Dysfunction

Here we go again

One last time a million times over

You make your insanity sound so good

I know it’s just bullshit

But your dysfunction is addictive 

Our dysfunction is equally addictive 

My judgement hazed

Blinded by black eyeliner 

Lost in the abyss 

It consumes us 

Downing in darkness 

It represents us

We hated each other the first time we met 

We tainted each other the first time we met 

My thoughts 

Polluted by colour of your eyes

Poisoned by your words  

Thinking, what were you thinking

Compelled to one another

We were together 

Here we go again

It’s over, for the millionth time.

Criminal: Part 2

Or am I the bad guy?

I shouldn't be judging others. Well, judging is human nature. 
Don't judge others, be polite, work hard. 

Or is it society? 


They are society. 
We are society.

Or does it matter? 

We're all prisoners on this tube; it is yet to reach any of our destinations. 

It's a metaphor.

We are free. 
Are we free. 

The next station is Boston Manor, please mind the gap.

I am liberated as my oyster frees me from TFL's barriers. 

Criminal: Part 1

With stressful frowns upon their faces, a man and woman jumped onto the tube as the doors began to shut. Jump successful. They positioned themselves comfortably in the warn out seats opposite me. Westbound to Heathrow terminals the tube driver announced, I imagine this only happens for tourist purposes. Her shabby outfit and heavy jewellery was somewhat questionable. I looked at them again, from the corner of my eye, nothing to bat an eyelid at; friends, lovers, partners in crime. Yet I thought, perhaps they were fleeing the country... What an irrational thought, but who am I to know any better. 

Armed with only a small black bag which the woman guarded, as well as giant pockets in each of their oversized, ill fitting coats, it was clear that if they were on the run, it was serious and they had to escape quickly. No clothes, no personal belongings or sentimental trinkets - passports, each other, and a fat wad of cash I would assume.

That's it, they robbed a bank. The man reached for a copy of the Evening Standard , a free newspaper that circulates London, that had been abandoned by another commuter. His eyes pierced each page as the woman also began to scan the paper, the pair searched for something. What were they looking for, their own names? If they had committed some sort of crime it wouldn't be in the papers yet, the lateness of the day is worked in their favour. At 9:17pm, "breaking news" on the BBC’s Twitter account is the only thing that stands between the couple’s freedom and the society’s justice. 

The gentleman sitting next to them is oblivious to their potential criminal status. He’s oblivious to me not so subtly staring at them, and now at him. Suited and booted, he wore all black with the exception of navy socks and a white shirt. A banker, I thought. Yeah, a wanker. The man’s iPhone 6 consumed his journey, 40 minutes dragged by and I did not once get the chance to see the colour of his disinterested eyes. 

Who knew if this guy had just helped to create the next global economic crisis? His guilt had him frozen in his seat. 50 minutes and still no movement. The negative body language he projected mirrored his morbid facial expression and suggested his personality is almost as non existent as his conscience. 

Who is more of a criminal? 

The banker to the bank robbers?

Just a thought

Draft after draft after draft.

At what point are you happy?

There's always room for improvement.

As my second, first academic year draws to an end, I can see I have improved a lot in all ways.

I feel as though this 'thought' is a metaphor and justification for how I have changed as a person.

4th redraft already.

I'm as disposable as the words I have just deleted.

I will, can, and have redrafted myself.

From personality traits to twitter accounts: they can be trashed.

I redraft your idea of me with childhood story.
I redraft your thoughts of me with my choice of clothes.
I redraft your perception of me with every word I use and every word I don't.

You see, I, like you, am a social construct.

Who am I really?
Who are you really?

Identity issues? Not even.

Since my intellect has improved as a direct result of the improvement in choice of university, my understanding of society has also surged.
Or actually, decreased?


What is society?
What is reality?
It isn't real.

'Earth' is a social construct, filled with infinite complexities.

We will never know,
Who I really am,
Who you really are.

What. Is. Life.

Will we ever know?



And no, I'm not high.

Make an educated vote! Where are you on the political spectrum?

"Statistically, 18-24 year olds don't vote..." is a phrase that I'm sick of hearing. It's almost as if I'm not allowed to vote.

"The decline in young people’s engagement in politics has been a common theme of late. As seen above, voter turnout has been low among young people relative to older age groups, but in the context of falling overall turnout at General Elections, the decline has been sharpest amongst voters aged 18-24:" (Elections: Turnout: 4) 


Now now, 51.8% of us do vote. Are you in the remaining 48.2%?

Don’t you care what happens the course you study, the halls you live in and the societies you’re part of? What about the job you you work? The rate you're payed? The rules you follow? We all go through the motions like it's normal, like things aren't going to change, or they change for the worse, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. It's over our heads. To care, was never it our heads. Who even wants to vote? Why?

Manifestos are broken, trust is shattered and voting is deterred. Welcome to the 21st Century; welcome to the 2015 General Election. Yet you're here, reading this article. Maybe you'e a friend from school or a random kid I met on a night out but just take a moment to think. The mere fact you are at university (maybe), you have a job (maybe), or whoever you are, politics is so relevant to every move you make - every move you're allowed to make. You are invested in your future; what job you’ll have, what car you drive, what house you live in. Maybe you already work that job, drive that car… it’s all politics. Even if you don’t consider yourself to be, you are interested in politics. Say politics again, politics. 

The biggest issue in young people's unwillingness to vote is that they simply don't want any of the options they are given. For Labour, as a 'left' party, they're basically touching dicks with the Conservatives over in that 'right' corner of the political spectrum. The political spectrum? Here! (Don't worry it takes you directly to the test and opens in a new tab!)  The Spectrum is ssentially a graph with lots of dots that represent different things. I would advise everyone to complete this quiz, it's a few pages of "agree - disagree" questions but the result was quite surprising to myself, and my peers at the time. Here we go: 

This image is actually the 'Political Spectrum'. Basically giving you the jist of what is where and what it means.






This next image shows where well known political figures were on the scale. If you consult the chart above, you will begin to grasp the idea more clearly and see who stood for what. For example, classic Margaret Thatcher is a typical conservative: Right wing, authoritarian. 





When you finish the quiz, you will be shown where you are on the spectrum. This is me. As you can see when you glance back up to the top, me and Gandhi are best friends and he regularly pops around for a cuppa whilst we discuss what policy whatever government has fucked up this time. Now, before you scroll a bit further, be aware that most 18-25 year olds that take this quiz actually get around the same result as I did. 

And, wahlaaaah. This may provide a reason as to why young people 'statistically don't vote'. All major parties in the UK reside in that top right corner, which young people do not identify with. After the growing support of the Greens in the past few months, we are able to see that the two party race is no longer the case. In the next General Election, maybe the Green's have a shot at winning? 

As we can see from the charts above, I for one, am not happy with the state of the political system right now. Millions of others out there aren't either. With only 41% of 3.3 million young people, (that's 1,350,000), saying they will definitely vote on the 7th of May, theorists all over the UK are desperate to discuss why.  I'm sure our politicians could provide just as much entertainment and incestuous scandals as Game Of Thrones does, or would we even know if they did? Britishfuture.org discuss many ideas as to why young people don't vote. One of their main ideas in that we simply don't trust politicians and think they do not understand issues we feel are the most relevant to us.

This graph is taken from Britishfuture's study How many young people will vote?  

In the midst of a voting crisis, celebrity culture holds potential to impact the voting outcome severely.  When comedian turned activist, Russell Brand, told young people not to vote, the whole nation pretended to be shocked. I laughed hysterically at what was probably the funniest thing he's ever said; and that's coming from a fan. Encouraging youths not to vote contradicts everything our generation wants; change. We may not support the major parties in the election, but there is literally more sense in voting for a minority that you believe in than to not vote at all. To waste your vote will only lead to a democracy even more unrepresentative than we currently have. For example, politicians focus largely on the elderly as they are more likely to vote, meaning parties want to secure those votes where as our age group are expected not to vote so issues concerning young people are pushed to the bottom of the pile. The Scottish referendum, with a whopping 84.5% turn out, is a prime example of the importance voting holds. With a mere 5% difference in the Yes and No votes,  using your vote then would have literally made all the difference. The referendum created more of a revolutionary atmosphere than Russell Brand ever will with the use of his pretentious vocabulary and ideas that have no real platform to succeed. Although we may not like party politics, the only way to change the way our country works is by taking part in the system. The Scottish Referendum paved the way for change in Scotland, now we need to take inspiration from that and make room for change in England. Russell Brand is taking advantage of his own elite status to point fingers at other elitists, but for me, his real point in not revolution but it is not to let ourselves be walked on. Although this contradicts his theme, it seems the voting system, no matter how corrupt or out of touch it is, is the only platform for change for the foreseeable future. 

A revolution will never work when we don’t know what we want, but can only unite on what we don’t want. The 2010 general election was thought to be the most difficult to predict, this year the election is even more unpredictable; with polls showing the favourite coalition to be Labour-Scottish National Party-Green followed by a Conservative-UKIP coalition, no one can see where this one is going. There’s only one thing that we seem to be sure of; a hung parliament. 

Take that quiz! It was a real eye opener for me, and hopefully it will help all you swing or first time voters see which parties really support the policies you believe in! However overly cliche and meaningless this may be now; vote. Vote for change. 

Fifty Shades of Grey - Review

50 Shades of ummm...

A day after its release I still hadn’t read one singular positive thing about the film adaptation of E. L. James’ 50 Shades of Grey, so of course the logical thing to do would be to go and see it for myself and try to pick out something, anything, good about the film. I’m not even certain I would have been able to do that if I hadn’t of fallen asleep. Yep, I fell asleep. If that in itself doesn’t give you a sense of where this post is going, how I felt about the film and how disengaging it was, then you’ll probably like it. 

Fifty Shades
> Still greater than film

The cinema was pretty much sold out with the exception of a few odd lonely chairs dotted about, we sat in the middle of the middle; perfect seats (I now wish we had shit ones because I’m telling you it would have been a blessing in disguise). Customers ate their popcorn and drank their tango ice blasts whilst chatting excitedly for the much anticipated 50 Shades, but little did they know the salsa that my nachos were being dipped in was going to be the sauciest thing in this cinema. 

What an anticlimax. 

There’s more chemistry in a high school science class than between Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan, both on screen as Anastasia Steel and Christian Grey and off screen. In the build up to the release everyone had been talking about Glamour Magazine’s painfully awkward interview in which the actors answer questions from fans on an iPad, now if you haven’t seen it you need to watch it. Here you go: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5lem_fUC88 If you didn’t manage to make it through Dakota’s blunt answers and Jamie ironically being in agreement with everything she said then I can save you the bother and let you know right now that you’d rather ‘shit in your hands and clap’, ‘eat your own skin’, or ‘chew glass’ than piss glitter over this movie because it’s that same non existent chemistry and their non existent ability to be entertaining just amplified by a thousand and on a bigger screen. 

Many people have began comparing the film to Twilight. Can we all reflect on how slated Twilight was? Yet it’s now being named ‘still a better love story than 50 Shades’. Although she’s not completely talentless, Dakota Johnson fails to portray any emotion in the entire film - Hello there, 2015’s Kirsten Stewart! 

Frankly, the actors did not suit the roles and the film was almost as bad as the books were written. The best thing about 50 Shades of Grey was the soundtrack, but I wold advise you to just turn on the radio to hear Ellie Goulding’s ‘Love me like you do’ because those 3 minutes will give you more entertainment than the 125 you’ll throw away trying to enjoy something that will do nothing more but cause excruciating boredom and a dry vagina - because I know that’s the only reason you want to see it really. 

So when you’re sat in the cinema already regretting your decision to pay a tenner to see this crap and you see the elevator close after the first scene, take that as your queue to leave too. That scene is repeated at the end and I can promise you that you will have gained nothing from the experience and you will wish it was that first scene again so you can just get up and get the fuck out. (Unless you want to stay and see the Audi, because it's honestly the sexiest thing in the film).

50 Shades of absolute Shit.

Sunday, February 8th.

I saw him glance at me: picture perfect me. Welcomed with a unforgettable view of the back of my freshly Quaver coated throat and double chin as I yawned, the glance soon became a gaze. He held that gaze for the rest of his journey until time trumped his courage and the tube pulled up to Baron’s Court where he exited. I indulged in the awkward strangers-making-eye-contact situation as our eyes locked for approximately 14.2 seconds before his departure - now if you've ever played Hide and Seek, which everyone has, you'll know anything over 10 seconds is a painful length of time. Yet here I was, willing to go the extra 4.2 seconds it took for the tube doors to open. I wanted to know the stranger’s thoughts. Had I drawn my eyebrows on oddly? This was my biggest worry. Who cares now, Hammersmith was the next stop and it was my stop. As I began to stand and prepare myself to mind the gap, as passengers are too often reminded, a man hit me on the head. Was it him? Had the stranger returned? My eyebrows ARE odd and now my hair is ruined too! Nope. Just another face in the crowd trying to get off the tube. But, ouch. 

2:34am

The last blog post was a joke. An actual, literal, haha-laugh-out-loud-funny fucking joke.

I started this blog thinking I’d travel the world, take so many drugs my hallucinations will be hallucinating and maybe actually not be so fucking socially inept all of the time. People would come here, read it and weep whilst being overcome in upmost envy because my life is amazing. But then it hit me, I’m boring as fuck, and poor as fuck. I’m too much of a good little girl to do anything worth writing about, and anything I have done I’m too much of a good girl to actually write about. Then, of course, the interesting things I could do without being a hoe are too costly for my -£1000 bank account. 

SOS 

I went to order pizza about an hour ago and just stared at my phone for 10 minutes.

“Ah but I’ll feel bad for eating shit tomorrow.” So I didn’t order the pizza.

I went to the pub after work, it was shut meaning everyone went back to someones house.

“Ah but if I leave now I’ll make my last tube.” So I got the last train. 

I’ve said no to all of the silly little things for too long now which consequently has made me a personality-less mother fucker. I feel like a 14 year old emo kid discovering Tumblr for the first time; reblog depressed quote; reblog Dr Who meme; reblog life! Reblog reblog reblog. 

SOS 

Who knew denying yourself a good ol’ pepperoni pizza could lead to such a ludicrous and irrational train of thought? Choo Choo.. next stop insanity! 

I do love my own company, but not when it’s my only company. 

SOS

Save our souls

Save my soul. 

Fancy a jog? Yeah let me just find my heels...

As January comes to an end, I wonder how many New Year’s resolutions ended before the first month of 2015 has. As my friend’s did (and failed) the 21 days vegan fad, I continued with my every day life of eating Tesco meal deals and cake. Whilst walking to catch the train one anything but monumental day, I trotted along in my little-higher-than-normal black ankle boots. Damn, I thought, like I'm sure many of you girls out there have before as well, I wonder if you burn more calories in heels, I’am b o i l i n g.

Bam. The maybe-isn’t-as-ridiculous-as-it-sounds ‘high heel’ work out. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t tried it or even even lasted more than a few hours in a pair of heels at one time, but there’s some people out there that give the work out some validity and plenty of people that have tried it. Apparently, it was quite the hype in America last year as well as London having it’s very own high heel coach. 

Interested yet? I was. This question was the catalyst for some strange Google searches. The idea behind it is that the shoe pushes you foot into an abnormal position, thus used more muscles to walk than you usually would, and with heel being heightened you tone the muscle more. Therefore, burning more calories! 

However, the argument is that whatever shoes are worn shouldn’t make a real difference. You can do more in flats, and some fitness shoes are built to help tone your legs and butt more - so why would you go through the pain of wearing heels? Women for decades have been warned of the risk of wearing heels, never mind to work out! Back pain, foot/joint damage and even issues with balance, is the thought of burning a few more calories even worth the pain? 

Nikki Manashe (just google her/it!), a personal trainer in London has created a ‘stiletto work out’, which became very popular early last year. She has clients do sit ups, kicks and squats in their high heels, all after making them gear up some good old trainers for a little run. At least that’s sensible! But experts say working out this way could lead to serious health issues later on.

And then there’s Heel Hop, (http://heelhop.com), basically a fitness regime revolving around high heels. If anything this work out focus’ heavily on women being ‘sexy’, after all that is in their tag line. Typical. A woman can’t simply work out, but she needs to work out in heels otherwise she won’t be sexy - or even confident. That’s what they’re selling really - fake confidence, because if you can work out in heels you can do anything! It’s very housewife-esc. There’s a pro; with this one you get a ‘High Heel instruction manual’… um.

As if things like this actually exist? SoDo we burn more calories in heels? Next time you're walking along and something pops into your mind - find the answer, or find a gap in the market! ha.
meone else who may have worn a pair of a-little-too-high ankle boots started a business from that question,

So, from the insane insanity workout to the squat challenge to the stiletto work out, what crazy fad have you given up yet? If you haven’t; welcome to February, give up!

Florin Dobre's Fall/Winter '15 Collection

Florin Dobre – Jan 13^th 2015
Fall/Winter 2015 Collection
London Men’s Week (Day 3)

It is evident I am not a fashion buff and have no ‘real’ knowledge of the fashion industry – if I like something, I like it. Simple. So upon invitation I was dubious whether to accept an offer to go ‘behind the scenes’ of Florin Dobre’s fall/winter 2015 men’s collection.

The collection is based around William Shakespeare’s timeless novel, Romeo and Juliet, with the invitation following a recent trip to Stratford-Upon-Avon, Shakespeare’s home, this sparked my interest. Dobre is a Romanian designer who intended on taking the tragic tale and moving towards a more dramatic story, similar to Romanian tales that are heavily dramatized but remain optimistic. Keen to see how Florin Dobre will execute his visions, the invitation was accepted.

Upon arrival at the Romanian Cultural Institute, 2 hours before the show was due to start, event preparation was in full swing, despite the relaxed atmosphere. The venue was beautiful, extravagant mirrors with gold, vintage borders hung on the wall that complimented the oversized chandeliers and made everyone there feel grand. Florin Dobre personally handed out cans of Carling to his team and the models whilst encouraging a positive atmosphere and succeeding in doing so. From the start was obvious from the start that Florin was a genuine person and not simply a character created by his PR team, the designers personality was reflected in the models and staff who he had chosen to work with, a model - suited and made up, actually offered to get me a glass of water. After praising the teams working with Florin, I then learnt they were all in fact volunteers apart from a handful of people there that travelled with the designer from Romania.

Models paced between make up and wardrobe in their Tim Burton influenced make up, which undeniably struck me as strange considering the Romeo and Juliet theme.  With heavy wrinkles and dark circles around their eyes, models were aged at least 30 years by the great skill of the makeup team. However on arrival of Florin, make up were told that some models were meant to look happy, despite being previously instructed otherwise, although this was a small error in communication it didn’t create an issue and Florin remained relaxed and positive. At face value, the theme seemed very contradictory as if the designer hadn’t done his background research, or was he trying to be extravagant as most designers do, and trying to make a statement? If so, it didn’t seem to do anything but make people question his sanity.

Due to previous research, I was able to understand the aging faces of the models. In Romanian stories, there are typically grandparents of some sort within the tale who represent timelessness and hope, as well as a happy ending which contradicts the tragic ending for Romeo and Juliet who were unable to grow old together. Florin Dobre wanted to portray the optimism of his own life and Romanian culture in his work, however this wasn’t effective as it’s heavily reliant on the audience reading up before the show. Despite this, I feel a Romanian crowd would have understood his attempt so his attempts may be successful in his home. As well as this, the faces were made up very heavily, like proper theatrical make up which reflects the novel, dramatic theme the collection was inspired by. I greatly enjoyed the effort he put into spreading optimism in London and felt it was a very original, creative idea.

As the models got dressed and prepared for the performance, I soon started to get nervous for the designer although his spirits remained high. Dobre had not fitted the clothes to the boys; he had not even matched up their shoe size. It was an hour until the show was due to start. The designed was almost too laid back; he took an approach where ‘if the shoe doesn’t fit, you don’t wear it’. Props to him of course, it was risky since there was so little time before the grand finale but he pulled it off, all the models had an outfit to prance about in, (I’m not being rude- it’s basically what they did).

Once everyone was in their clothes, they stood in line waiting instruction. Instruction never came. Dobre handed them another can of Carling. There was no dress rehearsal.

The show was due to start at 7pm, although on arrival guests were not allowed in the main room until half past 7. They were ushered into a small room on the ground floor of the venue, filled with cheap white wine that tasted like a half drank bottle of Lambrini, left out in the sun for a week and then mixed with apple juice – which was actually placed in giant glass jugs on the table. Classy. Next to this sat a table of salami which I would assume was donated by their meat sponsor. Jägermeister also sponsored the events, where were the shots!?

Finally the guests piled into the room and to my surprised there were not enough seats. It was packed. It was hard to estimate the number of attendees as the last show Florin Dobre presented in London took place on a double decker bus and toured the capital for the day, thus there was no real way to tell who were there to actually see his collection. Despite the under preparation, the designer seemed to have a substantial following which led me to believe his collection would be impressive, and to readjust my opinion as I had in fact only saw 2 hours of what would have been months of work.

At 10 to 8, the show had still not started. Issues with the sound system they said, bullshit I thought. That playlist had been on repeat all day apparently, and certainly for the few hours I was there. One member of the audience turned to me and the makeup team to suggest starting a choir as we have learnt the playlist from listening all day. Other guests looked bored and impatient whilst most just chatted among themselves. When the show finally got started, there was so much going on as it Florin’s attempt to make it a theatrical performance as well as his collection debut didn’t work as well as intended. The infamous Romeo and Juliet prologue was read out by some prat with a book (when I say read, I mean he flipped pages back and forth, moved his mouth up and down without attempt to mimic words or even learn ANYTHING, even lyrics of songs which I knew from being there two hours). This ‘narrator’ was present throughout the show and took all attention away from the clothes and what was happening behind him (which was also bad – but slightly better- acting on behalf of the models).  

Each of the models walked the runway in a difference way, different pace and difference style. Was that intended? I don’t think so. Since they were all unpaid volunteers I can assume they are relatively new at modelling and 5 minutes with one of Florin Dobre’s team for a master class on how to walk, couldn’t have gone a miss. Although moral was high, the whole thing was so badly executed which I hate having to say as much as I hated watching it. The designer had such great ideas and potential but no one quite got in right, or so it seemed. Due to that idiot jumping about with a book, pretend fighting in the background and a random mash up of music, the real point of the event was lost and the collection was not presented well or even paid attention to. The outfits themselves were actually put together nicely and suited the boys that wore them – but that was pure luck. Florin was big on the big blazers and socks, and to my surprise I actually had a favourite piece; an oversized white blazer, white shoes paired with light grey shin length socks and a pink shirt. The collection was definitely unique as one model sported a flowery number, another in a peach suit made of that tooth pattern, you know, the one on all of the scarves (fashion genius over here). There was one of course, that looked like a giant poo – a gangster poo. Then out came Romeo and Juliet.

Florin Dobre is typically a male designer; he hasn’t done much, if anything, for women. This was evident in Juliet’s dress, looking like a long white night gown with fake flowers attached by a staple gun, and a black belt from Primark. Romeo’s outfit however was impressive, the design and stitching looked amazing and his shoes had a flowery pattern embroidered which matched Juliet’s dress and his shirt. This was their wedding outfits, because in Florin’s version of the novel, they got married and lived happily ever after, which is what was said after they walked the catwalk together. The end.

What a bunch of shit. And a shame too. Nah, it was alright really. The ideas were great, some of the collection was really strong but others let it down. Florin Dobre is a wonderful guy but ‘too’ laid back. The whole thing was under prepared and under rehearsed which is what really ruined it. It was a great experience, however if I didn’t go backstage, I would have an entirely different opinion of it as the show itself was a serious anti-climax. Of course I stood and cheered like a fool at the end, whilst Florin lead his models back down the run way to do his tradmark (very similar to the well known high school musical jump) jump.


Florin Dobre's officaily website: http://florindobre.ro/



Romeo and Juliet - Florin Dobre's Fall/Winter '15 Collection

Mr. Internet

Okay, Hey guys! I wrote this years ago. Don't judge my 16yr old writing.



Pulse quickening, palms clammy, she skimmed through the torrent of love and abuse she was previously sent by those feeding her addiction over summer. Her addiction? Attention. The photos though...how could he? Staring in the mirror, she realised she was no longer so keen on the reflection, her bony frame meant nothing now. She saw the glinting metal of the scissors lying on the toilet cistern, inviting, welcoming, dangerous…

***

Glaring at herself in the mirror, she left physically sick at the curvy figure looking back. “Where are your collarbones?” She would scream at her reflection, “Where are your collarbones”… It was one of ‘those’ days. At just 15, Millie had a lot of those days. Strawberry blonde curls fell over her face as she pulled her hair loose. Ginge! She murmured to herself. Starting from the roots she massaged bleach into hair. The blonder, the better. A burning sensation and the stench of ammonia overwhelmed her senses as she opened the window for fresh air. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a group of girls who attended the same school walking past; they were giggling, smiling, and having fun. Heart racing, veins pulsing, a rush of envy swept over her, instantly turning into a green eyed monster. She was the loner, the freak. Slamming the window shut and darting out of sight, Millie unintentionally crashed into the cold, hard wall of her bedroom. Returning to the mirror, she stood sighing, forever lifelessly looking into the reflection, searching for a soul she had not yet found. An alarming tone sounded interrupting Millie’s trance, in that moment, sudden heat escaped her head. Remembering the bleach, she skidded along the landing in a pair of quirky socks she adored and frantically threw her hair under the shower head, pressing any button that her fingers found first. Freezing water blasted over her whilst a sigh of relief escaped as the cool water calmed her overheating scalp. Goodbye ginge, she thought aloud. Returning to her room with a towel wrapped around her head, she rummaged around her school rucksack in attempt to find her phone. Grabbing it out of the bag she stood in a state of confusion for a moment as more messages had been received since the initial alert… 

Slut. Fatso. Ginge. She received another text. Dreading the contents, she reluctantly picked up her phone again hoping it was just her parents letting her know they had arrived to the destination safely, they went away for the summer. “Wish I was there” she sighed as she checked the message. “WHORE” flashed back at her. That was it, she was sick of them all. Tip of the iceberg. “Why can’t they just leave me alone?” She stuttered mid-breakdown. 

Actually, Millie, you are looking a little on the curvy side, those girls are all thin and flawless; look at yourself. The truth hurts, tubby… nagged a little voice in her head. Millie raced to the bathroom, slipping on the landing once again. This time she grabbed her toothbrush, getting swept up in a moment of haste and hatred, she viscously attacked her throat, screaming between each painful gag. That was the start. It became an obsession... She couldn’t stop... She wouldn't stop. Terrified of waking up suffocating in cellulite, she stopped sleeping too. Spending the rest of her days in a haze, endlessly counting calories, lying to her parents whom were still on holiday, taking pill after pill until she eventually began to see a change. Thank god. Even though it had only been 8 days, if had felt like a life time to Millie.

It was so satisfying watching the skin disappear, months of persistence and determination; her hips defined, razor sharp. Although Millie got dramatically thin, dramatically fast, she loved it. Cake or collarbones she chanted. Always ignoring the side effects, she would rely on pro-anorexia websites for motivation. Disturbing, yet motivational quotes she found online were her continuous ‘thinspiration’. Going to bed hungry is worth waking up skinny. Hunger hurts but starving works. Your stomach isn’t growling; it’s applauding. The one that stuck out the most, every time you say “no thank you,” to food, you say “yes please,” to thin. That little irritating voice in her head would remind her of this each day, somehow, it didn’t seem like this was her own choice anymore… Motivation is what gets you started, but habit is what keeps you going.
Summer break was 3 weeks in and although Millie was feeling better than ever with her appearance, nothing else had really changed. She was still alone and isolated, causing her to ventur further into the depths of the internet; no longer restricting herself to pro anorexia websites and Facebook. One stereotypical summer evening noises outside disturbed her, gingerly peeking out of the window she noticed those girls again, acting just like before. Déjà vu. An all too familiar emotion of hatred and envy possessed her. Feeling undervalued, underappreciated and in need for attention she stumbled upon an X rated chat room, intriguing her.

Talking seductively and ‘naughty’ was new territory for Millie, she took on a sexy, confident, cyber persona that strangers adored, consequently leading her to spend all her time online.
Thriving on flattery, throughout the summer Millie craved attention from strangers which they happily gave to her. Aware that most of the things said to her were over-used clichés, she still felt a thrill from receiving so much flattery. “You’re so sweet, you could put Hershey’s out of business,” Hershey’s has a similar taste to the one that lingers in my mouth after vomiting, she thought to herself. It was all harmless fun, she thought, harmless fun for which she hungered. After a while, it narrowed down to just one man in which she became engrossed, and vice versa. Overexcitement and hormones combined and created quite a range of situations for the pair, she regularly received explicit images from him and then it came to her time to return the favour. She photographed herself both completely and semi nude on the night of her 16th birthday, towards the latter part of August. She then shared filthy photos and a few ‘extra saucy’ ones with the man she had been conversing with all summer, captioning them: “Not jailbait anymore, we’re good to go”. She saw no danger in any of her actions throughout summer, and failed to foresee any future danger with exchanging the photos. Whispers and utterances welcomed Millie back to school after summer. Although it was a brisk, dull day, her skirt was short and cleavage was visible, and she strutted down the corridors as she had never done before, flaunting a well deserved thigh gap and piercing bones. With a proud, confident expression all over her face, she held her head high and walked past her peers. The girls who once taunted her stood in disbelief, Millie had transformed herself. You’ve done it! Before this they wouldn’t have noticed you if you were a 10 storey building, but now they will see you if you’re just a crack in the paving, congratulated the little voice in her head. As the term progressed Millie was still the buzz of the school, being approached by girls inviting her out with them, boys approaching her asking her to ‘go out’ with them, such unfamiliar settings welcomed her with open arms; shining bright, she excelled. I finally fit in, she thought. With such success in creating a whole new self, thriving social life and transferring her online persona to daily life, she slowly stopped resorting to the internet in attempt to feel wanted, because she was wanted in reality. 

Mr. Internet wasn’t too keen on the idea of being left behind, he wanted something more than a few nasty pictures in return for his attention. It wasn’t until a short while after she had returned to school; she really got to know her internet ‘friend’, and just what he was capable of.
Whispers and utterances greeted Millie once again as she walked into school. “What the heck is this about?” She thought aloud as she approached her new friends in a state of ignorance and confusion. The girls seemed far too engrossed and amused staring at their mobiles to acknowledge her interrogation. Becoming progressively more irritated, she snatched one of the girls’ phones and studied the contents. Oh shit! She panicked, stood in shock, completely still, fixed upon the image staring right back at her, and unable to comprehend what had happened, unsure of how to handle the situation Millie was distraught. She saw herself and her favourite ‘toys’ presenting themselves to the camera. “How did you get this?” she murmured, but no response from her peers led to a hysterical scream. “WHO SENT YOU THIS?” she hollered in an unstable tone. I don’t even know why I’m asking, there’s only one place this could have came from. Christ, Millie you stupid, stupid girl, she scolded herself.
All day, Mille suffered in silence as ‘friends’ turned their back on her and started throwing names like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ at her once again, but this time there was proof to back up their vulgar accusations. Later, glaring at the mess the day had made her, she gave herself no choice but revisit the chat room and fish out an unjustified excuse. She dusted off her old account information and accessed the profile she previously used, scrolling down the page and noticing nothing had really changed, until a once recognizable bing sounded. IM. There was a number of messages being received, all from her beloved. All so vicious, vile and vindictive. Shit.
It was difficult to take in; overwhelmed with emotion Millie fell into a dark place, a place she rarely visited… Imagining all the things her peers and family would say, remembering all the things she had done, he had seen, he knew. This was only the start of his wrath… unable to think of a way out, she skidded into the bathroom for a final time.

"Once a day, you receive a text message from yourself, six minutes in the future."

It would happen at 04:32pm. It would happen at 04:38pm. Every day. 

The unmistakable ping of a text message would sound at precisely thirty two minutes past four on a daily basis. After 17 years of messages, I never stopped to think that they were anything out of the ordinary. Until recently. 

It started when I was 8, obviously they didn’t quite take a text message form in 1993, but badly spelt words and sentences that were not quite strung together correctly would appear at the bottom of my homework, on the fridge where they were spelt out with magnetic letters, or even scribbled  in the back of a book I was reading. I would be puzzled for a moment or two at first, wondering where they had come from, but then I grew to appreciate them for what they were.

I thanked whoever it was for the subtle little life hacks or reminders. The milk’s off would come through, at 04:32pm. In the old days I would have forgotten about the message and have gone to make a cup of tea. 04:38pm. Disgusting. The milk was off. The text was always followed by the prediction, with a six minute interval between the two.

It was the little things that improved my life dramatically. 

I would be waiting at the bus stop and be instructed take a step back, a car would come speeding past and those standing closer to the curb would be soaked in dirty puddle water. Not me; muaha.

It wasn’t a while until I actually stopped to think. How is this happening? It must be from the future, I thought. It was the only thing that made sense, no matter how insane or irrational it sounded to others; not that I told anyone.

They were messages to me, from me. I guess the well known phrase “You have to look out for yourself first”, became quite literal in my sense. If they were from the future, why wouldn’t I prevent 9/11 or stop children being molested? Was future me that selfish? It was hard to grasp at first, I couldn’t stop questioning everything once I started. 

At 04:32pm, I would do as I was told and await the consequence. The anticipation killed me. Those were the longest 6 minutes of the day. I tried so hard not to be the socially constructed drone that society wanted me to be, yet I allowed myself to be a slave to myself. I would lie awake most nights, letting my mind run wild. Maybe it was all just a conspiracy. The theories poured out of me, it consumed my life. I began to resent my future self for what it had done to my present self.

I remember it well, the day I changed the game. It was a Tuesday, the runt of the week. April 22nd, 2014. Although the texts did nothing but try and help, in the grand scheme of it all I felt trapped, run down and sleep deprived. I couldn’t do it anymore. That day, my phone stayed turned off. 

It was blissful, I felt as free as I could possibly feel given the circumstances. I went throughout the day as normal, not knowing what could be different or what I could have prevented with the knowledge of my future self. They were only little things, afterall. Maybe I wouldn’t have dropped my biscuit into my tea or hole punched the paper on the wrong side. 

Or maybe I wouldn’t be lying in hospital, writing this from my literal death bed because I stood too close to the road when I car was just going too fast. It is the little things. “Take a step back”.

***

I got a little lazy writing this towards the end, thought I'd publish it anyway as I've been neglecting I couldn't even a lot. This piece stemmed from a writing prompt I found online. Feedback welcome. Expect more like it. 

Caffeine Fix: Kitchen and Pantry/Barossa

"Caffeine Fix: 02/July/14

After failing to post during my busy weekend that, let's face it, I can't remember, I dedicated my day off to writing. I think it's safe to say that got as far as writing get messages. So here I am, on my lunch at work"


Nearly a month later, this is still in my drafts. What even is that? I'm glad that jumbled up nonsense has never saw the light of day. Due to my gross negligence of I Couldn't Even I'm going to give you quick run down of the 2 coffee shops I have saved in my phone with notes from when I visited - bare in mind that they were a while ago now.

23/June/14
Kitchen and Pantry
http://www.kitchenandpantry.co.uk/

Sun blazing down on our backs, Rachelle (my flatmate- you'll probably hear more about her) and I walked through Chiswick en route to a tattoo and piercing parlor. Passing many cafes, restaurants and bakeries we decided to stop at Kitchen and Pantry as it was relatively busy and nicely decorated, definitely should have reconsidered judging this book by it's cover. A sign informing us that they sold Cheshire ice-cream was the overall decision maker, Rachelle being a Dapper 'n all.

Upon our entrance, it was instantly clear that the cornflakes of the woman who served us, had definitely been pissed in that morning. By all means I do not expect the staff to be as rude as this woman was every day of the week, but it did seem to shatter the whole experience a little bit.

There was little on the menue, especially on a day as hot as it was, or felt, we certainly weren't stuck for choice. I went for a earl grey iced tea and a slice of berry tart. As Rachelle and I both got the berry tart, the lady cut two different sized slices, however both still on the large side. Although it wasn't a problem with us, it did strike me as odd - surely there should be some sort of consistency standards that need to be kept? The tart was nice, but tasted a little stale. It also seemed that Kitchen and Pantry LOVE mint! Mint seemed to be in everything! In my iced tea, it was not pleasant.

On a regular day the experience may be better; yet there was nothing irregular about this particular day. If this is all Kitchen and Pantry have to offer, I would skip it next time.


02/July/14
Barossa
http://www.barossafulham.com/

Again, Rachelle and I were on our travels and set out to find Barossa. We read it was one of the best cafes in west London, but of course, you cannot believe everything you read! It was the cutest, friendliest place. Believe that.

After getting lost, breaking a bag,  and relying on city mapper way too much, it was surprisingly still morning when we found Barossa, on the outskirts of Fulham. As it's known to be an Australian cafe, we were pleasantly surprised to find the staff were all Australian too - apart from one gentleman that explained he was the only one who was not. Although it would have made no real difference to our experience there, it simply added to the authenticity of the place.

After taking our orders, a bottle of chilled water was placed on our table with two glasses, as well as our drinks being brought over after almost no time at all. We both had mocha's and the breakfast, Rachelle choosing the vegetarian option. Although this may not be for everyone, I love bacon cooked so the fat is crispy, yet everywhere I get  bacon it's stringy. as. hell. Not here! It was perfectly cooked to a more than happy medium, in my opinion. I don't normally like mushrooms, Barossa's garlic field mushrooms impressed me enough to eat and I would definitely get them again, despite still claiming to not like mushrooms. Rachelle seemed pleased with her breakfast too, however agreed the corn was a bit weird.

The food here was clearly on par with what we had read, which I am now reinforcing. You may have noticed I believe that good decor and service is essential to get a positive experience somewhere, so just to add: Barossa has the nicest staff who were willing to go above and beyond, outside there were white princess-like table and chairs to chill with a coffee, as well as beautiful canvas' and quotes on the walls inside.

I want to take everyone I know there, so of course I would recommend that you go!

Caffeine fix: Electric Coffee Co.

Caffeine Fix: 25/June/14

As I powered through the 23 degrees heat in London, frantically looking for a phone charger the sudden need for something overwhelmed me. A desire so strong that it stopped me in my tracks. My body ached for it. Throbbing, too painful to ignore. I just needed it.

A cuppa. I needed a cup of coffee. Damn, that was the worst headache ever.

Okay, so I've lived in London for around 8 months now, and the best thing about it is by far the extortionate amount of one off or unpopular - in which I mean they were simply unknown to me - coffee shops and cafes. After I fulfilled my mission to buy a new phone charger, I then wandered around looking for a cute coffee shop I hadn't been to.

Electric Coffee Co. 


Lets be honest; this coffee shop was recommended to me. It's tucked away just to the side of Ealing Broadway tube station and you wouldn't know what it was unless you had a good ol' neb*. Which, despite knowing where to look, I did anyway.

From the outside, it's definitely the plain Jane of coffee chains. While there was no typical sign for the shop drawing the public in, there was a subtle logo and name on the corner of the window, which made up pretty much the entire front of the building.

Intrigued by the simplicity of it all, I stepped inside and looked at what was available. The simplified decor was mirrored in the menu. Disappointed in the lack of choice of beverages, I went for my usual - a mocha - and turned my eye to the food. Here however, they had a lot more to offer apposed to the normal cake and sandwich selection you get in bigger chains. The food all looked delicious, however, being a brainwashed drone that I am, I went for the safe option and got a hummus and salad 'homemade' sarnie.

When placing my order, the staff were really friendly and engaged in light conversation, which frankly improved my overall experience as in my opinion, friendly banter with staff really does make all the difference. They were pleasant and polite, handing my over a wooden spoon with a number on it as my table number. I loved this; not once have I gone to a coffee shop and been given a spoon as if I was out for pub grub. It was a memorable characteristic, along side what I think were potato sacks as cushion covers, which were surprisingly comfortable.

The whole atmosphere was relaxed and the staff continuously engaged with costumers ensuring all there needs were met. At this point, mine were. The headache was successfully gone and the food was tasty! The home made sandwich actually tasted genuinely freshly home made, it was full of flavour and the bread, oh the bread. One member of staff actually offered a customer, who I assume was a regular, a different coffee as she had tried something new and didn't like it. That's good customer service.

100% recommend if you're looking for some relaxing time to yourself.

"On the whole, it was all very good. I'll go back there again."


*Neb: A lot of people when I use this term have no idea what it means, people out of the North East of course. It simply means being nosey, have a nose, a look around. Y'know?

Writers block? Bloggers block.

Since creating this blog I have had so much to write, however thought I needed some sort of introduction before I posted anything. As you can tell, the blog is empty. I just couldn't even think of how to 'introduce myself' in a witty and interesting way. Don't get me wrong, I still can't, but I couldn't even bare to leave I Couldn't Even bare. Ha.

I'm in love with the written word, but not those written by myself. Already I've found myself analysing sentences as they are written; Can I address the reader? Do I even have a singular reader, never mind pluralising the word? 'Pluralising the word', does that sound pretentious? Wait, is it even a word? Yes, yes it is.

So here it is: Hi, I'm Tasmin.

Most of my wild, rebellious life is spent working long ass hours and having nights in with Netflix; so if you're going to be a regular face then do take a moment and brace yourself for the scandalous inner workings of retail and bar work. Just to let you know, I'm rather socially inept unless I'm intoxicated, so when I do take a break from being boring and let my hair down, (in which I mean clip in my extensions), you will soon realise most things that are to be written on this blog have stemmed from drunken notes in my phone which, of course, are never anything but nice. Other than that, it will be crammed with caffein related everything and anything else that tickles my fancy to be honest.

Okay? Cool.