houseofcards

” For your love, for your love, I would give the stars above. For your love, for your love,
I would give you all I could.”

Love is the opposite of death. It is our very reason for living, the mysterious dragon we all chase our whole lives- some to capture; some to slay. But ironically, love becomes embroiled with death. In the minds of the idiotic and narcissistic it is confused with lust and in the minds of the insane it becomes known as obsession. But one thing is for sure it is my only reason for getting up in the morning.

When you find true love, you’ll do anything to keep it. The twin flame all the other fools desperately seek has found their way into your life and you’re shocked and amazed such good fortune has come your way. Finally your life finds all meaning. True love, comes only once in a life time. There is only one of this magical twin flame for everyone. Although sadly many of us, myself included will fall in love many times over and only end up opening ourselves up to be used and have our hearts broken. I am guilty of the aforementioned. I have accepted all kinds of intolerable abuse in the name of ‘love’ and I would not wish that upon anyone. Well….. Perhaps some people…..

Albert Camus once said that there were 3 certainties in life- love, sufferance and exile. And they almost certainly follow each other in a pattern that has been practised since man discovered he didn’t have to beat his chest to prove his worthiness.

Love is not meant to be easy, it is a sprint at first to catch that ‘one’ person and then an arduous marathon to keep them. Pathetic, emotional weaklings who assume a relationship is a bed of roses and that every new person is a soul mate are wrong and deserve the loneliness and hassle they get. The first 6 months are an energy busting sprint of lust and excitement. However those who believe that is love; are completely wrong. It is merely infatuation. It’s the easiest trap to fall in human nature to fall into, the naive belief that the excitement and butterflies is love. It is the next 6 months that will define a relationship, the marathon; the arduous task of managing your feelings and settling into a level of comfort together. Few people however have the maturity to manage this and instead resort to that one pathetic cop out line that everyone fears- “I’m only doing this for your own good. It’s been fun BUT……”

In my opinion, people who do not work at making a relationship work and huff and sulk and do not talk and tear households apart deserve every bit of misery, pain and heartbreak they get. Or the people who do things in the wrong order by having a baby or moving in together and then expecting a relationship to magic itself up out of nowhere JUST because of these circumstances it finds itself in. It only ends in tears. I’ve nearly been there and I have to say my stupidity was entirely deserving of my life crashing down around me. People who base relationships on pure aesthetics should just be burned full stop but I have never and will not ever be able to understand how you can try to have a relationship, or even a conversation with someone as shallow as that. Never.

Real life is not like Twilight. There is not a handsome, troubled stranger on every corner waiting for you to fall into his arms and sweep you off your feet. Jumpin Jacks is not full of dangerous and exciting Jack Bauers to turn your world upside down or a Dante Gabriel Rossetti to be a muse for. This belief is stupid and naive. There is someone for everyone. And yes this world is a hideously monstrous and screwed up place full of freaks and scumbags and it is coded within humans to fish through this sea of horror, sadly catching a few but throwing them back in as and when we find a better one. Yes it’s slow and painful and soul destroying. But worth it.

My boyfriend is not a millionaire. He is not a paedophile Cullen Vampire or a crazed drugged up journalist, or a rock star or a footballer. But he is perfect for me. He is literally the male reflection of me; it actually freaks us both out sometimes- his tastes, his style and his general hatred of humanity. He’s not perfect as a human though, such a thing is a paradox. He hates tattoos and is not as fond of the Clash as I’d like. He eats enough food to fill 3 double Decker buses every day and asks me a lot of questions when he’s drunk. He huffs and moans e’er day, usually about my tattoos, or the state of the economy or the retard nature of most of the national newspapers. On a dating website, we’d be incompatible. DOES NOT COMPUTE- MATCH WITH FELLOW PASTY IT NERD WITH BOOBIES? But in the real world, where it matters, we are perfect together. There is no-one I’d rather come home to e’er night. NOT EVEN AIDAN TURNER OR JOSH HOMME, K? He’s kind, he’s caring and he has the most structurally sound moral fibre of anyone I’ve ever met. I’ve met ministers who are bigger scumbags than him. He’s frank and honest which offends others but makes me smile as it mirrors me, as we wander hand in hand through life, treating it like some weird social experiment, damning the lazy, moronic, narcissistic and just frankly laughable.
All in all, I’ve never been happier and we’re comfortably well matched. When he tells me I’m beautiful, I believe him and it makes me walk a little bit taller each day. The huffs, the grumps and the endless questions are all made worthwhile to hug him and have him crouch down to call me “sweet pea.”

When you’re in love, you know you’re in love, no matter what you’re going through. Or so the human league said. Love’s not meant to be easy. You are each other’s rock, their re-assuring arms to hide in from the cruelty of the rest of the world. Those who can pretend its all flowers and romance or all about the sex and don’t become involved while watching their other half fall unashamedly are, to be frank, cunts. Humanity and life is full of hardship and disappointment. And anyone, in a relationship or not, is a naive twat to think anything other than that. However, the pathetic social hypochondriac, the textbook paranoid internet addict is no better.

True love is about getting the balance right. If you spend every moment of every day in their pocket it will tear you apart and you will wish to kill each other. Long distance is an extreme case of that unless regular contact is maintained and visits as regular as possible. If you don’t see each other at all, paranoia kicks in and you both get hurt, but going out with Big brother and the thought police is worse…. Myself and my boyfriend like nothing more than hanging in the park with our best mate and his girlfriend, who are a well matched couple, mucking about as if we’re all just friends. We’re completely comfortable around each other.

It’s about being able to sit watching weird films and box sets in your pingu jammies while he’s cozying up in the tatty teddy’s, munching crisps and pizza and sweeties and the cat on top of you, being so comfortable . That is what contentment looks like. It about knows that despite you’re not loaded with money it doesn’t matter, a simple smile of satisfaction will make each other happier than anything money could buy.

In conclusion, I’d like to make a comparison to the swallows tattooed on my feet (ironic because he hates them). Swallows always fly in pairs. They are the most faithful birds, being an internationally recognized symbol of fidelity. My swallows carry the words “My family/ My Love” and that’s what he is. One person gives me the comfort, love and security of any family set up. Swallows travel together thousands of miles to the safety of the warm climates and raise chicks and get through hardships and solely because they have each other for support. To keep a swallow or any other bird caged is cruel, as it is to clip its wings. A swallow can only ever be a swallow. And like the navy swallows in the 1950s tattoos who signify home and safety by unlooping the rope of the anchor, he sets me free of all those who have hurt, used or abused me and brings me home to keep me safe and free from all those who oppress. For I am as free as a bird now……..

Smoke filled and stung at Adam Mitchell’s eyes as he opened them. The whining nasal tones of Bob Dylan hit his ears as he groaned in protest in the hope someone would hear and stop the sledgehammer in his head.

“Sam, what the fuck was in that fucking joint? That’s not fucking cool,” he spluttered as the thick fog now engulfed his lungs. He looked over to see Sam sitting perched on his bed, his yellow aviator sunglasses glinting through the thick haze.

“That my friend is what real grass is like. Not the shit they sell you at college. You’ve been out for like 3 hours dude, thought I was going to have to put you in a shallow grave. You just can’t stand the pace, haw haw.”

“Fuck you Sam Thompson.” Attempted to lift his head from the rough carpet. The room was still spinning and he elected to thud his head back down before he threw up.

“Sam, this room fucking stinks.”

“Well that’s because you’ve been sweating out Scotch whisky, it’s like that freak who can cry milk except with alcohol. Plus, it’s a price you were perfectly willing to pay for a decent joint seeing how you were rolling about the floor giggling like a small girl. Seriously, if you’d see yourself-”

Adam put his hand up because even the noise of Sam’s breathing was making his head thump. “This is my bedroom and I’ve got to live with the smell, nice one Sam.”

“Haw haw, rough are we?” Sam guffawed as he licked the gummed paper on joint number three of the evening.

It had just gone midnight, it was a sticky hot summer’s night and a burning white moon shone through the net curtains of Adam’s room just catching his eyes. He groaned as he thought of how stuck in this routine he and Sam had become. They’d been at college two years and nothing had ever changed or progressed for them. In the rest of the world, it was 1969 and everyone else was in the grasp of flower power, drowning in the music, the sex and the drugs. All Sam could think to do was to smoke a bit of weed and masturbate. He felt the rough brown carpet on his bare back and stared at the worryingly large crack in the ceiling.

“Sam, it’s 1969. The rest of the world has been indulging in sex, drugs, music…We came here to participate, to join the revolution. And what the fuck have we done?”

“You’ve smoked half of my stash what the fuck are you complaining about?”

“It’s pathetic Sam, that’s what I’m complaining about! Danny’s out all the time, parties that could pass as orgies, becoming a part of history. And we are….?”

“Danny’s a dick. And dude, you don’t want wimmens anywhere near you, they’ll fuck you so bad.”

“Never think that might be the idea?”

“Haw fucking Haw Adam.”

Adam stood up, zipping up his jeans and buttoning them. He searched around for his black converse and and then his black shirt.

“Where the hell is my shirt?”

“Oh, it’s down the hall…” Sam muttered. He then lifted his head in confusion. “Where are you going boy?”

“Danny said there was a party going down at that Ivan Bathory’s house.”

“Ivan Bathory is a cunt.”

“Yeah but Danny said his parties have to be seen to be believed. And I’m worrying about the relationship I’m developing with my right hand. So I am going to fully indulge in the free love and peace up at the Bathory House. Now are you coming? Might even be something in it for you, or rather someone?”

“Ugh that place will be full of posers’ dude! But I’ve heard Ivan’s acid is off the scale so I’m in.”

Adam grabbed the half empty Scotch Bottle by his bed and took a swig from it.

“Now Mitch, do not show me up tonight! I have a reputation to uphold so do not ruin this for me.”

“Fuck you.”

The Bathory Family had only been in the old manor house for a year but it hadn’t taken long before oldest son, Ivan become legendary for his decadent parties that lasted for days. Well, from what they’d heard from Danny. Adam had never understood why Danny had gotten into these things. Danny had always been freckly ginger kid everyone took the piss out of in school. In fact Adam had saved him from a kick in on many an occasion. His older brother Billy was everyone’s golden boy and Danny had always been overlooked. But then again, so had Adam. And Sam. That’s what made them friends; they were outcasts- the tall muscly one, the ginger one and the other one with the aviator glasses.

But recently, Danny had changed. For once, the coolest person in town had wanted to be his friend in the form of Ivan, and Danny was sleeping all day and partying all night- fucking and fighting anything that moved. Adam’s thoughts simply were it was fine for those that could get it. It was nearly a new decade, things had already changed directly and the changes showed no signs of stopping.

The old manor house stood as a solitary shadow in the middle of the countryside. But not too far out. Well, not far enough that it merited paying for a cab. Some nobleman in the 1800s had designed it after a visit to Versailles, but a lot more Gothic. It was eerie. It had always been somebody’s folly, not a home, until the Bathory’s moved in last year. In fact, it had taken months before anyone realized someone had moved in until word of Ivan’s rock star lifestyle got round. Apparently his parents were Romanian nobles who had fled Ceausescu’s rule, but had travelled a lot since. But no-one had seen the parents, or any siblings, just Ivan.

As they approached the old house, looming out of the darkness, Adam couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Perhaps it was just the weed paranoia kicking in…. But there was definitely something in the air around the house that was screaming at his senses to turn round and walk back. Everything stank of horror, fear with a dash of death thrown in for good measure.

“Sam, I don’t like the vibes I’m getting from this place, it’s creeping the fuck out of me-”

“You just can’t handle your grass.”

“No, shut up. Listen, seriously-”

“Stop being so paranoid. I like it out here its kinda private.”

They approached the huge oak door as a huge grotesque menaced down on them from the terrace above. Adam’s heart pounded and he felt uncontrollably sick. Sam pulled the tattered red velvet cord by the door and there was the faint sound of a bell in the distance. Adam could pick out the sound of Jimi Hendrix blaring somewhere, the shrill guitar muted by the heavy stone walls, but the bass pounded in Adam’s head.

“I think I’m going to be sick-”

“Don’t you dare!” hissed Sam. “This was your fucking idea, don’t you dare show me up!”

Shadows flickered through the heavy red curtains by the candlelight. There was shouting as a flurry of foot-steps click –clacked along what sounded like wood and then stone. With an ominous, almost clichéd creak and a harassed looking girl stood in the door way.

“What?”

“Oh, you’re nice!” Tutted Sam.

Adam felt her piercing green eyes flicker up and down their bodies. “Ugh, presumably you’re here for Ivan?”

Sam opened his mouth to no doubt say something smart but she continued before he could utter a word. Adam merely stood and stared in awe at her. She was only about 19 by the looks of her, but she gave the impression of being a lot older somehow. Her hair was straight, dark brown and stopped at her collar bone. Adam felt her green eyes burning their way to his soul and sending his heart racing. She looked flustered but yet she was pale, there was not a bit of colour on her face apart from the bright red lipstick she wore and the black eyeliner on her top eyelid that accentuated her bright eyes.

“Ugh, sigh, of course you’re here for Ivan. Everyone’s “here for Ivan.” It’s far too much to ask that anyone in this town likes sober company and intelligent conversation rather than just shit drugs and easy but ugly and boring women?”

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. “Ugh, wimmens. So huffy.”
Suddenly her eyes caught Adam’s gaze. It sent a chill down his spine, there was something bizarre about this girl, her eyes were such a gloriously bright green, but somehow, something seemed dead behind them.

“You look like-”He stuttered

“You look like you’ve already had more than enough,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. She gestured to Sam, “What’s he staring at?”

Adam was sent thudding back to earth thanks to a smack on the back of the head by Sam.

“Not cool Adam. Not cool,” he growled from behind his aviator glasses. “He’s fine, really woman, he’s just a bit slow. Now, can we come in? Your gargoyle’s freaking me out.”

She begrudgingly stood aside, deeply inhaling as Adam walked past; and a slight smile came to her face.

“Listen, imbecile, it’s not a gargoyle, it’s a grotesque. Gargoyles have to have water coming out of it; it comes from the French gargouille which means throat.”

Sam gave Adam a disapproving look and mumbled “Wimmens.”

She led them along a cold stone passage way into a grand hall, well, what would have once been a grand hall, with a huge marble staircase in the centre that led up to beautifully ornate carved balconies with a series of heavy oak doors along the peeling walls. It was lit by huge red candles, and in the light you could see that the heavy velvet curtains were moth bitten and the walls were cracked, with the ornate red and silver patterned wall paper was peeling off. The grand portraits that hung on the walls were not particularly visible with only candlelight but the paint seemed cracked and fading. The bright moonlight coming from a circular window at the top of the staircase made the layers of cobwebs glisten silver through the darkness. The noise of Hendrix was suddenly much louder, and the noise of merriment and mirth making even more so. The girl opened another huge oak door to a grand room, lit once again in a red haze by the candles reflecting the red curtains and decor. Classical black silk armchairs were dotted about as was a black silk chaise lounge which the girl sat on, picked up a book from the exposed floorboards and began to read, as if the writhing group of bodies in the centre of the floor by the fire was completely normal. Some people were naked, some half dressed, clearly tripping, but in ecstasy, revelling in the decadency of it all. And in the middle of it stood Ivan Bathory.

Ivan, was (in Adam’s heterosexual male opinion) nothing spectacular to look at- Bone thin, tall, ratty almost with thick, messy but still poker straight black hair. He was deathly pale, like the girl, apart from his piercing blue eyes. He was shirtless, revealing a torso so thin you could define each and every bone, but not skeletally thin. Thankfully, he had thin black drainpipe trousers on, unzipped though. He licked his pale lips as an equally thin girl with very long flowing red hair wrapped around him. She stared curiously at Adam, her dull blue eyes getting lost in her panda eyed make up. She seemed slightly more alive than Ivan, but she was still pale. She ran her protruding front teeth over her bottom lip in an almost suggestive manner, giggling as she kissed Ivan’s neck.

“Welcome son. We hoped you’d come. Who’s your friend?”

“Adam Mitchell. I have the weed you wanted.”

The pale girl giggled. “Awww bless, he looks lost! Maybe I could help him?!”

Adam looked alarmed as the girl on the chaise lounge scoffed “ugh God help him” in disgust, without even looking up from her book.

Ivan scowled at her. “I gather you’ve met my sister, Cathrice then?” He looked directly at Cathrice on the chaise lounge. “No-one asked you to be here. You’ve got a whole manor to rattle about in.”

Cathrice snapped her book shut and stood up. “No Ivan, but this is my home too and you’re out of control. One of us has to be a grown up and it’s not you! Oh and Nancy leave that poor boy alone, he doesn’t want your germs.”

The other girl looked at Ivan to do something. “You must excuse Cathrice’s terrible manners, she’s terribly anti-social. Very old beyond her years. Anyway, please do get stuck in boys.”

Ivan slid an ornate silver tray of sugar cubes across the coffee table his hand rested on to Sam. Adam watched as they both popped one in their mouths. Sam grinned, sinking to the floor, first to his knees, then to his back, laughing to himself. Another female body emerged from the pile and began to kiss Sam.

Adam’s senses were in overdrive, his head swimming, making him dizzy and wobbly on his feet. He glanced over to see Cathrice standing defiant by the chaise lounge, arms folded. Her facial expression was one of permanent disgust and her nose wrinkled.

The opening notes of “Hey Joe” resonated round Adam’s head as he disorientated tried to grab something to steady himself. Before he knew what was happening Cathrice shot behind him and caught him and guided him to the chaise lounge, where a large dark shadow from him by the hair, his hands wandering all over her black lace mini dress. She pushed him from her and his retaliation was to slap her. He was pale, with blonde curly hair and thick NHS glasses didn’t look especially bright to Adam.
“You bitch,” he roared, “You are mine, mine! You whore!”

Adam saw more of the shadow. He was broad, tall and his eyes were dull and soulless. Beady little eyes staring perversely at Cathrice’s body. Cathrice recovered herself by clinging to the chaise lounge and Adam noticed her eyes flashed and it scared him. The guy lunged forward, putting his hand up her dress, haw-hawing and snorting in his own little sick pleasure. Suddenly, Cathrice flew round, pinning him to the wall, grabbing his head and pulling it to the side.

“I am nobody’s possession you sexist bastard! Don’t ever touch me again!” She hissed in his ear. “You never will again though.”

She pulled his hair further to the right and Adam noticed blood dripping down his face as her nails clung into his scalp and in the next flash he collapsed to the floor dead and Cathrice was violently vomiting up blood.

“Ugh, it’s disgusting!” she rasped. “It tastes vile, so impure, so dark and sickening its-”

She wretched again. Adam could have sworn he just saw Cathrice tear her attacker’s entire throat out with her bare teeth. But surely not, that would be insane… Adam was seriously worrying about what Sam had put in the weed…..

“What the fuck was that??!!”

Ivan snapped round, throwing Nancy from him and snapping off the record player with a squeak. “I second that emotion, Cathrice, what the fuck was that?!”

Cathrice’s now even paler face appeared behind the sofa.

Lewis Carroll’s tale of the little girl who got lost down the rabbit hole has been a favourite of mine since I first read it when I was 6. The idea that you can fall into a world totally weird and wonderful, topsy turvy world that is brilliant in its wacky individuality where nothing is as it seems. I love the book so much in fact that my tattoo and piercing business is called Wonderland, because I hope to turn my premises into an alternative haven, a place for people to escape from the oppressive, bleak and phobic of the different world.
But as I got older, I began to see the darker side of Alice’s adventures. And began to see that the world around me was becoming more and more like Wonderland, I was lost, confused and everyone was screaming “Off with her head!”
I know for a fact that I am not the only person totally and utterly disillusioned with this world. It sickens us. In fact we feel so baffled by it; it’s almost as if we are both Alice in Wonderland.
We wander around in a world that we try our hardest to understand. It’s a strange world, exactly like in the book, it’s easy to get lost, and the people just get “curioser and curioser”, peering down at us, scrutinizing. They watch as we walk along the University corridor, grinning like Cheshire cats, their apparent happy faces hiding cruel intentions and snap judgements, and the smell of the Caterpillar’s hookah is never too far away. We cannot understand this world, despite our best efforts. Or is it that this world cannot understand us? I believe the latter may be more likely.
One day, we’re blessed by the small victories over these minions. Whether this is through grades, physical strength, or just plain tactical vengeance and you feel like you’ve just eaten a mushroom….. But with every rise comes a fall: then comes the moment when you are sat before a woman with a degree. Who frantically scribbles your every thought and feeling before slamming her verdict and label down upon you? Then comes the moment she tries to guilt trip you by sitting you down in front of your parents and you are made to feel like everything wrong in your family’s life is your fault. Like you’ve been such an inconvenience to your family. And you shrink down to 2cm tall and really want someone to stand on you.
But it’s not all doom and gloom. We have the most fantastic Mad Hatter’s Tea Party with the weirdest and wonderful group of people and the conversation is unreal, ranging from everything to books to music and shit being cash. And you sit talking to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum and it makes you smile, listening to them nag at one another….
And once every now and then, a miracle happens and you accidentally stumble through a looking glass and meet your twin flame. They understand you more than any other person in the world. They know your thoughts, your feelings, your past, your present and you’re desperate to keep them in your future.
But the problem with the future is it changes too quickly. You fall down another rabbit hole into a dark, scary place, where you’re alone and disorientated. Everything you thought was real and good in your world is turned on it’s head. And you ponder the question-
If the person who understands you most in a world of confusion and hatred can’t love you…. Who can?
So when you’re a kid and you read Alice in Wonderland and you dream of falling down a rabbit hole and finding your own wonderland, I bet, like us, you’d never dream of realizing that the real world you live in is Wonderland…..
Every time I look down at the tattoo on my right arm to see those four symbols I am thankful for the fact that I’ve been lucky. I’ve found my White Rabbit. .

Every month I buy an eclectic mix of magazines- Kerrang! Elle, Company, Cosmopolitan and Classic Bike. However I’ve read two articles of late, one in Elle and one in Cosmopolitan that has disturbed me. To be honest, I only read Cosmopolitan for the sex tips but that’s beside the point.

In Cosmopolitan the article was on their “Women of the Year awards”. And it was discussing two ex professional models who have launched their own range using only “Plus Size Models.” Intrigued, I continued to read, expecting it to be referring to Beth Ditto types. So you imagine my horror when I discovered that a “plus size model” is actually anyone over a size 8! Rendering me “plus size.”

It was the article in Elle however that really got to me. “He doesn’t really love your curves”, a woman’s perspective on a boyfriend she had who refused to have sex with her because she’d put on a few pounds. If I was that woman, rather than cry and starve myself to keep him, I’d tell him to fuck off, and point out areas where perhaps he could improve his physique. Yes, I have made grown men cry……

I read articles like this or see on the covers of the slightly lower brow gossip glossies photos of celebrities looking like cadavers. And then get confused as to why people get confused as to where all these cases of anorexia and bulimia come from…….

To me, a size 8 is more along the lines of a teenage girl, still in the clutches of puberty, it should most certainly not be considered healthy for a grown woman to be a size 8. We, in the West live in a world of plenty, and we are HORRIFIED by images of third world poverty and people who have no choice in starvation. So why, for the love of God do so many people in the developed world, some of the wealthiest and most powerful nations in on this planet, choose to starve? Spend their wealth on Colonic irrigations and Laxatives (Bulimia for the person who doesn’t like being sick), Diet Pills, Gastric Bands and Liposuction? This obsession to be skeletal is a plague on our society worse than any other. We are all repulsed and appalled every time a “Save the Children” advert comes on TV, showing the desperate skeletal faces of African children who haven’t been fed in months. So I ask you this world- Who the hell decided this “look” was so much sexier on a grown woman?

Whoever it was, I’d like to think (for their sake) they’re already dead or contemplating suicide because by the time I’m finished with them, they’re going to wish they were…..

I have spent 18 years of my life suffering at the hands of this society wide obsession with weight and I will not suffer any more.

Well, here are the numbers involved. And I’m proud of them. I’m 5 feet 2.5 inches tall, size 6 feet, 34E bra, 26 inch waist, 23 inches corseted, 34 inch hips and, so I’ve been told, a rather impressive ass. Overall this adds up to a UK size 10, but in some shops I have to take a size 12 because I can’t fit my chest into certain garments. Basically, I like to think (well more hope) that I have the figure of a 1950′s pin- up girl, akin to Dita Von Teese, (although personally I think she’s a bit too thin, but that’s just me.) I’m proud of my figure. I’m human after all and I like to eat, like normal people and I have a terrible sweet tooth. GET FUCKING OVER IT. Also I can rest safe in the knowledge that my eye catching bust is just the gifts God gave me, as opposed to silicone implants. If I’m honest, those who desperately seek to be stick thin can kiss goodbye to the idea of a large bust because the biology just doesn’t add up. That’s why every time I see a really skinny, like skeletal skinny person with a substantial bust I know they’ve had implants.

I haven’t always been this body confident. This is only a very recent thing thanks to a select few people who know who they are. Up until a few months ago my whole life had been a blur of school bullies (primary and secondary), teachers, parents, boyfriends, doctors, so called “friends” making my life hell and trying to control what I ate and how I looked by inflicting such a level of misery and self-hatred I would have gladly crawled into a small hole and died. And they were all saying the same thing, right from just subtle little things like “You don’t want to eat that, you’ll ruin your figure” (My mother and my grandmother) “Maybe the boys are right, you could stand to lose a bit of weight” (School councillor) to “F**K OFF YOU FAT C**T”, (a P.E. teacher at my old school.) And don’t even talk to me about Uni……

 But I’ve made it through the other end, stronger for it. The memories still haunt me and always will but I’ve stopped hating these people because hating them means you’re still wasting energy having feelings for them. End of.

 Most of my best friends are boys and the general consensus is that they prefer curvy women, although I don’t think Hayley Williams deserves the admiration she gets for being so “proud to be herself.” She’s stick thin! I will always hold true to me the day that my best friend said to me “Yeah, Hayley’s fit but she could do to beef up a bit. She’s too skinny for me, and she doesn’t have a lot in the form of cleavage.”Kat Von D on the other hand is a personal heroine of mine, not just because she’s a tattooist but because she has her own style, she’s not stick thin and she doesn’t give a fuck what people think of her.  But then on the other side of it, there’s my sister and her brother (not my brother, it’s complicated) ranting about how “fat” people are horrible and vulgar and how they wouldn’t be seen out with them. I was truly horrified.

To me, there is nothing more pathetic than these internet groups “Stunnas 09″ etc. The only thing sadder is the self-obsessed plastics who photograph themselves for the site is those who join it in the hope of pulling! It must be truly sad to seek gratification in the form of a comment reading “I’d well shag you” from a stranger on the other end of a computer.

Therefore in a world where the laxative, middle finger, diet pill and starvation is King, and record numbers of teenage girls as young as 12 are being admitted to hospital suffering from anorexia or bulimia, I’m going to put on my curve-hugging dresses, flaunt what I’ve got and “shock” this society into realizing that there’s nothing wrong with being human and yourself. Put it this way- for someone who’s meant to be so “fat”, “hideous” and a “monster to society” I’ve had a fair few compliments.

 ”I’m bringing sexy back…………”

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