Wednesday, June 27, 2012

the summer of existential crises.

Daisies Aren’t you bored of these existential crises yet? Well, I mean, of course. But what else is there to occupy my tiny brain? Sometimes I think I was born under a bad sign. And so what? And nothing. What’s the point? I dunno. I keep trying to figure that out and then I keep trying to figure out whether there’s a point to me trying to figure out what The Point is. Maybe I just have too much time on my hands.

I don’t like summer. I don’t like heat. I don’t like time off from a routine that I spend three quarters of the year perfecting. I don’t like the way my hair looks during the summer, I don’t like my face during the summer, I don’t like the rate at which I sweat during the summer. Maybe I liked summer more when I had the option of drinking cider every night of the week. But I don’t have that now. Because life goes on. Because I’m not seventeen anymore and though I am unemployed, none of my friends are. They’re busy working and having lives in Limerick and Waterford and I’m somewhere in the middle reading books about love and sweating too fucking much.

I don’t like the summer. Summer makes me feel like I should be doing something. I should be doing something to soak up the sunshine and heat that is so rare in this country. But what am I doing? I’m lying on the grass in the garden, sneezing and rubbing my eyes because of my allergies, and I’m envying people who have a better life than I do.

My mother says, “We’re only existing, aren’t we?” As if that’s a bad thing. But what more could you ask for? What more can I ask for? I keep asking for more but right now it should be enough to be healthy. I lay on the grass earlier wondering what the point was and then I was eating an apple and I realised that there is no point. And that is perfectly okay.

I want a job. I want money. I’d buy books and clothes and perfume and I’d go to Limerick to see my lovely boys. No. I just want money to pay all these bills I’ve encumbered and maybe have a decent birthday this year. (In that regard, does anyone know where I could get my hands on a helium canister? Cheers.)

What I lack in money this summer, I more than make up for in time. With all this time on my hands, I’m attempting projects: I’m attempting self-improvement in the form of exercise and healthy eating. Vom. Not nearly as fun as nursing a hangover and eating Subway in bed in my underwear. Oh well. Maybe by the time my birthday rolls around, I might be fit enough to run around the party without breaking into too much of a sweat.

P.S. If you do want to donate to the cause that is Emma Norris’ 21st Birthday Party, you can throw a couple of Euros into my PayPal account at, or you can purchase some of my clothes in The Magic Position Shop.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

it’s a beautiful thing when you love somebody.

I only care about poetry and passion. I want to be in love but I know that I can’t construct love. I know that I have to wait for it. And I know that it is inevitable. I’ve had love before and I know I’ll have love again. I worried about my sex drive but I see now that I am passionate about sex when there is passion involved – when I am in love. And you being in love with me doesn’t matter. People have loved me before and what difference has it made? Unless I’m in love with you, unless I feel like life isn’t worth living without you, then I don’t love you. There are no grey areas with my love, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise. I have to be absurdly, wildly, passionately in love with you, or else not at all. And right now, I’m not in love with anyone. I’m in love with love. I’m reading love letters and I’m picking out quotes, recognising feelings I’ve felt before, hoping to one day feel those feelings again, knowing that I can never contrive it. I’m okay with that.

Yesterday I sold strawberries and read love letters and got burned by the sun. And in that tiny shack where love grew and wilted away, I was reminded of three years ago, four years ago, when I was hopelessly in love with D. Sometimes hindsight shows us where we went wrong, shows us the cracks and flaws we didn’t see back then, but now all I see is a perfect relationship. No, that’s not true. I see graffiti that you drew just to make me happy. You made fun of someone because you knew it would boost my self-esteem, you knew it would make life easier for you. But, looking back, I realise that that’s all it was. It was only ever intended to make me feel better, you didn’t really believe what you were writing and drawing. I guess that’s love. Or something. Maybe you just wanted to keep the peace. I don’t blame you. I’m hard work.

I don’t know if what I ever felt was real love. I mean, I know that I was in love but I don’t know if it was reciprocated. Then again, someone (I don’t know who) said, “The hardest-learned lesson: that people have only their own kind of love to give, not our kind.” Another wise soul said,

Because that’s the thing about love, really. No one will love you how you want to be loved, they’ll love you in the only ways they know how. Life throws everyone down drastically different paths, so how can we expect everyone to love in the same way? The person you’ll spend your lifetime with will love you in their way and you’ll love in yours, and maybe you’ll meet in the middle and it’ll last. None of us know what we’re doing, you see, we’re just fumbling for matches in the dark. If you’re lucky, you might just strike the right one.

Too often, I rely on other people’s words to say what I cannot. But that sums up what I feel about love, what I’m still learning about love. I think almost everything I’ve learned about love and relationships, I’ve learned since I’ve been single. In the last year and a half, I’ve learned that you can’t trick love, you can’t fool love. Love either is or it isn’t. I guess some people are able to construct it and contrive their feelings, but I can’t. I never could. For me, love has to be organic. Love has to exist or grow of its own accord, with no instruction from me. I guess that’s dangerous, letting your heart love whoever it wants to love. But what’s the point otherwise? It’s dangerous but at least it’s real.

All of my summers have a theme and I guess this one is Me Figuring Out Love. What a futile endeavour! I will never understand my own heart. Maybe no one does. Maybe you just love who you love and that’s it. And maybe I’m looking in all the wrong places for something I would like to call love. But, right now, recognising love is enough.

Friday, June 22, 2012

friday is ‘casual sex friday.’

I’m not into sex. It’s not a priority. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. Maybe I’m wrong. Part of it is that my sex drive is almost non-existent, save for when I have a glass or three of wine in my belly and am trying to bat my eyelashes in a way that I imagine Megan Fox would if she were in my position. I’ve been on anti-depressant tablets for about three years and I’ve noticed that in the past couple of months, I’m not as “up for it” as I used to be. I’m blaming the tablets’ sudden side-effect but there’s a lot of reasons why my sex drive might have dried up.

At the moment, most of my small brain is taken up with blogging and job-seeking and trying to make some sort of career. All this ambitious thinking leaves little room for thinking sexy thoughts. I’m also not seventeen anymore. Remember when you were seventeen and you lost your virginity and you simply couldn’t have sex enough? That was almost four years and a lot of sexual experiences ago for me (I am nearly rendered comatose during games of “I Never”) and I’m kind of over it.

Sex isn’t a priority. It’s not something I think about very often. I talk about it all the time with my friends, I dissect the intricacies of the art form, and I justify the whole thing: I tell myself and other people that it is perfectly okay to have sex with as many people as you like. The truth is that I’m more concerned with having a laugh and writing stories than I am with coitus. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. Maybe it’s boring. Maybe I need to spice up my sex life. But it just feels like my life is so full already (despite my lack of employment) and I lack the energy and the commitment – all I want to do is sleep.

Another theory, one which I’m reluctant to address, is that my weight is slowing down my sex drive. I mean, I’m not obese but I’m certainly more than a few pounds heavier than I was before I started college. Two years in and my college lifestyle is mainly based on chips. I’m home for the summer and my diet is better, but not by much. It’s common knowledge in the food world (i.e. I heard Oprah say it once) that too many carbs will make you lethargic and sluggish. How can I summon the energy to sex when my belly’s full of cream cheese and curry and bread? But then, which do I want more – sex or food? Isn’t it tragic that I have to ask that question? Sex just isn’t important to me. Food is. Then again, I’m the type of person who gets drunk, eats a spoonful of jalapeno slices straight from the jar, and then cries uncontrollably because my mouth is on fucking fire. (That is not an analogy: that happened last week.) Maybe I shouldn’t be allowed access to either food or sex. Or the internet, for that matter.

(In other news, I shaved my armpit hair on Tuesday night. I had hairy underarms for over a month and I think that’s impressive. My friends didn’t. And my boy toy didn’t. But whatever.)

Thursday, June 21, 2012

shop happy.

The Magic Position now has its own shop. Click here (or the Shop image in the right hand column) to access clothes and bags and other pretty things. :)

twenty year old sadness.

Being depressed now is not like being depressed when I was sixteen. When I was sixteen, I didn’t know what to do with my feelings. My mind raced and I cried and I didn’t eat and I set myself to self-destruct. Sometimes those symptoms still occur but mostly when I’m depressed these days, I just have to play the waiting game. My depression is, as it always has been, a storm cloud overhead. These days, all I can think of doing is waiting for it to pass. My instinct is to self-destruct again but that would be no good. Because the depression passes eventually – it always does – and if I’ve done something stupid in the meantime, well, that just leaves me in a bigger mess.

Does art imitate life or does life imitate art? I think I’m trying to imitate all the poets I’ve read and all the books I’ve devoured and all the songs I’ve invested my heart in. And you know how in those chick-flick movies (and those chick-lit books, for that matter) that the girl always seems to be oblivious to the wonderful boy who’s in love with her, and meanwhile is besotted herself with some abominable prick? Isn’t it always the way? And don’t you just wish she’d notice her best friend/lab partner/whatever, since he’s the one who is so good and wholesome and dedicated to her? And in the end, maybe she does notice. Maybe the prick stands her up on a date to the cinema and she realises that the boy whose shoulder she used to cry on is now the boy whose bones she wants to jump. Maybe. But that’s not realistic, is it? I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work. Like death, you can’t trick love.

Pretty in Pink is different. Molly Ringwald doesn’t pick Duckie, her confidante, her best friend, and the source of all her pleasant irritation. She picks Andrew McCarthy. She picks the one with the looks. The one she gets butterflies around. The one who makes her feel like nothing and everything all at once. Duckie is a sure thing and will love her forever but who wants that? Andrew McCarthy is something special and, ultimately, that’s all that matters. You can try to talk yourself into something safe and secure and healthy, but it won’t work. You’ll always want the one who gives you goosebumps.

That’s the tragedy of the human existence, isn’t it? We all want what’s bad for us. Cigarettes, alcohol, lovers who will destroy us. Or maybe that takes a certain type of person – the type of person who is already on the brink of self-destruction anyway and will snatch at anything that is likely to send her hurtling off the edge. Or maybe that’s just me. Or maybe it’s what I’ve been telling myself all along. And not telling myself. Maybe love isn’t necessarily self-destructive, maybe you just love who you love and that’s the end of it. One thing is for certain, you know love when you see it.

Naturally, I’ve tried to trick myself a couple of times. More than a couple of times. Too many times. I think part of it is that I’m greedy: I’ll claim someone if I think they’re worth claiming, even if my feelings aren’t particularly strong. But I’ve met love and I’ve shook its hand and I’ve stared lovingly and longingly into its eyes and it fucking hurts. But that’s how you know. Love makes you vulnerable.

Love isn’t practical. I’ve been trying to talk myself into and out of real love since I was fifteen. And I have all these quotes that make up a bible or a guide to life and they all say different things about love but none of them contradict each other. And that’s interesting.

“When love is not madness, it is not love.” – Pedro Calderón de la Barca.

“The lover is a monotheist who knows that other people worship different gods but cannot himself imagine that there could be other gods.” – Theodor Reik.

“And he touches you with his fingers. And he burns holes in your skin with his mouth. And it hurts when you look at him. And it hurts when you don’t. And it feels like someone’s cut you open with a jagged piece of glass.” – The Tracy Fragments.

Whatever. I’m just at a loose end, man.

Friday, June 15, 2012

moody, hairy, sexy.

When you’re already cranky, it’s easy to find more things to be angry about. Today I am hungover and tired and, as a result, in a terrible mood. I’m in a bad mood because I’m tired but I’ve been blaming it on all sorts of unrelated things: the rain, TV shows clashing, sweating, not being pretty, lack of gay representation on television. Actually, all these things upset me to some degree or other from time to time. (Obviously the fact that sometimes Stand Up for the Week clashes with Russell Howard’s Good News doesn’t really compare to the lack of gay normalcy in the media. But you know what I mean.)

Today, my mood has been like a sponge that only soaks up negativity. When I returned from my hip and cool haunt – the library – today, I told my mother, “Is there anyone you want to complain about? Because I can get on board with that. I can join in.” And then we gave out a bit but it wasn’t nearly enough to assuage my petulance. In the end, dinner and reading and sleeping made a difference and at half nine, I was feeling pretty chipper.

But then my mother was going to bed and everyone on TV was suddenly very pretty – much prettier than me – and on Stand Up for the Week, people in the audience made “erlack!” noises at a picture of two men kissing and it made me really angry and now I can’t stop being angry and there’s footage on telly now of Radiohead playing Glastonbury in 1997 (I was only six!) and I love Radiohead, don’t get me wrong, but, Christ, they are the soundtrack to many an angst-filled adolescence. So they’re doing little for my mood, except maybe inspiring me to feel bad in a productive way. By blogging.

I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul. Whatever. I want you to notice when I’m not around. I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo. Yeah, just that last part is true.

I’m feeling pretty angry with myself at the moment: I’m unemployed, one in about a couple of billion aspiring journalists, overweight, selfish. Not exactly easy on the eye. And I’m imagining all these situations that might be real but probably aren’t, in which no one likes me and thinks I’m terribly annoying and maybe I smell a bit.

This week, my head felt sore and I had these weird seeping lumps near the nape of my neck (I am an attractive human being) and I went to the doctor and it turns out I had something called Follicle Something, an infection of my hair follicles. What kind of a human being contracts that kind of ailment? Of course I’d get it. Of course. So I’m on a course of anti-biotics and medicated shampoo and I’m feeling like a proper nerd. Braces (complete with geeky elastics!), glasses, spotty, medicated shampoo … Am I fourteen? (Actually, I was spotty a couple of weeks ago but my skin is cleared up now – I just wanted to be melodramatic.)

I can only think of a couple of positive things right now, such is the extent of my mood. Good things have happened (for example, I somehow managed to pass my exams) but my brain would much rather consider terrible things like verrucae and whether or not to shave my armpits. Sadness is very self-indulgent and I am a glutton.

As far as Challenging Gender Roles go, my armpit hair is growing at a steady rate and resembles the pits of a dedicated feminist – something I wish I was but am not. Today, my boy toy said, “I don’t understand why you’re letting your underarm hair grow. I know you’re ‘challenging gender roles’ and whatever, but then why not let all your hair grow?” Pubes, leg hair, the lot. And when he asked me, I didn’t know the answer. Now I do. I’m making a point. It’s not a very good point and it’s one that’s been made a thousand times before, no doubt with more eloquence, but it’s a point I want to make myself. And I think that more than I am Challenging Gender Roles, I am Challenging My Own Perception of Gender Roles. Which is different. I mean, I’m not comfortable yet with having underarm hair and, yes, I’m concerned what other people will think, but I’m also concerned with what I think.

I’m scared and I’m confused and my instinct is to shave my pits because I’m going to a birthday party tomorrow. I plan to shave my legs and employ Sally Hansen in a bid to make me look less pasty and wear a pretty dress and maybe make a real effort with my hair. And have hairy underarms? I don’t know. It doesn’t fit in with the lady-like look I’m going for but isn’t that the point? Can’t I be a combination of feminine and masculine? Society (whatever that oft-mentioned concept is) tells me that, no, I can’t be both. Stereotypes assure me that I can be either a girl with smooth skin and legs up to my ears and wear dresses, or I can be a girl who doesn’t do any gardening on any of her lady bits and who wears flannel and snapback hats and who is a lesbian. That’s the stereotype, isn’t it? Fuck stereotypes.

My boy toy said that underarm hair on a girl isn’t very sexy. This amuses me. “Sexy” is not usually an adjective used in conjunction with my name. Sexy is for people who don’t fart and who shave their legs regularly and who can employ subtlety and mystery in the act of seduction. I can’t do that. I can say, “Do you want to put your willy in my mouth?” That’s not sexy, is it? I wear Spanx, for Christ’s sake, and I do not hide my Spanx from potential sexual conquests. I’ve become so open about my sexuality that I am no longer sexy, if ever I was such a thing.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

emily fashion fiend.

My lovely fashion editor at An Focal, Emily Maree, agreed to write a guest post on The Magic Position about her ever-advancing career in the world of fashion journalism. Thanks, Em!

Fashion is something that we can’t escape from. You might say, “Of course, you do it for a living, it’s clearly going to be everywhere!” but none of us can. People who say they don’t ‘do’ fashion aren’t telling the truth. They may not know that they’re involved but every item they wear in every shade that they have it in reflects who they are and their opinions, even if it’s ‘I don’t care about the way I look, I’m too busy to care’.

I didn’t come into the business that is fashion journalism until about 18 months ago through an opportunity that was handed to me one day. It sounds ridiculous but from that second on, this is all I wanted to do. People sometimes look at me and think it’s ridiculous that I’m studying journalism and am wasting a perfectly good degree on the ‘superficiality’ of fashion as some people have so aptly put it. But that attitude makes me giggle.

A year and a half later I have a year as a Fashion Editor under my belt and this year I’ll be a Life & Style Editor for our university newspaper as well as freelance writing. This isn’t a note to tell you all how great I am (although if you did, that’d be nice too!). It’s advice that is well worth taking from someone who knows how hard it is to crack into a business, whether it’s creative like this or any other job.

Fashion isn’t just a business or a career or a T-shirt hanging in Topshop. It’s in the sky, the trees, a cup of coffee; damn, Stella McCartney can pull inspiration from fruit! It’s art in its truest form because you’re wearing somebody’s masterpiece walking down the street; someone sees that as their own form of expression. We, the avid buyers, are collectors of these pieces of art. In that case, I must have an awful lot of collateral hanging in my wardrobe.

Making the most of your wardrobe is thought of as a way to throw cash about, superficiality if you will. But it isn’t. It is the key to boosting your self esteem. Everyone can look absolutely amazing as long as they dress for their body type and colouring and trust me, there is SO much out there for everyone. I’m a great admirer of Francesca Sozzani, the Editor-In-Chief of Vogue Italia and lead rebel at the publication house for her fight against weight discrimination, even putting plus-size models on the cover. This was a bold move and her efforts are proving to the cut-throat world of fashion that any size is beautiful. Our minds and style should reflect that as well. As Emma so aptly discusses in her blog, all women are beautiful, whatever size.

Be persistent. This sounds like something you’ve heard a million times before but trust me, it pays off. Having profiles on LinkedIn, Facebook and Twitter has helped me get most of my freelancing jobs so make sure you look everywhere and involve yourself in these networks. Most of all, follow your dream. Its all well and good having a job that will pay you the world, I wanted to be a lawyer not so long ago. But if you’re unhappy, it’s not a job you need. Whether you want to be an astronaut or a bus driver, ok, you may not be very good at it, but at least try before you settle. I took a chance on fashion and it paid off, so why not do the same? Make yourself happy because in the end, that’s what counts.

My passion for fashion makes me happy and will hopefully make me money in the future so you should let your passion do the same, whether its computers or modelling. If you put in the work, it will all pay off in the end!

You can read Emily’s blog EmilyFashionFiend by clicking here.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

declarations of love (i.e. deco, i want your dick).

Some interesting graffiti on the bus back from Waterford the other day. You know, I don’t think it’s true. I don’t think Rachel O’Brien does want Deco’s dick up her pussy. I mean, if she was willing to broadcast it on the public transport, she’d probably be brave enough to tell him in person and that would make the graffiti redundant. Or maybe she wasn’t brave at all. There was a phone number underneath. Presumably, Rachel wants Deco to see her raunchy declaration of love, phone her up in the middle of the night and inform her that he would like to plunder her pussy. How romantic. Or maybe Deco carved the sentiment. Maybe he loves Rachel and the love is so terribly unrequited that he felt compelled to tell the world that she wanted his dick, just for a moment of fantasy, a moment in a world where Rachel really did want his dick, or his heart, or his love. Whatever. Or maybe someone else wrote it, a friend who wanted to be a catalyst for Rachel and Deco’s impending love affair. Or maybe it was someone taking the piss. Or maybe I need to get a life.

(I was tempted to ring Rachel on the number provided to tell her that she is a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man.)

Monday, June 11, 2012


I came across a Tumblr blog today called Fat Girls Skinny Jeans and it was just what I needed to see. Check it out for gorgeous chubby girls sporting sexy figure-hugging jeans.

So I have no job. We have established this through countless posts in which I complain about not having a job. I occasionally get paid for blogging and sometimes through kind donations from my lovely family. Last week, I managed to score a gig cleaning my neighbour’s house for a not unreasonable €100. Needless to say, I spent the lot in Penneys in about an hour. Among the necessities like Babywipes and copious pairs of tights, I bought two pairs of jeans.

I don’t wear jeans. The last time I bought a pair of jeans was Christmas 2011 in a charity shop. Within a week, I’d cut them up to make shorts and that was that. Last summer, horrified at my lack of jeans, my brother bought me a decent pair of Levi’s. They’re straight-legged and they fit fine but I just can’t bring myself to wear them. Every time I spot them in the drawer, I think longingly of taking a scissors to them, knowing well I’d wear them if they lost most of their material.

I used to wear skinny jeans when I was sixteen and skinny. I had a really nice pair from River Island that I just lived in. But I got fatter and lazier and really into dresses. Dresses are comfy. Dresses are cute. Dresses don’t do much in the line of accentuating your beer belly (or cider belly, in my case), such is their magic.

When the shorts and tights combo started coming into vogue again a couple of years ago, I got on board. It seems a trifle odd though, since denim shorts don’t offer the practicality of jeans, but they do do that lovely thing of squeezing your love handles in such a way as to proudly show the world. Doesn’t make sense. And I’m not logical. I don’t know.

I’ve been sporting the shorts and tights thing for a while now and it’s gotten kind of boring. Real life jeans were just the change my tired wardrobe needed. I’ve been told that skinny jeans wouldn’t look particularly appealing on my figure but I don’t care: I like skinny jeans and who cares if they look terrible? I know plenty of girls my size and bigger who wear skinny jeans and maybe I’m mental but I think they look fine. And fiiiiiine. You know?

Anyway, I’ve already got my ghetto look planned, complete with over-sized 80s-style jumper and gold Nike’s. And with all my money gone, it’s back to the breadline! Perhaps my ghetto look is not altogether unfitting…

Image from

Wednesday, June 06, 2012

fashion fiends!



My internship with College Fashionista officially kicked off yesterday with my Style Bio. (You can read it by clicking here.) Look out for my weekly posts every Tuesday, featuring well-dressed boys from all over Waterford, Tipperary and Limerick.

Also, if you’re interested, you can follow me on Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr, and Facebook. (You can also like The Magic Position Facebook page for updates, pictures, and random musings.)

PS. Best of luck to all you poor souls sitting the Leaving Cert and Junior Cert exams over the next couple of weeks!

Friday, June 01, 2012

pretty bunting.

In an effort to cheer myself up after what was a tragic day mood-wise, I decided to make some cute fashion-inspired bunting for my bedroom. I’m happiest when I’m cutting up bits of paper and gluing them to other bits of paper. The pages are from old copies of Stellar, Look, and possibly Company as well – I can’t remember. I’ve had these triangles ready to go for months but I never got around to executing my project. Wednesday night, I started gluing my triangles to some green card. In the library on Thursday, I borrowed the hole-puncher and punched holes in those bad boys. Thursday evening, I thread some ribbon through them and hung them on my wall. Thursday night, they fell down from the wall and on top of my head. Fabulous.

On the bright side, it’s my darling mother’s birthday today and we get to eat cake and celebrate life and carbs and sugar. Happy birthday, Mammy. I love you! :)