the Red Wedding, where he - along with his wife, his unborn child, his mother and the entire Northern Army - was murdered . Lovely. His head was removed and replaced with the head of his pet Dire Wolf, Grey Wind. Hence, "Robb Wind".
I have never been so excited to see a dead body in my life, I'll tell you that much. Excellently done. Unsurprisingly, Arya did not share my excitement and shortly afterwards went and murdered someone claiming to be responsible. You've probably guessed by now that she's on quite a steep path, murder-wise. Good luck to her. 

2. Magic Box
The long-awaited story of how Lord Varys, our genitalia-free friend, became a eunuch was more than enough for me, frankly. BUT THEN HE OPENED THE BOX. "The revenge you want will be yours in time." Beautiful.
(In other castration news, poor Theon Greyjoy is not having a good time of it at all, is he? He's still trapped with Ramsay Snow who, despite the fact that he has just cut another man's delicates off, is mental enough to be comfortable eating a giant pork sausage.)

1. Dracarys
The best moment of this season was brought to you by Daenerys Targaryen and The Unsullied.
Despite Ser Jorah's vociferous objections, Dany traded one of her lovely little dragons for eight thousand highly effective slave soldiers who, by the way, all have a little something in common with Varys and Theon. Ouch.
Unsurprisingly, she reclaims her dragon after the exchange, orders it to barbecue Kraznys the slave master and then sets her whole army on the city, freeing every slave in it.
When she frees her army, they naturally decide to fight for her anyway because of how nice she is. Heart-warming stuff. I would fight for her too, frankly.


And eeee. Look at that. Seven favourite moments and I hardly even MENTIONED Tyrion.


I've just remembered the scene where Podrick comes back from the prostitutes. That should be in there. Maybe in the middle.


Sunday, 26 May 2013

All Unrequited

This is an uncomfortably new situation for me, romantically-speaking. With all the horrific luck and terrible decisions that litter my dating history, I've never been HERE before. While many of the relationships I've had have fallen apart mercilessly and largely without my say-so, I've never had THIS problem.

The problem I speak of is unrequited love. Or unrequited feelings, I suppose. Feelings that feel a lot like love, except much more sad and painful. And hopeless. That's quite prevalent.

There will plenty of time before this subsides to cover the specifics. We've met this young man before, and I believe the general theme was the same. Perhaps not the unrequitedness of it all, but certainly the HELL that I've put myself through for (what feels like) not much in return.

It's probably worth mentioning that I haven't been very vocal about how I'm feeling, largely because I fear that anything I do say will be met with either hostility or ignorance. This, as an approach, is not something that I would recommend. Some things are bigger on the inside* and do need to be shared for the sake of perspective if nothing else.

But I'm not writing this for people who are in my situation.

I'm going to offer some advice to those of you who have someone like me hanging off your every text, tweet and instagram post.

There are, essentially, four ways to deal with someone being all unrequited in your direction.

1. Take advantage.

Allow them to take you out, let them spend their money and BY ALL MEANS sleep with them and act like it's nothing.

They'll come running every time, so it's not like it's your fault.

2. Taunt them.

While you're doing the above, you might want to rub their poor unlovable faces in the relationships that actually HAVE meant something to you. Or in the ones that you're conducting alongside this farce.

You've made it clear that you're not interested in them, so why not?

3. Be a dick.

Belittle their feelings. Tell them that they aren't in love and that they're stupid for thinking so in the first place. Maybe tell them they're insane.

Whatever makes YOU feel better. They probably need to hear it.

You may even want to combine those first three approaches to cause maximum damage.

Or, rather heroically, you could go with the fourth.

You see, the older I get, the more I come to realise that you have a responsibility to those who make the mistake of falling for you. Not a responsibility to return their feelings, or even to feel guilty for not doing so, but certainly one to do whatever you can to NOT MAKE THINGS WORSE.

Treat them, whoever they are, with the respect they deserve.

Maybe it is just a crush (in my case, a crush that has been going on for MONTHS and is showing no signs of abating) and maybe they'll just get over it. But, equally, maybe they'll need a lot of time and a lot of understanding.

I hate to tell you this, but a lot of it is on you. Ever tried thinking rationally when you're in love? You're the one with the clear head here. You have a responsibility - albeit a moral and not exactly obligatory one - to avoid one, two and three and to avoid being the one who adds to what is already a horribly painful situation.

If that means walking away, so be it.

But if it means hanging in there and BEING A PERSON, do that.

4. Be understanding. Be honest. Be kind. Be exactly the kind of person that they believe you to be. 


*I would be a lot less embarrassed about this reference if Doctor Who had been slightly less terrible this year.

Thursday, 16 May 2013

Suicide and Other Ideas

In this edition of 'Laura Does A Disorder', we're going to revisit that little Depression Problem I was diagnosed with last year or whenever that was.

I did so little about it that it is actually LAUGHABLE and the fact that I am even surprised that it has come to this is astonishing.

In hindsight, we probably could have avoided quite a lot of this trauma.

But I'm on the verge of killing myself.

Don't panic.

(I know you're still panicking.)

Basically, without wanting to upset anyone, there's been a huge amount of "WHAT IS EVEN THE POINT OF ME?" and "I RUIN EVERYTHING. YOU'D ALL BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT ME."

You know.

That kind of thing. For months. And bleeding months.

You've probably seen it all over twitter and assumed I was just having a couple of off days. An easy mistake to make. I certainly made it. As did my mother. And everyone else.

Unfortunately - and I say this because I feel as though we are at risk of being entirely blasé about this - it currently takes a remarkable amount of willpower to stop myself walking into traffic.

I've not only had passing thoughts of wanting to not exist anymore, but am also plagued by the long lingering ones that prod you until you ask, "Would jumping off a bridge that low actually work?"

Everything seems MASSIVE and out of my control and, most painfully, absolutely never-ending.

Suicide, effectively, often occurs to me as the most logical way out of my own personal hell.

Like I said, everything seems massive.

Everything seems like the end of the world.

But it's probably not.


(Note: My most recent diagnosis was, specifically, 'major depressive disorder, social anxiety, bulimia, OCD and dermatillomania'. I've been prescribed a thing called Sertraline. It makes me sick and I haven't eaten properly in over a week, BUT I AM ASSURED THAT THIS IS WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN. Thank you for reading and DO TRY not to worry. This was meant entirely to inform and appease.)

Sunday, 7 April 2013

How Not To Win An Argument

Those of you who have been charmed by my optimism and good-natured nonchalance will probably be shocked to learn that I am in arguments more often than I am in regular conversations.

I don't enjoy them, nor do I seek them out, I just stumble into them.

Other people do not believe this to be the case.

REGARDLESS, we will all now benefit from the sheer breadth of my expertise in this area as I share with you how not to win an argument.

Or, actually, how to avoid a break-up as a result of a stupid argument. Or maybe how to have an argument while causing the least damage.


Basically, this is all the stuff you should avoid saying if you want to maintain a) your dignity and/or b) your relationship.

When you're fighting with someone - whether that's a boyfriend, a girlfriend or the irritating young man you happen to be sleeping with - and you're in a 'win or die' sort of situation, there are things you will be tempted to say.

Well, don't.

Don't say them.

By 'them', I mean the following things.


This didn't even work when Harry said it to Voldemort, and that is for one very specific reason: IT IS NEVER TRUE. You don't feel sorry for them. You hate them and want to set them on fire. Pretence of any kind is POINTLESS and you are wasting everyone's time.


Yes. But unless you're a thirteen year old arguing with your mother about your restrictive bedtime, this is a, frankly, embarrassing thing to say. If you really must wish that people were dead, do it privately. Other derivatives of this include "Just kill yourself." As these phrases can occasionally hit a nerve and leave you having to justify them in every future argument until you both actually ARE dead, best to avoid.


We've talked about suicidal threats before. And you don't wish you were dead, you hope that the other person does not wish you were dead. Do you see? Again, pointless. And, unless you are holding a knife to your own neck, childish.
(Note: Do not hold a knife to your own neck. Or to theirs, with reference to point 2.)


Alright then. So why are we locked in this HELL? If you're so NOT mad, then make us a drink and we'll go and have some sex. No? OH, SO YOU ARE MAD?


Unless there are body parts falling from your person as you argue, yes you can. You just don't want to.


On a serious note, this is one of those phrases that sort of hangs in the air when you've said it. If you do make up, this will come back to haunt you. If you don't, this will make the guilt all the worse when you've calmed down.


Do I need to explain this? Don't bring up ex-partners, don't bring up sexual prowess. You'll either have to leave it with them forever if you break up or try and convince them otherwise for THE REST OF TIME if you don't. 


As above. If you've spent months bitching about your ex to the poor sap you're now inflicting yourself upon, don't throw this at them. The implication is 'I hate you as much as I hate them', which brings us nicely to...


On one level, this is quite pathetic. It's a bit like Point 2, however, in that - if you're really going for someone and this gets spat out -  it's quite hard to recover from. Again, it hangs in the air if it's said with any conviction.


That's not what you want, is it? You don't want them to leave you alone, you just want them to stop disagreeing with you or criticising you or whatever it is that they're doing. That annoying thing that people say about not sleeping on an argument actually has some backbone - it's much easier to deal with stuff when it's happening rather than having to rake it all up again.

So, yeah. Avoid all that.

Good luck to you.


Wednesday, 20 March 2013

You Haven't Changed

I was supposed to see Idiot this weekend.

For the first time in three years.

It didn't happen.

When he got in touch in November, I was reluctant to speak to him. But, like I've said before, one of my biggest problems with our break-up was that I had no way of knowing how he was doing. He deleted me from his life and I deleted him from mine. He didn't even have facebook, for crying out loud, thanks to the dangers involved in leading a double life. So, presented with the opportunity to ascertain that he hadn't died of something horrible, I let him back in.

He told lie upon lie during the two years we spent together. He lied about his family, his friends, his ex-girlfriend, the fact that she wasn’t actually an ex and – OH YES – his child. He even lied about his name, but that is probably a blog post all of its own.

Hindsight is all well and good, BUT I WAS IN LOVE.

After AGES of being back in touch, we arranged a date for the weekend just gone. I'd been reluctant to agree to it previously, due to an overwhelming fear that I'd do something stupid like fall back in love with him or marry him or something, but as I'm busy being all unrequited in the direction of someone else*, I thought now was as good a time as any.

But he, it turned out, couldn't make it.

Before we go into specifics, I feel that I should point out that this ridiculous failure boils down to the fact that, while I have grown and matured as a human being – and also, in some ways, regressed – he has stayed exactly the same as he always was.

The lying, which we have covered, was never exclusive to the big stuff. While I know that things wouldn’t have been better if it was, it's somehow more annoying when people lie about things that DON'T MATTER. (And also when they pretend that 'omitting information' is not the same as lying. Again, another blog post.)

Like with this date.

The day and time he'd suggested two weeks in advance just happened to coincide with a work thing that he had to do. Had he been a well-adjusted human being, he would have let me know and we could have rearranged.

But that would have been too easy.

He chose, instead, to act as though the date was to go ahead, despite knowing full well that it wasn't. Even on the day. Only when I said...


... did he admit that, actually, he was in PLYMOUTH and would be there for some time.

That's quite weird, isn't it? As a thing to lie about.

Here is an actual quote from a text he sent at lunchtime on the day we were supposed to meet:


Don't feel as though you have to point out how minor this is as an issue. I am well aware that I could be seen to have overreacted slightly when I subsequently told him to leave me alone.

But as far as I'm concerned, he had his chance to be an actual person and build a bridge and he pulled the same crap he always did. That he can't even be honest and straightforward about something as basic as this is simply testament to the fact that I have dodged a bullet.


(*In the end, I went to see Doughnut instead. You remember him. I've said several times that I’ll never ever see him again, and yet here we are. Whatever. We all have our vices. He's quite a good one.)

Tuesday, 12 March 2013

Starting Again

I'm twenty-five. Mid-twenties. Far too close to thirty for anyone to be comfortable with. I'm neither as pretty or as funny as I used to be and I come with so much baggage that there is a good chance that I'll never be able to travel with a budget airline again.

It's probably time to accept that I am past my prime.

So now would be a pretty terrible time to choose to turn my back on every friend I currently have, wouldn't it?

Well, let's see that stop me.

In November, a really terrible thing happened to me, courtesy of my best friend of nigh on seven years. But let's not go into that. WE TRY TO BE LIGHTHEARTED HERE.

The decision I made at the time was to walk away from him and pick up the pieces. I didn't expect people to follow me, but I think I expected people to be a little bit more supportive.

As it was, everyone IN THE WORLD took his side.

People were very quick to assume that I was being as highly-strung as ever and that I was, perhaps, having the nervous breakdown that we’d all been expecting for a while. Difficult to blame them for that, considering the years of evidence they have at their disposal, but STILL.

By deciding to act as though he no longer existed, I effectively made the decision to isolate myself from everyone I loved.

“Not necessarily!” I hear you cry.

Yes, necessarily.

Given that we've been friends for so many years, it's probably not a surprise for you to learn that our friends are mostly mutual. In fact, when I was having the latest in a series of crises relating to this the other day, I actually struggled to name someone I knew (unromantically) who was not also a friend of his.

Furthermore, and quite problematically, the friends that we share were all his friends first. Their loyalty is with him. I get that.

I have, for months, been very understanding of my former friends. I have been speaking to and even seeing some of them, but I've been very aware that they all took his side when I really needed them to NOT BE IDIOTS.

Last week, or something, the boy in question wrote a self-serving and – frankly – disturbing blog post, admitting that I WAS TELLING THE TRUTH. There was no remorse involved, just a lot of 'poor me' bollocks. I thought for a brief moment, as upset as I was that someone else was putting my life online (irony, right?), that things might actually get better.

Surely, knowing what he'd done and that he'd been lying about it for four months, people would be sorry for how I'd been treated. Or at least sympathetic about what I'd been through. 

No such luck.

As it turns out, people are still on his side. Or, at least, not as ready to put his head on a spike as I would like.

I don't need that kind of friend. I don't need people who don’t care. And I certainly don't need people who think that what he did was okay and that I am CAUSING A FUSS by being upset about it.

So, I'm starting again.

I'm becoming a hermit so that I can concentrate on my writing and perhaps take up knitting. I don't need friends. I'll get a cat. Maybe I’ll start living in a house full of cats until, one day, it all becomes too much and I decide to stop taking my allergy medication in the hope of a quick death.

You know. That kind of thing.

I suppose I could make new friends.

But how do you even do that when you're twenty-five?

Can't hit people with a stick and ask them to play anymore. Unless I join the role-playing society again.

The truth of it is, I am utterly useless. I can't really function on my own, but I would rather do that than put people through the agony of having to deal with me.

As we've said before, my first instinct is to assume that everyone hates me and/or is about to get bored of me. And as I sit here in the dark like Gollum in a wig, it is difficult to believe otherwise.

Logic, however, does suggest that I am probably a bit likeable.

That's not really the main problem though.

I understand that I would not have reached this point in my life and career without some kind of charm, but I need quite a lot of hand-holding and assurance to get me through the day. I don't chase people, or nag them and I hate feeling like I'm bothering anyone. I agonise over text messages like you wouldn't believe and I am even worse with phone calls.

All of those things are BARRIERS to making and, indeed, keeping new friends because it does mean that the other person has to do quite a lot of the work before I trust them enough to actually act like a proper person.

So, cats it is.


Thursday, 14 February 2013

Doing Romance

Happy Valentine's Day.

I suppose you’re wondering how such a vibrant and attractive woman is able to find the time to write a blog post on this of all days.

WELL, let me tell you, I have been asking myself that very question.

Some of you may be aware that I am actually involved with someone. In the loosest possible sense. More than one person, arguably. So, I suppose I could have spent Valentine's Day with SOMEONE if I had wanted to. Probably.

That said, why would I want to break the tradition of a lifetime and actually spend Valentine’s Day with a boy? Because, at the grand old age of twenty-five, it is now almost amusing that this occasion passes me by so reliably every single year.

Like I've said before, I don't hate Valentine's Day. I actually think the whole thing is rather sweet. My problem, really, is with all the other days.

It's a bit like when, at Christmas, people go on and on about how we should be spending more time with families and having a bit of Christmas Spirit all year round. APPLY THIS TO TODAY. Do you really need a specifically sanctioned date to do a romantic thing? No, of course you don’t.

People get romance wrong anyway. They think it's all about flowers and declarations. No.

I, for example, was once bowled over by a a trip to Red Hot Buffet in Manchester.

I suppose what I am trying to say that romance is not about grand gestures. It's about little things that make your tummy flutter when you think about them and about making your feelings known. If flowers and chocolates are how you choose to express yourself or how you would like your significant other to express themselves, then that's fine. But it should not be reserved for one tiny grey day in February.

As my little gift to you, I will now treat you to the Top Seven Most Romantic Moments Of My Life That Do Not Involve Valentine’s-Specific Activities. Not a flower in sight, I promise.

(To avoid upsetting any current girlfriends of the boys I mention - because apparently that happens a lot now - I'm not going to tell you who was responsible for any of the following. But, rest assured that you have read about them all previously.)

7. The time someone hijacked a third-floor flat on campus that was directly opposite my Psychology lecture theatre. Then, on the front-facing windows, wrote “I Love You” in pink post-its. Before killing the whole moment by attacking me with actual eggs.

6. The time someone drove for two hours to buy me some biscuits.

5. The time a boy downloaded, and listened to, Taylor Swift’s entire back-catalogue because I decided it was a relationship requirement.

4. The time I was surprised with an overnight trip to a hotel that had been my favourite as a child. Nothing says ‘love’ like the world’s best breakfast.

3. The time I was kissed in a train station by a boy I had been fighting with for three months. A moment which was sadly ruined by my ridiculous purple hair. The kiss itself was outstanding, and the evening that followed was, essentially, the only enjoyable time we have ever spent together.

2. The time a boy wrote a Christmas song for me after we broke up. Not to get us back together, but merely to express an ongoing affection that would not be ruined by our traumatic separation. Or so he said.

1. The time someone wore a Spider-Man outfit to a party that was not specified as 'fancy dress' because, on the previous evening, I had complained that I was never going to get THAT KISS.

All dead nice, innit?


But, also, I hope you enjoyed Valentine’s Day. Even if you were by yourself watching Crimewatch like some of us.


(Note: When I compiled these - which took no time at all, because those things were all pretty memorable - it became glaringly obvious that I am remarkably easy to please, romance-wise. I know. It came as a shock to me too.)

Tuesday, 5 February 2013

The Scottish One

Before we begin, it's probably important for me to tell you that I don't really approve of my ex-boyfriends 'getting over me' or 'moving on' or 'being happy'. The entire notion of them carrying on with their lives sickens me.

If it were up to me, they'd form a club and spend a couple of hours a week CRYING over how brilliant I was.

Unfortunately, many of them refuse to do that.

At the end of last Summer, you may remember, I wasn't very active on the ol' blog.

It was mostly because I got myself a boyfriend.

I haven't spoken about it yet because it was all a bit sore on his end. BUT HE APPEARS TO HAVE MOVED ON, so it's fine now.

(On twitter, we refer to him as The Scottish One, so that'll probably do here as well. It is unlikely that there'll be another Scottish boyfriend. For various reasons.)

In many ways, I started dating him because of circumstance. I don't mean that unkindly at all, because I actually thought quite a lot of him at the time. But, in my increasingly calamitous life, there had just been all that unpleasant business with Doughnut and I needed, really, someone who was going to worship me unquestioningly and keep me from falling apart at the seams.

And The Scottish One did that. For a little while.

Until I quickly realised that I was the least of our troubles.

In hindsight, I suppose, I could have perhaps chosen someone a little bit less complicated. He was, after all, afflicted with depression and anxiety like you wouldn't BELIEVE. Not ideal for someone like me, who has a psychotic crisis every couple of days.

In the end, I was holding him together far more than the other way around and I'm, frankly, too selfish for that kind of thing.

Outside influences didn't exactly help either - his family were in a class all of their own. I didn't hear much from them at the time, but I've heard more than enough since we broke up. His friends were good lot - give or take a philandering actor, a desperate recording artist and a Scottish Nationalist - but almost entirely ignorant of his ongoing problems in favour of their own.

I was who he talked to, who he cried on, who he shouted at...

And so, we broke up. And eventually stopped speaking.

The final straw, apparently, was my confession that I did not find him even remotely attractive. (I put it much more delicately though, I assure you.) That, to him, negated everything good that I'd ever said and meant that we couldn't even be friends anymore.

We literally haven't spoken since.

I've sent a few messages here and there, mostly because I am insane and I hate being ignored, but overall I don't think I actually mind. I was certainly never upset by how things ended, just a little put out.


I had a naughty little look at his tumblr - because it's my week off and, as mentioned, I am ridiculous - and discovered that he has found himself a new girlfriend.

She, herself, does not provoke any jealousy within me. (I rarely get jealous of women, oddly, and the ones that I do get jealous of would not be appearing in this scenario.) So, as far as I am concerned, that can all carry on as it is.

The only thing wrong with this situation is that, as far as I can tell, he is no longer IN PIECES.


Gone are the lengthy emails about how wonderful I am. Gone are the vaguely suicidal goodbyes. Gone are the assurances that I am the most important person in the world. Gone are the promises of eternal love. Gone is my back-up plan.


As you can see, it's all very selfish of him. Exactly how is my ego to cope if there are not devastated men scattered about the United Kingdom?

This will not be allowed to happen in future.


Sunday, 27 January 2013

We Need To Talk

*shuffles in, sheepishly*


Allow me to apologise.

I've been avoiding your calls and ignoring your texts.

I've crossed the road to avoid a conversation.

I even ducked down behind the bananas last week at Tesco. That 'I Love Laura' tshirt you were wearing might have been a bit much.

I know you want me to say I've missed you, but there's something you should know...

I've been seeing someone else.

That's right!


I'm sorry.

(Nothing exciting though, everyone. Just my dissertation.)

It doesn't mean anything to me, I swear.

After next week, I'll never see it again.

Take me back.



Tuesday, 1 January 2013



As I'm still dealing with horrendous, nonsensical anxiety about most of my writing projects, I'm afraid you're getting what is essentially another list.

It's fine though, because it is a list of resolutions and that's usually quite an interesting thing to read, no?

I would like to preface this list by saying that I do have other more common resolutions to uphold.

I plan to become a better person, drop three dress sizes, save money for a deposit on a flat and find the love of my life.


Now, on to the more difficult - and therefore sufficiently annotated - resolutions.

1. To Be Honest

While I don't often lie, per se, I am certainly not honest.

I bottle things up and merrily passive-aggressive my way through the day.

You see, in real life, I am so frustratingly closed off - emotionally-speaking - that boyfriends, past and current, have found themselves trawling my twitter timeline for mere indications of how I'm feeling or what's happening between us. In fact one of them recently said that, had I talked to him like I talk to my followers, we would have been much happier for much longer.

Sad but also true.

This year, and henceforth, I will strive to express my feelings - good and bad - as well as I am able, mostly without the use of social media.

2. To Stop Walking Away

Confronted with a relationship-argument that requires anything more than a sexual favour to resolve, I become useless. I can't listen, I can't respond, I can't behave rationally.

I have, in the recent and less-recent past, allowed relationships to crumble before me because I simply can't bring myself to face up to problems that will cause me any degree of emotional difficulty.

This year, and henceforth, I intend to face things head on. I will deal with things IN THE MOMENT, stop walking away at the first sign of trouble and put in my share of effort to get things sorted.

3. To Ignore Me

One of the many and varied reasons I often feel as though it would be best to simply disappear is that I am living under a cloud of chronic self-doubt.

I find it difficult to believe that people can stand to look at me, let alone speak to me, and therefore often labour under the belief that I am inflicting myself upon them.

In relationships, I worry almost constantly that I am about to be replaced by someone 'better' and so, as soon as an opportunity is presented to me, I will usually leave.

This year, and henceforth, I intend to try to stop listening to my own damaged self-opinions and start believing what people say. I am both worthy and capable of love.


Looks like a much less complicated year ahead, does it not?