Eating Well

Right this second, as I’m typing this sentence, I’m munching on the first cookie of a family packet of chocolate biscuits. “Even MORE Choc Chips” it advertises garishly, promoting the fact that you can get away eating the rest of the extra biscuits because at least you intended to buy a regular sized packet. That’s not to say I’m going to actually get through the entire packet, but I at least plan on making a significant dent before 4 o’clock.

Why? Because it’s the weekend, that’s why. What an excuse that is for every bad decision I’ve put into my body for the past couple of days. Another one is that I’m young, and why not? My motto since Friday afternoon has been if I’ll be happy telling the story, then I’m happy enough to do it.

Yesterday while nursing a hangover, I had absolutely nothing to eat apart from a bag of salt and vinegar crisps until a parmo at 9pm. If you’ve never heard of a parmo, it’s a piece of breaded chicken covered in cheese and grease, and will cost you around 2,000 calories per serving – that’s a fact. Not exactly the best dinner to solve my stomach troubles and nausea, but it tasted nice.

I hate to say it, but because of my job, I’m starting to think twice about what I’m eating on a weekend. Maybe spending £20 on cookies and chocolate brownies yesterday was a bad idea, and maybe scoffing these biscuits will do nothing but give me a cheap sugary thrill before storing themselves away in my arteries. Next time I’ll pick a salad.

Tiny Surprises

A few nice things happened to me today, so I thought I’d share! 

1) Meeting nice strangers. I welcomed two women to sit with me in McDonalds (don’t judge me; it was a one-off) because it was busy, so we chatted over our burgers about work and where we’re from, and how nice it was to meet each other. It’s always great, I think, to welcome a stranger into your little bubble for a few minutes. 

2) Freebees. After a long day promoting healthy living on the “health bus”, I managed to grab two stress balls, a pen, one bottle of spring water, a t-shirt and an orange. I ate the orange before I left work, and plan on wearing the t-shirt tonight for bed. A good haul! 

3) I got to see the moon. For a while, I’ve been fascinated with space and astronomy, especially constellations and the moon. Tonight I drove to my boyfriend’s house, and as we walked to get a bottle of wine, the entire estate had a power cut. As we were plunged into darkness, millions upon millions of stars appeared in the sky. We bought the wine, rushed home, and set up his telescope. I saw the moon, the Orion nebula, the Seven Sisters and Beetlejuice. It was perfect.

Let Me Know You?

This is what happens when I post.

The gratitude I feel for every single viewer is more immense than the bond between Kel and orange soda. Stepping cautiously into stalker territory, a huge wish of mine is to be able to know, even speak to, every single person who has ever read any of my blog posts. That’s the truth.

To put it into perspective, if you look at that example from just yesterday, that is 38 people.

Give or take.

It’s not about feedback, or a… Actually, you know what? It is about feedback. Except, not in an egotistical kind of way, but a combination of complete disbelief and genuine interest. I’m surprised, more than anything, how more than 10 strangers have given me the time of day.

This isn’t a “thank you” post; this is an “I want to get to know you” post. I want to bridge that gap between enjoying something, and telling somebody about it. Why? Because it makes me happier than if I was the proud owner of a swimming pool filled with chocolate cake. Or money.

So, nameless viewers, let me get to know you. Let me ask you questions, and talk to you. It means the world to me to have strangers be even vaguely interested in my word vomit.

Don’t make me ask you again, especially if you fell for this link because of the word "naked". You're not the first person to be conned by a marketing scam. Besides, if you've stayed this long, then let me hear about it, too!

Martyrs of Rock

It has been a simple weekend, but not one absent of life’s simple pleasures. 

As I sat yesterday, lounging back in my chair, with a fistful of cheap, greasy cards I could do fuck all with to win the game; something occurred to me. 

There we were, the three musketeers – two guys and me, the girl – hunched around a poker table scattered with beer stains and chips from the night before, messy and stinking of cigarettes, with a tipsy glow about us as at that point, it was 5pm and we’d been drinking since noon. Smoke billowed like hazy circles in the air while in the corner; the casual atmosphere was cut by the dirty bends of Angus Young, mid-solo and half-way through AC/DC’s legendary Back in Black. 

I bopped my head to the track as the solo catapulted into the chorus, and smiled a little to myself. Despite the smoke stinging my eyes and the crappy hand I was about to lose with, the music made me feel like I was in a filthy bar far away, with the muffled gurgling of Harley engines outside… no responsibilities apart from who would be paying for the next round. 

I felt sexy. 

You know, I might be crossing the line between self-loathing and vanity by saying this, but nowadays, somebody has to. The three of us musketeers aren’t exactly a sight for sore eyes. The guys are 20 years old and top rock n’ rollers, kit out in black and matching bad attitudes, and I’m 19, wearing denim and tight trousers… and, well, that’s enough said, isn’t it? 

Yesterday morning sitting in bed, I read a post written by a favourite blogger of mine, Lüc Carl on drunkdiet.com (PLUG), about how rock n’ roll just ain’t sexy anymore. It’s sadly true; the riffs which were conceived to make people want to fuck have been resigned to suburban offices, where your average mid-life crisis can attempt them on their Gibson ES to re-live the years they spent fighting the system. Y’know, before their wives call them down for dinner. 

Rock n’ roll is the sexiest genre of music ever created. It’s a shame that culture doesn’t exist for us young ones anymore, which I suppose is why we stick around in packs like the three of us – united by the appreciation of rock, and bonded by the resulting narcissism. 

It dawned on me yesterday, watching my boys joke about the card game, that it’s almost our responsibility, to resurrect the power of rock in modern society. Between the three of us, we’ve got a sly, lucky bastard with long hair and a suit jacket, a six foot tall body-building fanatic (who I’m proud to call my boyfriend), never seen for more than ten minutes without a beer, and me, the token girl who spends 3 hours getting ready for a night in, and probably has too many opinions for her own good. 

We’re not reliable, and nor are we probably worth much more than the couple of chips scattered across the table, but there’s hope yet. I’m just as proud as a 19 year old girl to listen to Back in Black as my 50 year old neighbour, and something as pathetic as the trends in popular society won’t ever stop me. 

Rock n’ Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution!

The Reality of Optimism

Optimism should be a clinical disorder. 

Oh you optimists, with your glass half full and your eager smile, pissing everybody off with your unadulterated enthusiasm. Well dear society, just because we’re not crying into our box of cream doughnuts about how we’re never going to lose weight, or moaning on and expecting the worst out of every pathetic situation, it doesn’t mean we’re physically unable experience disappointment. You may stop belittling us now. 

As an optimist, second only to blind naivety, disappointment is just about all you feel. 

If anything, we’re in a worse place in society than the pessimists. At least they’re open to sympathy, and don’t have to cover up their “downs” as desperately as us, like we’re residents of Wisteria Lane and a body has been discovered in the freezer. In life, we’ve set the bar so high, that instead of relief or joy, we’re doomed to an eternity of let-downs. With each and every disappointment, comes the birth of new hope, condemned to the same fate as the last. 

Usually, nothing can ever break our stride. It literally takes our optimism to be clawed onto the pavement and kicked in the teeth before we bother to sit down and think. Our perfectly plastered walls come tumbling in, that pretty, flowery wallpaper disguising all the cracks and holes rips to shreds, and we sit there, helpless, until the dust vaporises into glitter and we can click our fingers to redecorate. 

… I’m waiting for the glitter. The wallpaper is ready. 

Wherever I go, and whoever I meet, I’m constantly finding myself on the wrong end of the sympathy stick because of my outside optimism. It’s as though I can’t possibly have any worries because okay, eating those cream doughnuts won’t exactly make me balloon ten stone, or just because most of the time I shut my eyes and believe there’s light, when others only choose to see darkness. It doesn’t mean I’m incapable of faults, or that there aren’t any there at all. 

Sometimes people put up a wallpaper of optimism, because the truth is too ugly to explain. Pessimists, take note, please, because that’s the reality.

Tale of a Bucket... Or is it?

Dedicated to my Dad.

There was a bucket,
On a hill,
It's not there now,
It must have gone.

Born This Way Ball Jacket

As most Monsters do, I'm getting dressed up to see my favourite artist Lady Gaga when she goes on tour this year. Rumour has it that she'll be in England this summer, but I've been planning, designing, and making my outfit since the end of last year. Why so early? Because it's going to take forever to complete.

The star of my outfit will be my Born This Way jacket. From watching videos of the Monster Ball and footage of Gaga's performances, it's easy to notice her fans mimicking couture favourites and past video looks. I thought for my first concert, I'd combine both my favourite aspects of the Lady's fashion with my own sense of "style", you know, to make it original and fitting with the Born This Way message.

To start, I took inspiration from Gaga's amaazing studded leather jackets. These are two of my all-time favourites:

Left: 2011, MTV Music Aid in Japan. Right: "Telephone" video, 2010.

Excuse me while I wipe the saliva from my keyboard... Ahem, so, anyway, I adore her studded leather jackets and to be honest, all the other leather jackets in her wardrobe. The jacket I'm making however is denim, after also being inspired by the recent Marry The Night video and my favourite quote:

"You may say I lost everything... But I still had my Bedazzler."

In August last year on a whim I picked up a tight denim waistcoat from H&M in France. I wasn't too fussy about the quality for the first time in my life, so ended up spending less than £10 just for something cowboy-ish to wear while it was hot in a desperate attempt to tan my milky arms. Since coming home it's hung uselessly in my wardrobe as I transitioned to fully sleeved denim for English weather, until the idea to stud it for the Born This Way Ball magically struck.

My plan was to combine the studs from her leather and the denim from Marry The Night, to create my interpretation of a "Heavy Metal Lover" look. The shoulders are almost finished being covered in big, shiny, metal studs, and I'm covering the rest in patches inspired by Gaga songs and if I have room, the bands I love too. On the back, in big, bold, black lettering, is going to read BORN THIS WAY, ironed over the top of splashes of silver fabric paint. As a proud English monster, the first patch I've bought is a Union Jack to stitch right on the front. On the opposite side, I'm buying bronze studs and pressing an upside-down Judas-esque cross.

Here's a semi recent picture I took of my jacket so far. After planning and searching for the patches, measuring the jacket and getting ideas, I'm on my way in studding the shoulders and have purchased the first patch. More pictures of my progress to come! Wish me luck!