What the fuck am I going to do with my life?

I always had this vague idea I wanted to be a journalist. Not an award winning, trekking in the Congo journalist. But a stylish woman who knows the difference between a flat white and a macchiato and who is ‘political’. I suppose a Features Writer for any women’s glossy would have done nicely.  So when I got the chance to attend a conference aimed at those in Student Media wishing to pursue a career in the media it seemed like a golden opportunity. I was so excited, I was going to meet Iain Hislop, Jerome Taylor, Ed Caesar...to name but a few and ‘mingle’ with other like minded people. What could be better right?

Well it just sort of wasn’t good. The speakers were interesting, their stories compelling and their dedication to their profession admirable. And, yet, I just wasn’t feeling it. Everyone talked about Twitter like you might talk about an indoor toilet; assuming that everyone has one. I even heard the phrase ‘The Twitterati’. And I don’t have Twitter. I didn’t realise how Twitter was ‘essential’ to getting a job. And I don’t know if I want to work in an industry where it is.

Then there was networking. My own personal worst nightmare. Imagine a large room full of tables with a few chairs around them, and one famous journalist sitting on a table whilst 18-21s year old’s gather around them and compete hungrily for their attention. I could pretend that I’m too ‘cool’ too ‘above that’, but honestly, I don’t have the balls to hound someone like....like a journalist would. Yep, you got it before I did. I’m simply not cut out to be a journalist. I’m really socially awkward, how would I cope with interviewing someone? How could I be pushy enough to demand to speak to an influential politician when I struggle saying no to a simple request from a friend?

Every successful journalist attributed their success in some way to networking. And while I watched my peers rush forward to Mike Thomas and shake his hands, I was rooted to my seat. A boy barely taller and much thinner than me pushed me out of the way to grab Ed Caesar’s beautifully manicured hand whilst gabbing as loud and as fast as he could. I was shocked. I know I am supposed to be from the ‘go- and –get- it’ generation, but wasn’t this all terribly impolite? Was it really nice to hound the poor people? And for what purpose... I mean was Iain Hislop really going to whip his phone out and take some 19 year old whippersnapper’s number down, wait around until they’d got their 2.1 and then give them their dream job? No.

Ultimately though, regardless of whether or not it would pay off, I was too afraid to try. I cannot shamelessly self promote. I cannot find words to fill the silence that would surely follow when introducing yourself to someone at least fifteen years your senior and who’s work you’ve read in national papers.

In short, I am not cut out for my dream career. And, perhaps I am foolish to have believed such a career would have suited me. The NUS Student Media Summit at Amnesty International  was an incredibly valuable experience, not only was it fascinating, but it also showed me that I need to go back to square one. Back to the drawing board.

So help me, what the fuck am I going to do with my life? 

On Beauty, Happiness and Big Bouncy Breasts

I've been trying to write this post for several days now (it's a great distraction from revision/the impending doom of leaving Rawson House Level 1) and I've really struggled. I immensely dislike sentimentality and emotional outbursts and if this is what my post becomes then I have failed. I read somewhere that when trying to write something difficult you should imagine you are writing to a friend. So hello friend. I feel over the past 8 months of this blog you've got to know me fairly well. So here is my greatest secret and shame:

I would say I'm a fairly confident person. I'm no prude and I'm happy to talk about more or less anything, but there's one conversation I always walk away from. That's the one about my weight. Now to those of you who don't know me I'm not some sort of elephant woman. In fact here is a full length photo of me so you can see exactly what you're working with.

To be fair, I am drunk here and posing like a loser.

So as you can see, I am not exactly a french fry. Let's bare in mind I am wearing my favourite (read: most flattering) dress and I have my hair done up nicely and my make up all neat and whatnot. Also, I'm wearing heels which definitely makes a difference. The point is in Topshop I'm a 12/14. And that makes me feel horrible.

I'm going to Nice with my boyfriend on the 26th June for a week and about 2 weeks ago I decided I needed to go on a diet. Why? Because the thought of wearing a bikini on the beach in front of people made me cry. I feel really ashamed admitting this like I'm letting you into my most intimate thoughts. It got to the point where I avoided changing rooms because the all angle mirrors were far too depressing. Photos were I look anything other than perfect are immediately untagged.

I haven't wore jeans since I was 13 because I think my legs look fat in trousers. I don't even earn a pair of trousers. Do you know how hard it is to put tights on when you're chronically hungover, it's freezing cold and it's 8.53am and your lecture is at 9am? If not, I'll tell you, it's a fucking struggle. The summer is my favourite season because the sun makes me feel happy but baring my arms is something I can't stand. I tell people it's because I burn really easily (and I do) so I don't want to expose too much skin, but really if my arms were sinewy and lovely I'd be happy to walk around like a lobster. As for removing the uniform of black tights.....Disaster.

It takes me hours and hours to get ready for a night out because I am so obsessed with the fact that from a certain angle I might look fat. I have wasted so many hours of my life standing in front of a mirror scrutinizing my stomach.

I know from an intellectual point of view I am not ugly. I'm not even fat. I am definitely within the realms of a healthy weight. In fact here I am, 9.19am in the morning in my dressing gown, make up from the day before on my cheek and my hair unbrushed. This is an uneidted, unflattering and above all a truthful photo of me. And to be honest I don't look that bad.

Okay so I don't look amazing, I certainly wouldn't like to walk through Guildford town like this but if my boyfriend/flatmates/work mates/any demographic of people I know saw me looking like this I wouldn't exactly mind. I like my eyes, they are big and brown and I'm blessed with good skin and a fairly petite nose.

In fact, it's about 15cms of my body that reduce me to an emotional mess. 15cms. The size of a small ruler or a large (ish) penis. Not exactly something to send you into waves of discontent and pain. By the way, that 15cms start at my hips (ish), encompassing my stomach and span out to the tops of my thighs. Vagina is obviously included but I have little to no issue with my womanly garden. If you'd like to read more about woman bits go here (because it's a really good post and Ivy is brilliant so you should read her blog anyway)

I don't like my 34FF boobs (too big and too difficult to encase in a shirt/t shirt/any form of fitted garment) and I'm not an epic fan of my bitten to the quick finger nails. But I can handle these things, I can work around them. It took my a long time to accept 'nature's gift' of abnormally large breasts. The mountains that sprung from my once athletic (no, really) chest took years to get used to. The stares from older men still annoy me, but as breasts go mine might be beastly, but they're also rather good. I can do cleavage with a capital C and a v- neck makes me look like Wonderwoman.

I am what people would describe as curvy. Body like a guitar. Look like a coke bottle. Cliche but shaped like an hour glass. And apparently that's what everyone wants, yak yak yak. Bollocks. Every cute or fashionable piece of clothing I find in Topshop/Dorothy Perkins/New Look etc is tailored for a straight up and down french fry. Not a coke bottle. To quote my darling friend Emma, 'Imagine the awkward moment when my thighs fill the space in the harem pants.' By the way, Emma is not fat. She's beautiful.

I like the way I look. I do. It's just the clothes that are made for young people are made for young skinny people. And I am not, and will never be, skinny. Girls can be cruel, we know this. But the way I feel in a body con dress is nothing to do with the way a girl looks at me when I wear it, it's to do with the way I have been told (by the godforsaken media, by society, by the fashion industry) it's supposed to look.

My diet is going well. I have cut out carbs and sugar. But what for? If I'm honest, I didn't want to lose a few pounds. I wanted a body transplant. I wanted legs you could snap with one hand. I wanted jaw bones you could cut yourself on. I wanted a stomach that did not just stay flat, it actually poked in.

So far, so eating disorder. But here's the thing. I might have dreamt of Kate Moss esque shape. But I love to eat. I love to drink. I love to enjoy life. Now, I'm going to tell you to read Charlie's blog because he says this is more beautiful words than I can create. I would rather have a stomach, hips, boobs and enjoy my life to the full. Yes, being thin would make me happy, but not forever. My boyfriend wouldn't love it that's for sure, and neither would anyone who loves me now. Because, let's face, I wouldn't be Alex if I looked like someone else.

This diet has helped me in so many ways. I've realised that I love vegetables for one, which surprised me. And I realised that food was something to be enjoyed, rather than something to plan my life around ('If I do an hour more of revision, I can buy a chocolate bar from the vending machine' is not the right attitude to have). My most important realisation is that I want to be healthy, not skinny. I want to be happy, whether I'm a size 14 or a size 8. I want to live each day to the full, not pick at a lettuce leaf and forgo a glass of wine.

So this post isn't a complaint. It isn't even really a diatribe of resentment towards the fashion industry or everyone's favourite scape goat the media. It's a celebration. A celebration of skinny minis in their skinny jeans, and girls with bums, hips, tums and boobs. Anyone who lives life to the full, no matter what their figure looks like, is worth praising. Be healthy, look after your heart (it'll last a lifetime), eat your greens and enjoy your food. Live life to the full and don't be like me and wish for someone else's body. As Judith Butler said, 'The body is a social construct' anyway. I don't know if I do believe that, but I do believe that happiness isn't a number, a clothing size or the way you look in the tightest jeans. At the risk of sounding like an outdated hippy, happiness is laughter, love and friendship. Not matter how you look, you will always be richer for having these three magical elements in your life. I don't just believe this, I live by it, and it never fails to do me right.

Jasmine Von der Bogaerde: The UK's (more talented) answer to Rebecca Black?

OK I've been really lazy with my blog of late, but honestly I haven't had time for (many) sexual antics (apart from my new purchase....

I think I wanna be a dominatrix?

BIRDY, BON IVER AND WHY IT ALL JUST MAKES ME ANGRY



But more on that later. If I get enough revision done today to satisfy the sense of guilt that I have been feeling then I shall write all about my leather bound antics. For now I am shamelessly reposting something that I sent to Lorna to be published in The Stag, soz. And it's about music.

I like cover songs. I have no issue with someone covering a song I like. But I have a massive issue with ‘Birdy’s’ cover of Skinny Love by Bon Iver. I am aware I am bit late on this. Birdy, AKA Jasmine Van der Bogaerde is fourteen, and her song went viral a few months ago, facebook was inundated with links to her YouTube sensation. So far, so Rebecca Black. However, that is where the comparison with Rebecca Black ends. Van der Bogaerde does not lack talent, she has it in heaps. She is a classically trained pianist, with a gorgeous voice. Her cover of ‘Skinny Love’ charted at number seventeen in the UK and Fearne Cotton named ‘Skinny Love’ her song of the week on Radio One. Impressive stuff for anyone, let alone a fourteen year old.

But I hate her cover of ‘Skinny Love.’ It makes me feel angry. I appreciate she has a beautiful voice, I appreciate she is an exceptional pianist. It doesn’t stop me loathing her cover of one of my favourite songs. In early 2008 I became aware of Bon Iver (a play on the French ‘Bon Hiver’ meaning good winter) and the album ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ stills moves me further than most. The album is wracked with passion and meaning. Not only has Justin Vernon (the singer-songwriter of Bon Iver) got a soulful voice, he is also talented songwriter. ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ was written in Wisconsin during a three month winter, in which Vernon was halled up in a log cabin in the state’s Northern Woods. The reason for Vernon isolation? A break up. The break up was the inspiration for ‘For Emma, Forever Ago.’ Needless to say the album is packed with emotive lyrics and soft gentle melodies. My favourite line from ‘Skinny Love’ is a fantastic example of the raw emotion evident in ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’, ‘Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer/I tell my love to wreck it all/ Cut out all the ropes and let me fall.’ From Vernon’s husky, gentle voice this is truly heartbreaking. When a fourteen year old, with annoyingly perfect features sings these lines to me, atop perfect piano accompaniment I simply cannot buy it. Vernon’s pain and heartbreak shines through each perfectly constructed line, Van der Bogaerde’s does not. Simply because, she is fourteen, she is young, talented and lucky. By default she cannot flood the song with as much meaning as Vernon does. And for me, that makes the song weaker. It means less when it does not and cannot come from the heart.


Jasmine Van der Bogaerde will go far. Unlike her contemporary, Rebecca Black, she is gifted, incredibly so. In five years time I will be excited for her own contribution to the music world. But for now, she needs to get off my facebook and get her heart broken a few times. Then come back with a sensational album, which will make me kick myself for ever doubting her.

I've linked you here so you can hear Birdy's cover, and here so you can hear the original.

And here is a picture of Birdy which perhaps highlights how annoying she is.

Punching her in the face would be oddly satisfying.

As ever, I've made huge sweeping statements and unfair judgements. Pick up as you will dear readers. More on sex later.

Realisation

It's 23.22. I'm sunburnt. My hand hurts from writing. My boyfriend is ringing me in about seven minutes. I have been revising for hours, in town, by the lake, in the library. I even went to Tesco. I booked my tickets for Latitude Festival. I handed in my last piece of coursework for the year and I actually put a suprising amount of effort in. I'm going to be Copy Editor on a university creative magazine next year. And of course my much talked about position as Literature Editor of The Stag, my university newsaper.

It's 23.24. I'm in love with someone who loves me back. I've nearly finished my first year at University (something I thought I'd never be able to do). I get on with every member of my family. I have a job (even if I would rather stick my hand in acid than work on Saturday). I have friends, here and at home.

It's 23.25 and I'm happy.

It's 23.26 and everything is going to be alright.
It's 23.27 and after two difficult years I've realised I've finally become the person I always wanted to be.

It's 23.28 and I'm officially a sentimental loser.

Goodnight.

"The sex was amazing, until N-Dubz came up on shuffle...."

Music is something I'm really afraid of when it comes to sex. Sometimes it can be tantric and wonderful and really add to the moment. Usually it's just plain embarrassing. The first time I ever did anything vaguely sexual with Tristan Sean Kingston's Beautiful Girls came up on my ipod shuffle. (If you haven't heard it, please listen here) Anyway, that was pretty awful for me. But, then I started thinking and chances are someone else (with slightly different music taste) would probably find it perfectly acceptable.

When I was about 15 people I knew starting actually 'doing it.' Obviously, I wasn't having sex. But it felt like everyone was (actually, about 3 of my friends). I was round a friend's house and she had her ipod plugged in and asked me to put some music on, so I selected her 'Chilling' playlist as that's exactly what we were doing. She turned around irate and shouted, 'Why the hell have you put my sex playlist on?' Mortifying memory for me even after 5 years. Anyway, her sex playlist was nothing like I would have imagined.

In films (and I'm talking the kind of films I watched when I was 15 so The Notebook* etc) the music is always soft and gentle during the sex scene. I'm thinking more 'Make You Feel My Love' by Adele, originally Bob D before you all shout at me, rather than 'You're Makin' Me High' by Toni Braxton. So I always imagined that sex music was gentle and nice- my first sex playlist contained Death Cab for Cutie and Coldplay!

Then I gave up with music during sex by and large. Until I came to University, where the walls are thin and I live with fourteen other people who I'm sure would rather hear my music than the creaking of a very old bed and/or heaven forbid my cries of passion. I pay for my spotify so I didn't have to worry about adverts thankfully, but the main thing I wondered was WHAT music to play. So much so that so far I've just chucked on my current month's playlist and hoped for the best.

Today I decided, I'd like to create a sexy playlist. But what the hell music did I find sexy? And surely did it not depend on the type of sex I was having? Were songs about sex sexy? Or was it the actual rhythm that was sexy? Was a sexy song a song I'd listen to at another time? The Smiths are my favourite band but would it ever be appropriate to have sex to one of their songs?

So I did what I always do when I'm confused, I asked the good people of Facebook. And because my  friends are wonderful I got so many replies. And it was all so different. Slow RnB- Ne-yo, Pretty Ricky, Marvin Gaye. 'Scary' rock music- Nirvana, The Mars Volta. John Mayer. Prince. To name but a few. I asked my flatmates (who I love so much, there you go guys, thank you for reading) and everyone felt differently from Toots and the Maytals to Def Leppard. I was more confused than ever.

I started making a tentative list, and it all went wrong. I've had great sex to Arcade Fire but could I find a song that I found actively 'sexy'? No. I've had amazing sex to Bon Iver but same problem. I think 'Time is Running Out' by Muse is a really sexy song, but I don't think I want to have sex to a song with lyrics such as, 'You will be the death of me.'

Everyone else seems to know what they like to listen to when they get down, whether it be Ne-yo or The Mars Volta and I just don't have a clue.

So help me out everyone...here is my sex playlist, tell me what I need to do to it. Is it too slow? Is it too fast? I want it to encompass romantic lovemaking and also the occasional dirty fuck. Help! Is John Mayer too 30 year old mum? Is Ellie Goulding too main stream?

Here's a link to my playlist: Sex?

Facebook me with your advice, I need your help. My sex life is suffering.

*I really don't like the Notebook. Soz.

Of course I know what to listen to after sex... Always this.

Exciting News & A Couple of Romantic Truths

Hello all, I come with news from other lands. News from Surrey anyway. I have been elected Literature Editor for The Stag (university newspaper). How exciting!

Now, I will get on to be intended subject matter. I can wax lyrical about Feminism. I really do believe all the things I have written previously about women's rights, gender roles etc see here and of course, the one I always implore you to read here.

HOWEVER, I cannot speak for all women, but this is all I have ever really wanted:

(How cool do I look with my 'euro-trash, post-modern' also unread, novel on the table?)



Yes, they are from Tristan. Yes, they are roses. Yes they are in my favourite colours: pink and cream. They came with a handwritten letter. (Obviously written in his hand, otherwise it would be weird...)

I hate stereotypes. I really do. I never ever want to what people expect me to be. I try as hard I can not to stereotype people (although I probably do all the time...definitely in this blog) but I love receiving flowers. And I think all women do really. There is something about a perfectly chosen bouquet that no other present can beat. It's the very best way to say I love you.

The letter was the best of all. For all the men reading this, write more letters in your life! Fuck it, for anyone reading this...write more letters. They last forever and they are so much more personal than an email, a text, a phone call.

If you don't believe me, imagine these words handwritten:

'Before I met you, I fear I was sleeping, missing out on countless opportunities in favour of chasing fruitless pursuits.....I love you for everything. Your optimism, your passion, you kiss and the ice cream stain on your coat.'

-Tristan Redburn

So I might be a Feminist but I still want to recieve flowers and letters like this. I mean in all honesty, who wouldn't?

Tristan, this is for you.

'If they stop loving you, I won't stop loving you. If they stop needing you, I'll still need you my dear.'

You know what that means <3

Stockings and Suspenders: Sexy or Sickening?

I love underwear. I am more gentle with my bras and knickers than any of my dresses or shoes (even the ones I spent over £50 pounds on) and I am obsessed with beautiful lingerie. But prior to this year's Valentines day I had never bought 'sexy' underwear. And by 'sexy' underwear I mean the kind of underwear you don't wear under your clothes. The kind of underwear that is a set of clothes in itself. I'm talking the whole hog- suspenders, thong, corset, babydoll, whatever.

It was a bit terrifying going shopping for this underwear. I felt like I was walking around harbouring a dirty secret. My first stop was (and oh god, don't judge me) Primark. Now, I am going to say loudly and clearly if you are ever trying to be sexy do not buy a corset from Primark. Sexy is more than aesthetic, its the way something feels and most importantly (cliched but true) it is the way it makes you feel. I don't think I would feel sexy wearing uncomfortable, badly made, itchy fabrics. The corsets in Primark feel either slimey or just plain itchy. Plus, the colour scheme sucks.

My next stop was Ann Summers. Now I've previously described here how Ann Summers made me feel. Yes, it is an adult's playground in luxury colours with the feeling of a very high class Parisian boudoir but it's also a little bit intimidating. I wandered around nervously touching outfits I felt I'd need a couple of very stiff drinks before I even contemplated wearing them. I was asked if I needed help by a shop assistant and I really did need help, so I said yes. And she was lovely. She asked me my budget (limited) and what I was looking for (something that my boyfriend will like and I will not feel ridiculous wearing). The first thing she pointed me towards with underwear in a box. Now I'm not going to lie, I'm a complete and total snob, but underwear in a box, really? I can only describe this garment as akin to fishnet tights. It was almost like a see through, skin tight and very short dress. It was also hideous. In fact here it is so you can decide for yourself:

It looked worse in the box

So on this rather beautiful woman, it doesn't look too bad. In fact it looks quite good. But she is shaped like a french fry and unfortunately I am shaped more like a potato wedge. Getting my size 12 bum and hips into a piece of sexy netting that exposes my less than toned stomach was about the least sexual thing I could imagine, so I politely declined.

I ended up with a babydoll, in black and red, with gorgeous black lacey knickers to match and plain black suspenders. Even when it comes to sexy underwear I am plain it seems..

The best part about what I bought was the knickers actually. I refused the thong- I've never really 'got into' thongs massively. The knickers are made of the nicest fabric ever, although they bloody should be for £11. The whole little lot (incl. suspenders) came to £43 (a small fortune to a student.)

At first I was estatic with my purchases. I felt the seixest I'd ever felt when I tried the whole outfit on in my room with my high heels. Then I realised the suspenders (despite being reasonably expensive) were rubbish and kept slipping down. Plus suspenders don't really suit people with thighs that aren't sinewy and willowy. Also I couldn't wear the babydoll without a bra because my breasts looked terrible and were in danger of spilling out. Then I felt ill because I'd spent my food budget for nearly 2 weeks on clothes I was only going to wear once or twice and that would of course be hastily removed. The nicer the underwear the quicker it comes off. Depressing.

Then I started really thinking. And I don't do this a lot, so it's pretty exciting. And I was wondering what do I think is sexy. I could tell you what I think is sexy about a man. But what do I think is sexy on a woman? Honestly, I think small breasts are sexy. Really small ones (which sucks because mine do not fit into this category.) Hips are sexy. A not completely toned stomach. And tight black underwear. Not lacey, plain. And a black bra. Simple. So why the fuck was I trussing myself up in satin, lace, and god knows what other fabrics?

My beautiful friend Ava (go watch her videos, she's brilliant) suggested that Ann Summers was a bit of a male fantasy land and to an extent I agree. I don't find the clothes sexy, or ir if I do, it is a certain type of sexy. I think a man is sexiest when he is being himself, confident and happy in a nice suit or a good pair of jeans. Perhaps a suit is dressing up but it certainly is of a different calibre to world of corsets and babydolls. The kind of sexy Ann Summers clothing promotes is a bit fake. A trussed up, over done version of sexy. The models don't look like real women with their perfect bodies, blow dried hair and falsh eyelashes. Also, who the fuck wears stilletos in the bedroom?

I'm all in favour of spicing things up in the bedroom and I suppose these outfits could do just that. Its just I feel that so many of them don't tap into a female fantasy. They don't make the woman feel sexy, or even think about what a woman would wear to feel sexy. They are all for show. They only work from the outside. I'm going to use this particular garment as an example:

To me this is a male fantasy (it's also crotchless). When describing this product on the website the writer constantly states that it will, 'guranteed to get his attention', what about guranteed to make you feel gorgeous? This isn't even metioned.

I'm trying not to go on a Feminist diatribe. I'm trying to just evaluate how I feel about Ann Summers. I could be wrong. If it works for you, that's great. If it does make you feel sexy, then that is brilliant. But what I worry about is women wearing these clothes not for themselves but for a man.

Maybe I'm just bitter because outfits like this are definately not designed for my 34F breasts, 'child bearing' hips and slightly more wobbly than I would like stomach. And let's not talk about thighs at all. On the plus side, I certainly won't need to invest in Ann Summers 'instant boob job bra'.

Not needed for today, thank you!