Tuesday, August 21, 2012

if you’re going to tell the truth, be funny or they will kill you.

I’ve been creeping like a creep through the blogosphere today. I’ve been reading other people’s blogs and reading some of my old posts. I’m feeling inadequate. My blog isn’t good enough. It’s not as good as it once was and it’s not as good as other people’s. Other people are writing about art and design and suicide and love and their wonderful adventures in distant corners of the globe (as far from Carrick-on-Suir as possible). I’m writing about how fat I am and how I’ll never have a boyfriend. Yes, it’s honest, but it’s very fucking trite, isn’t it? I’m sure the world is sick to its teeth of post-pubescent anxious girls weeping about their crippling low self-esteem.

I’m not funny at the moment, am I? I’m going to stop thinking about it so much. I’m going to stop trying to write a certain way so that people will like me. When I look back at my old posts, I was funniest when I had a readership of maybe fifteen people a day. (Of course, my sentence structure was terrible but I was only eighteen and more concerned with cider than syntax.) I was writing for myself and a couple of friends and one or two strangers. Nowadays I’m writing for 200 views and I am uber conscious of my writing and I feel like I’m adhering to rules that I made up for yourself.

The reality is that this blog is no more now than what it was four or five years ago – it’s a diary. It’s where I ramble on about fancying stupid boys and not doing homework/ assignments and where I make passive-aggressive posts about people I dislike. Sometimes it’s funny and sometimes it’s awful and no, they probably won’t change the rules and award me a Pulitzer prize for this blog but it’s something to do and nothing makes me happier than a random email or comment from someone telling me how much they enjoy reading what I alternately consider drivel and whimsy.

And I think that’s the point. Reading this blog won’t change your life and writing it won’t change mine (although it has had some strange consequences on my life at times!) but that’s okay. Because I get to share my thoughts and my experiences and I feel connected to the rest of the world and if you can identify with that or it makes you laugh, then I guess I have inadvertently achieved something. (My syntax is still awful.)

Monday, August 20, 2012

do you like anal sex?

If that’s a secret you’d like to reveal, come along to The Secrets Party hosted by Out in UL for Limerick Pride. The party kicks off at 8 pm in Baker Place in Limerick City on Tuesday, 4th September – Pride week!

Entry is €8 but if you’re savvy enough to reveal a secret or two, you get in for €5. It will be a fun and fabulous way to kick off Limerick Pride and, as we all know, Out in UL throw a great party. Hopefully I’ll see some of you there!

Check out the Facebook event page for more info.

Submit your secrets Postsecret-style to:

Out in UL,
Clubs and Societies Office,
Students’ Union,
University of Limerick.

Or email a JPEG of your postcard to outinul@gmail.com


Sunday, August 19, 2012

i’m weak.

Also, fancying someone is surely a sign of weakness - it's a weakness in itself - so I'm not going to bother with it anymore. I feel ill when I think about all the humans who find me repulsive and I don't blame them, not really. And maybe it's a lack of confidence that boys can detect and that's why I'm lagging behind in the race to get cunnilingus. But I can't be truly confident. I can pretend to be, and that doesn't work 80% of time, and if pretending to be confident doesn't work, then how would real confidence work?

I just feel awful. Does this mean I have feelings? I don’t know. I’ve been dreaming lately about lovely things and then I wake up and I want to vomit everywhere because my life isn’t really like those lovely dreams. In most cases, it’s the complete opposite. That boy who was fawning over me in my dream last night doesn’t even talk to me in reality. He ignores me like we’ve never even met. Fuck. In my dreams, people kiss me and tell me I’m gorgeous. In reality, I’m waking up a day-to-day itinerary of self-loathing and too many packets of salt and vinegar crisps. What is the fucking point?

It’s that thing that happens sometimes when you feel out of synch with the rest of the world. My mind is elsewhere. My mind is focused on feminism and love as an idea.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

butts and butts and here’s an update k.

Hello. It’s been a while. I’ve been busy nursing a body full of low self-esteem and excess fat. I’ve been planning my trip to Scotland and I’ve been watching Queer As Folk. I’ve been reading and I’ve been trying to reassure myself that I’m not a terrible person. Some of these endeavours were more successful than others.

My ticket to Scotland is booked and I’ve got somewhere to live and everything is under control re: Erasmus. (Journalism and Scottish people and pound sterling!) I’m as nervous as I was before I started UL. During the orientation talk on the first day of First Year, I was so intimidated by the vast amount of arts students and the presence of the president of the university, that I felt like a fraud: I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be in college. I’ll never make any friends. Fifteen minutes later, I’d already met the friend I’d be glued to for the next twelve months. I’m hoping Scotland will be the same. I’m hoping that I won’t scare the natives and that I’ll find a fellow weirdo to hang around with.

The excess fat is under control (healthy eating, exercise, laxatives). I’m hoping to drop a dress size by my birthday (which is only three weeks away now) and I’m praying for a miracle. I bought a gorgeous dress online that’s a little tight around the hips and I swore I’d fit into it properly if it killed me. Which is probably a little dramatic. But it’s such a perfect dress. Roaring ‘20s style, lace, gorgeous, rich.

I watched the very last episode of the US Queer As Folk last night and sobbed. I borrowed my friend’s boxset in January and 83 episodes and eight months later, I can finally return it to her, my life all the more enriched for having Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor and Zen Ben in it.

The low self-esteem rendered me bed-bound for a couple of days last week and had me crying at every available opportunity. I get bouts of cripplingly low self-esteem in the same way I get colds and usually the cure for both is patience: I just have to wait it out. So that’s what I’m doing. And I’m almost at the far side of a disgusting (and strangely snot-filled) hate-fest. I’m almost ready to celebrate my birthday without spending the night thinking that I am the worst human alive.

I am terrified about my birthday though. I keep having nightmares that something will go wrong. So far, I’ve dreamt that no one remembered it was my birthday, that I had to get my braces off for the night but my teeth became so crooked and unruly that I couldn’t close my mouth, and that I was so busy reminding everyone that it was my birthday that it made me late for the party and I missed out on the whole night. I am terrified. I think the only solution is to drink a lot of alcohol on the night to stop me fretting that it will be a disaster of epic proportions. I am regretting having a birthday already. (Remember when I turned twenty though?)

Anyway, consider yourself updated. I’m off to try to improve my QCA and my body!

Au revoir!