Stars

You and I are made of them

It’s desperately strange. We are all made of the remnants of stars gone by. The most incomprehensible force of nature.

Each of our atoms was fused and forged by the hugest death imaginable. How whack is that?

Our bones, eyes, teeth, gall bladder, clitorises, testes and dare I say even our consciousness is formed by, essentially, death. And this death gave birth to an innumerable amount of life.

I like to think that the evil in this world, and indeed the universe, was a product of anti-matter thrown out by post-death black holes. Yes, even Hitler was a product of star death, but maybe made of more ‘anti’ matter as it were. (Look none of this is scientifically accurate but bare with me). The essence of this matter makes up your being and ultimately implodes, like all evil tends to do.

But you and I are made of stars and will always be made of stars. Keep this in mind and smile.

You are atoms of hydrogen sky-forged into hundreds of millions of others, and one day your own supernova will result in your biological matter making up countless other lives too, so you will live on in the veins of others.

With this in mind, live as wholly good as you can without causing detriment to others, because your essence, your life force, will influence the others your atoms take anchor in.

Much love xo

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Gender Neutrality

Why I want to bring my kids up as gender neutral

Whether you like it or not, you are born with a biological set of genitals. Whether they are the V or the D, you have them. That defines you biological gender (until you decide you want to change that). But as a wee baby, you’re more concerned with shitting and sucking milk out of breasts/bottles than what the below bits are.

What I do not understand is why those biological ‘parts’ predestine how parents bring up children. Boys MUST wear blue, play with action figures, cars and lego. Girls wear pink, play with ‘dolls’ (essentially the same as action figures, which might i add for both sets, have no genitalia), and are encouraged to be creative. Only last century has this colour scheme been adopted, it was actually the reverse beforehand. This ‘gendered play’ causes each to lose out on vital parts that the other have. Archetypally, ‘boys’ are taught to be vocational or less creative, focus on strength and resilience and stoicism, whereas ‘girls’ must be creative, caring, and wholesome.

Bollocks to this. Like her or not (let’s face it, she was fucking vile), but didn’t Thatcher exhibit these generalised ‘male’ tropes and in her terrible reign actually act on a lot of her policies? She wasn’t adopting a male approach, she was raising the bar for her own (terrible, evil) self. What about another leader, Justin Trudeau, who genuinely feels this ‘feminine’ compassion for marginilised groups of people and the pain they are faced with? Or in Luxembourg, whose leader has an openly gay relationship with his first husband?

I wish to bring my own up without gendered play. Same colours, same toys, same treatment. If my ‘daughter’ wants to be a spiderman, a construction worker, a politician, a banker, a pilot, a ‘boy’ or any other of the vast spectrum of everything, then you go ahead. Equally, if my ‘son’ wants to be an beautician, a princess, the next RuPaul (who might I add is utterly wonderful and has some great quotes, and his show about drag queens is actually hilarious), a childcare professional or a ‘girl’, then be my guest.

The reason depression in men is so high is that from birth they are taught to hide sadness or fear, ‘man up’ and get on, and explode to breaking point because ‘only women’ talk about their problems. I’ve seen this in my Dad far too much. Using anger as a release to inflict suffering on everyone else. Just talk about it Dad, it’s okay. The figure of male suicide is scary, and for under 40’s it is the biggest killer. Yet it goes unnoticed.

It’s getting worse for women too. Why? My theory is that as women are further marginalised, subjected to ridiculous male created beauty standards and glass ceilings in nearly every profession and are therefore subjected to tonnes of painful internalisation of outward pressures. I don’t wish for any child of mine to have to be subjected to a voice inside your head that isolates and subjects you to the point of telling yourself you aren’t good enough because of your ‘gender’ or sexuality.

In short, whatever poor human ends up wishing to actually mate with me to the point of having a little us, they will grow up firmly believing that their ‘gender’ is irrelevant and they can be whomever they want. If they want to change their ‘gender’ from one to another, I will happily support it if they were convinced it would make them content with living in this every increasing dark world. As long as it isn’t detrimental to anyone else or the environment, I’ll be a happy sperm donor. Be the next drag queen, be the next spiderman.

 

Dating Tips

Top tips for your dating woes

There comes a time you’ve got to admit you’re shit at dating. However, with these handy tips, you may just end up wooing the person of your dreams:

  • Bring them a gift. This can be a deal maker from the first date. Bring them mince pies like I did, convince them that the correct pronunciation is ‘MINKIE PIE’ and tell everyone around very loudly of this new information. Scream ‘MINKIE PIE’ at your impressed date and throw them around the store in a furore of pastry madness.
  • To impress your date, show top table manners. Pull out their chair and take the seat right next to them. Stroke their palm up and down and whisper softly in their ear, ‘checkmate’. Refuse to move until they do.
  • Compliment them. This is an essential so often done wrong. Tell them they look like your mum. Tell them you like how they have a nice leg. Look at their teeth and ask if they chew tobacco. Put your hand in their mouth and tell them it feels warm. Take off your shirt, swing it wildly around your head and scream ‘LIGHT THE BEACONS’ so they know you want to mate with them
  • Tell them they are interesting. I did this. Tell them you’re so interested in them. Hold their gaze and say ‘hmm, how interesting’ as you’re getting up right now and walking out the cafe.
  • Don’t call them your exes name. Once is kinda excusable. Twice is criminal. Three times is downright rude. Four times, you got a problem. Five times, you’re crying. Six times, I’m sobbing uncontrollably into my croissant screaming ‘COME BACK TO ME JULIA’ and holding the nearest stranger as you reminisce about weekends in the quantocks navigating the canal ways.
  • And, finally and most importantly, never be yourself. Never act comfortable in your own skin. Look mildly terrified and avert eye contact at all times. Look at his crotch. Scream if they talk. Be on high alert. Send someone else if you have too! Going outside is scary!

Twat of the week

Toby Young

I’m going to start doing a new thing on here; it’s called Twat of the week.

This week, it’s Toby Young. Here we have a man who has ridiculed and demonised pretty much every demographic appointed as director of the office for students. He has made some vulgar comments about people. Such as:

‘Danny Boyle’s Wife’s got huge knockers.’ He was actually mistakenly referring to his daughter, a minor;

‘What happened to Winkleman’s breasts, put on some weight girlie.’

My favourite twat moment from good old Toby was when he described wheelchair accessible ramps, at universities, which he is now accountable too, as forms of ghastly inclusivity. General homophobia and classism also belong to this pious mans dialect.

So, without further ado;

Toby Young.

With your face, like a disappointed caravan.

Like a lonely flannel.

Like jam in the crevice of a train seat.

Like hair in jelly.

Like a pair of sad trousers.

Like a wrinkled paper bag.

You, are a twat.

 

Love

it’s a weird thing ain’t it

you fucking right it is.

Love is daunting, incredibly scary and leaves you feeling vulnerable. It is also one of the greatest things that can happen to you.

I’d say I’m lucky to have felt love before. Not the love of yourself, or unreciprocated love. Love that has been, to my best knowledge, reciprocated and felt also. It changes you as a person. Not only does it turn you into this weird, emotional wreck; it broadly changes your view on the world as you know it. Some of my friends are in love, and it is the most warming thing to observe.

You experience the world from the point of view of a connected whole, made up of two halves. Battles are shared and are celebrated victoriously in this incredibly powerful bond of two. You gain a grand sense of empathy and a desire to change the world as you know it.

You are aware of the greater disasters and triumphs in life, that simultaneously horrify and excite.

Whether you are in love or not at this moment, being in love and then not being in love is an incredibly tough process for the soul to pass through. But the remnants of the good parts remain firmly rooted in the psyche. To be in love is to be empathetic and mindful which can be applied to life in general.

Even if you haven’t been in love with a person in a romantic way, you can still experience and share love in others. You can be kinder to the environment, more generous, less selfish, genuinely empathetic towards those that need it, more charitable, wary of how lucky or otherwise you are compared to some people. You can still let it fill you up and share and form of ‘love’, or whatever you want to call it, by just living a mindful life.

The most important thing is to not rely on people for happiness in love which is MUCH easier said than done. You still must be responsible for your own happiness as much as the other person should be responsible for their own. It’s a mistake I have made before and I probably am susceptible enough to make again. I would like to feel love again, I am just sincerely underprepared. I wouldn’t say you need to love yourself to be in love, but it helps. There’s no point in living an unhappy life with yourself if you genuinely want someone to be happy with you.

To live a mindful life, delete your social media apps, throw away your smartphone. Listen to more music, play an instrument, read, write, paint, get creative. Learn to like doing stuff on your own. Ensure what you are doing impacts no one negatively. It’s harder to ‘teach’ love to people, but once people learn about how good love can be, it’s all they’ll want to do.

Therapy

Finally 

So last week I finally took it upon myself to organise a therapy course. It’s been a real tough year, especially these past few months, and it is time I did something about it instead of wallow in self pity.

Luckily enough, the place I work for has a benefits package that includes free private healthcare with Westfield. I would rather go via the NHS, but because of how badly the government treat our national healthcare system, the waiting times were too long as I am pretty sure I need more immediate attention.

I made the call with an open mind, expecting the same sort of manner of conversation I have received through the NHS. I was so very, very wrong. I have never spoken to a more pious, non-understanding, unempathetic person in my entire life. The call itself was quite hard for me to do, but I felt like I had essentially ruined the person on the other end’s day.

They were abrupt, rude and sounded like they didn’t give a fuck about me. Which, to someone who is greatly affected by how people talk to them, made me like a worthless piece ofshit. I was treated with contempt beyond belief. Two questions really shocked me, however.

The first of which was ‘Depression, anxiety or personality disorder; which one would you like to be put down for?’

‘All three’, i replied. The following retort hit me like a train. ‘You can only choose one’. Well, I am sorry, I didn’t choose to have any of the above. Besides, they aren’t mutually exclusive. My basket is full of eggs that are joined. Essentially, it is full with one huge, rotten egg.

‘fuck’, I replied, a little shocked. ‘Don’t swear or I’ll hang up’, was the response. Nice, way to make me feel worse. I guess I’m honestly not worth your time. But I persevered and picked Personality Disorder so I could try kill three birds with one stone.

The next question just outright made me laugh with anger. ‘How likely are you to commit suicide today?’ This question is just wrong. Suicide is incredibly impulsive and a last ditch effort at resolving a problem. Suicide is something I contemplate daily, either seriously (to my own self-admittance, It’s been a tough few months), or just in general – in a Platonic way, I guess.

I wanted to say ‘After this phone call’ in a sarcastic fit of rage, but held back. I didn’t want to be incarcerated by the people in white coats. I said no, and it was the truth. I don’t want to die. A lot of the time I don’t want to live, but I know I don’t want to die. The difference between private healthcare from the NHS is a distinct lack of empathy. The more you pay, the less the empathy exists. I wish the NHS was a more viable option for me right now, but I’ll grab the opportunity for more a quicker course of action with both hands.

After this call, I arranged a session for Monday 11th. We’ll see how that goes. It’s been a long time coming, and my therapist sounds like a lovely human after our organisational phone call. Let’s see if I can’t at least try and feel better.

Thank you for reading, much love xo

Anxiety

it’s a weird thing

I can honestly tell you it wasn’t until university that I started getting hit by anxiety. After a few stressful as fuck years with some emotional tumult thrown in I started worrying about everything.

I guess I have always ‘been a worrier’, but it never started having a physical reaction until more recent years. The kind of reaction that tightens the chest, leaves my heart pounding like it’s being used in a game of baseball and causing a lasting, quite prolonged sense of danger and guilt.

I legitimately have nothing to worry about, but certain places, memories and even words and names spark of a gut reaction so violent and strong it takes an hour or two to recover.

Someone, who I met at the beginning of university and am still friends with now, remarked a noticeable change in my being, sense of self and personality too.

She said ‘when I met you, you were so confident and well spoken, good socially and real outgoing. Now you appear a shell of that; a complete polar opposite who is a complete introvert and almost scared to speak and talk to people.’

She’s right though. I guess university had more of an effect on me than I thought. Even to the point where I worry about not sleeping to the point I can’t sleep, which causes overthinking and steady waves of negative thoughts. I really do not care what people think of me, so why am I scared? I can’t look people in the eye when I talk to them, I struggle in crowds and any hint of alcohol currently makes me a bit of a mess.

I used to sleep more. My way of getting over a bout of sadness was have a long sleep and exercise but, now I barely get four hours a night. It sucks, I am always tired and feeling jaded. Currently, it really affects me in the workplace – I got so anxious this week I couldn’t talk to anyone at work. This is really NOT who I am.

The good thing is, a little laughter can shake off these shackles. I’ve had a pretty good weekend thus far, minus no sleep last night. So may it continue.

I do have much to look forward too, so that’s chill too.

I’ll try and worry less, but sometimes that’s like telling a fish to try and breathe air.

Positive vibes to you, dear reader xo