But strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you

Shout out to whoever commented on my last post. If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.


It’s true, unfortunately. But we don’t have to fall in love with you; if we anything you, you can never die. This post isn’t about love. I need a break from that, I gotta come back down to reality for a sec. We don’t have to fall in love with you for your legacy to live on.

If we love you, if we’re in love with you, if we notice you, if we hate you, if we’re slightly annoyed by you, if we met you once, or if we walked past you in Tesco in every single aisle, and then again at the checkouts, and then again when we were leaving the shop, and then we drove past you when leaving the car park, and then we saw you at work the next day and you smiled a little wider. Part of you will live on in something – a title, a character, a metaphor, an idea.

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Sonnet 18, or an ode to benzos

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate

Thou calmest me most

When thou art blue –

Like the sky that houses the sun.


Ah the sun; so warming, joyful, happy

But sometimes scorching all my worries

Burning them down to ashes

Their fumes wafting their way back into me;

Like a phoenix, the ashes resurrect,

Bursting upwards from the ground

And slapping me straight in the goddamn face

As the summer reminds me;

you must be happy.

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I’ll be me [Mental Health – Part 1]

Here’s a long post, read it if you have time. Like 5 minutes, realistically.

Also: If you can figure out what’s written on that notepad, I’ll dedicate a post to you.


What am I doing these days.


First of all, I’m going to try my hardest not to incorporate my infamous self depreciating humour into this post, even though that is my biggest coping mechanism.

These days I’m reading, writing, researching, and listening to a lot of James Bay.

And I’m thinking.

I’m doing a lot of thinking, but I’m also doing a lot of …just … not thinking.

In other words: I’m keeping myself busy.

I try not to write about mental health, even though I should, because almost every blog I visit has posts about ‘dealing with depression’ or ‘dealing with anxiety’ or just ‘mental health’. And it makes me wonder how many of these people really do suffer from these issues, or if they’re just self diagnosed. As someone who has had doctors referring them to therapists and pestering them to take anti-depressants, it’s a bit … I don’t know. Annoying. It’s the reason I don’t enjoy speaking about my own mental health. I’m fine, but I’ll never deny that anxiety is my biggest enemy.

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6 ways to combat blogger’s block

Ahhh yes. Blogger’s block. It hits the best of us, it’s so frustrating, it’s the worst. It’s even worse when you have a post planned out and you’re like ‘nah. I can’t be bothered’. And into your drafts it goes. Along with the 200 other drafts.

The reason I can write this post is because I know exactly what to do, but my brain is just nope. So, I thought it best to publicise my solutions in the hope that other peoples brains aren’t broken and can actually follow this advice! Here we go.

Write a review

Easy. Probably the easiest type of post ever. Read a book, watch a movie, listen to an album, try a new product. And honestly, I don’t feel like you can ever have enough reviews. Except about makeup. We really don’t need that many reviews of the Naked palettes. Please, for the love of God, stop swatching every shade on your arm, I have seen this 40 times.

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The sun goes down (20/03/1976 – 20/07/2017)


Imagine I almost cried when I read Chester Bennington’s note to Chris Cornell after his death. Imagine I write a tribute to Chris Cornell on his birthday. And on that same goddamn day, Chester Bennington is found dead.

Chester fucking Bennington.

Honestly, I’m distraught. I wrote in the last post that Chris Cornell’s death was the only one to affect me. Well, girls and boys, make that one of TWO deaths to affect me.

Let me tell you that Linkin Park were a big part of my entire child/teenhood. My entire. Teenhood.


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Every line in your palm [June Journal]


Today’s prompt: What is home?

Home is walking through the doors and leaving all pressures, all standards and requirements at the entrance. It’s being free from prying eyes and worrying if you’ve accidentally pulled your socks over your leggings. It’s being free from dreading another human being talking to you or asking you a question when you’re just trying to get home please leave me alone.

It’s taking off your hijab, it’s taking off any fancy clothes, it’s taking off the uncomfortable shoes and it’s changing into baggy sweatpants and a hole-ridden hoodie. It’s giving yourself a head massage and tying your hair back up, washing your face of grime and pollution and freeing yourself from the worry that there’s lipstick on your teeth, or that your foundation is sliding off.

It’s grabbing all the snacks you can find and falling down onto the sofa in a blanket. It’s turning on the tv and watching cartoons whilst stuffing your face with sausage rolls, crisps and yoghurt after a day of carrying yourself with an air of dignified wisdom. It’s whinging, howling with laughter and burping out loud after a day of stifling your sneezes and being careful not to laugh too loud.

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Reasons your twenties aren’t so bad

I mean, I’m not qualified enough to talk about what it’s like being in your twenties, as I’ve only just about existed for over two decades. Two whole decades. Wow.

But life doesn’t change that much between 21 and 25 right? [It does]. I’m not a teenager anymore and, though I still live with my parents and have yet to finish my degree and start adulting, I feel ready for adulthood. In my mind, I am a fully grown 27 year old woman. Where are my children.

Basically, your early 20s are great. Because you’re an adult [yeah, you still can’t sit with the adults when you’re 18], BUT you’re not adult enough to do the adult things required of a 25 year old. Like have a stable career and 65 children. You’re an adult but you’re still forgiven for being a child. Amazing. Let’s begin.  Continue reading

A Letter to my Son

Last year, I wrote a letter to my daughter. Then a letter to my younger self. I think it’s only fair I do a letter to my son too. Here goes nothing, unedited.

Dear Snotbag,

I didn’t name you that, fyi. I’m not qualified to advise you based on experience, and whilst everybody knows that experience is the best teacher, it’s pretty much useless when it’s coming from another person. But I don’t need to be a man, or to have known many men in order to build a perfect prototype, as I already know it.

Where do I start? Perhaps on what it means to ‘be a man’. We live in an age where men are pressured to be rugged and masculine, but also to disregard this stereotype and douse their beards in glitter and slay that eyeliner whilst crying. Where men must be cold, ruthless cheaters in order to gain an approving slap on the back by his fellow boys, whilst secretly wishing to have someone they can come home to at night and feel safe with. We live in an age where a man is only defined as a man by how many things on the checklist of stereotypical manliness he has ticked off, rather than the achievements that nobody sees.

Money? Check
Car? Check
Beard? Check
Women? Check

If you want to be a shell of a man, go ahead and abide by that list. If you want to be a man, throw it away. We live in an age where image is everything. Don’t be that man. Because that isn’t a man, it’s a boy.

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