Magic

I know what he smells like. I know how soft and thick his hair is. I know how smooth his skin feels on his face, and how rough when I run my fingers in the other direction. I know how fast his stubble grows, and where his bald patches are. I know how long his eye lashes are and how his deep brown eyes look when he’s excited. 

But I don’t know where he is. I don’t know who he’s with. I don’t know what he’s been doing or what’s been on his mind. I don’t know if he ever thinks of me. I don’t know if he’s aware of how I hurt, as if my chest has been hollowed out. Empty, yet heavy. I don’t know if he’s happy. I don’t know if I want him to be…

I’d give anything just to run my hands through his hair tonight; breathe him in; wrap my arms around him and slowly plant kisses across his big shoulders and down his back. I’d hold on so tight.

Why can’t he just feel the same?

I wonder if he knows I still think he’s magic. I wonder if one day I won’t.

Saturation 

I’m not very good at this make up stuff. I mean, I thought I looked bomb the other week but when I took a photo it looked like I’d spent 0.3 seconds putting my face on. I don’t know how these girls on Instagram create a bloody work of art on themselves every day¬†and make it look so damn easy too. I’ve pretty much accepted defeat… I’m over the make up trend. I’m far too low maintenance to even suit it and I’m definitely not glamorous. So I kinda figured that if I can’t have the dramatic glamour that comes along with a perfect cat eye and blinding highlight, I should¬†strive for the french girl, natural, model-off-duty kind of beauty, which suits my lazy lifestyle down to a tee. I’ve stopped wearing makeup 90% of the time BUT only ONE problem – I look like shit. Kinda like I’m sick, or maybe a junkie,¬†but also kinda like I’m tired of everybody’s shit and ready to choke someone at any moment. Alors,¬†I have started to obsess over skincare! This lazy bitch has got herself a bona-fide skincare routine, morning AND night. I mean, it’s pretty minimal… but it’s a start! And since I have no work to do in my excuse for a job, I’m constantly researching and making wishlists of what I can buy next – on a quest for the miracle product that will finally rid me of my insanely dark circles (that give me the ‘may have murdered before’ look) or plump my lips ‘naturally’. Next on my list is a derma roller, with which I will puncture my skin repeatedly with tiny needles ūüėÄ Fun, eh? I guess not¬†exactly what I’d call¬†natural…

Even still, I can’t keep up with everything I’m meant to be doing…¬†body brushing, derma rolling, taking a million supplements, oils, serums, masks, Egyptian cotton sheets, don’t look down at my phone too much (gives you a double chin), don’t squint, regular facials, Korean products, SPF – always, sunglasses – always, ‘miracle’ products vs all natural??? Diet, water, face massages………..

I guess if you’re a model this level of maintenance is just part of your job. But, this face def ain’t no money maker sooooo… just remembering to cleanse, tone and moisturise (like fuck) is enough for me right now.

Another thing that I am literally LOSING SLEEP over is my body. I still work out a lot but I’ve changed the way I train and it shows. I’m not as toned or as muscly as I used to be. I’m staying up at night thinking ‘I must start doing these exercises, and I have to buy some weights, and I can’t eat any more of this, and I have to start drinking more of that’. I KNOW¬†it’s stupid and yet I still genuinely think I’d be a happier person¬†if I had thighs strong enough to crush a man and a 6pack.¬†I’d say I’m pathetic but I know I’m not the only one…

I can’t remember when I started to obsess over my looks this way… When did I become so aware of myself? Thinking back to childhood, I remember playing at the park with some girl friends when one of them showed me how to tie my top into a bra/crop top thing, when some older boys appeared to play football. We were children. Wtf. I remember that same girl teaching me both how to and that I should¬†roll my skirt up, in the toilets before school started.¬†I wonder where she learned that… I think that was when I started to worry about my thighs. I think I probably only ever saw them with relaxed muscle all splayed out below me on my little school chair. I didn’t look at myself in mirrors at that age (who does?) so this was likely the only perspective I had. And even then, I was only looking¬†at them because I was under the impression that boys were looking too! Looking back I realise they were more likely to have been playing with their Pokemon cards than comparing 9 year olds’ legs. Still, I was only in primary school and I was worried I wasn’t ‘sexy’ enough :/ So¬†not¬†cool.

And this was the beginning of a looooong conflict between my legs and I. I kept those chubby bastards completely hidden from the world FOR YEARS. I never wore a dress. I never wore shorts. I never wore a swimming costume. I wore tights every single day with my school uniform, no matter how hot it was on that damn sweaty school bus in the Summer. You wanna wobble¬†and spread out to the size of a continent EVERY time I sit down? Fine, YOU’LL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY AGAIN! This continued right up until I left school. Always worried that my legs were too fat, untoned, too pale… just not ‘right’. And certainly not sexy. It wasn’t very nice to feel that way all the time. I also began to worry about my small boobs and I hated my smile. Actually, I’m still not a fan of showing my teeth. BUT, I don’t shy away from photographs the way I used to. I love a good selfie, I like getting my legs out and I now embrace my B-cups and the fact that they allow me to freeboob* like, all the time.

However, this may be only a small victory over body image, as these days I’m worried about the following:

Abs, Belly rolls, thigh gap, chubby knees, cankles, teeth, eyebrows,¬†bad posture, thick waist, no shape, thin lips, small bum, unsymmetrical face, love handles, wrinkles, anything that wobbles, arms/legs being too skinny, hamstrings, bingo wings…

It’s insane. How the hell do I find the time and/or energy to think about all this shit? How did I get so VAIN!? It’s exhausting! And it’s doubtful that I’ll ever be 100% happy with how I look, or even close to it, but surely I can’t go through my whole life this way? It’s gotta stop someday, right? Or maybe I gotta wait til I’m an OAP before I stop caring about being ‘sexy’ enough.

I know this post is all ME ME ME but I don’t mean it to be that way… I¬†mean it to be about all of us,¬†because I know most girls have gone through/are going through the exact same thing. And plenty of guys too, I’m sure. So many of us are all in competition with each other. Spending FAR too much of our time envying other peoples’ bodies. Spending FAR too much money on the gym, protein bars, fat burners, fitness classes. Spending too much energy on getting the perfect lighting for a selfie that simultaneously makes us feel sexy and empowered and vulnerable and stressed out… Even when I try my hardest to embrace and promote the body positivity movement and self love, for me, those things are STILL about feeling sexy. The end goal for me in accepting my body as it is and learning to love it, is not ‘inner peace’ – it’s finally feeling sexy! Sex is at the heart of 90% of the things I think and the things I want. I know it and I can’t even fight it, it’s so deeply ingrained. Maybe that part doesn’t apply to the majority… or maybe it does, and we’re all just too brainwashed to step back and see it? IDK, I’m rambling now.. I don’t really know what this post is about anymore, I think I’m just saying stuff.

CLOSING THOUGHTS: Are we ever gonna¬†stop considering ‘sexy’ as one of the most valuable things a person can be?¬†Will we ever¬†stop exposing kids to this damaging shit? Will we ever stop saturating the media with sex?

And, more importantly, will I ever get abs?!!

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*Fuck underwiring.

Control

  

So it’s actually past my bed time but I’m wide awake thanks of polishing off half a tub of Ben & Jerry’s (karamel sutra), which is crazy for me. Usually that stuff is totally off limits until Friday – Sunday. Sugar rush on a Wednesday night… am I wild or what.

Anyway I’ve been suffering with tooth/head/face ache for 2 days so curling up on the sofa all alone with my ice cream and the last couple episodes of Girls to catch up on (I can’t believe the next season will be the last, I’m not ready to say goodbye) was a treat for being such a trooper while my stupid body sabotages itself.

So I’m using my wide-awake-too-much-sugar time to get some more complicated feelings off my chest… This is something I typed up a few days ago…

I had a cry. In the toilets in work… Not for long, but when I left my eyes and nose were all red. Hopefully I just looked as though I’d been sneezing? Nobody mentioned it.
I had a cry because… well, actually, I’m not sure why I cried.

You know when you get a text message you can like see the first couple lines of it without actually reading it? Well, while I was working a text from him came in. He was asking if I wanted to go to New York in Nov. Flights were ‘only’ ¬£340, we could go see the first UFC event to be held in Madison Square Gardens. I ignored it, ’cause I had to pretend to be working. Another text came in:”???” And another: “It’ll be all lit up for xmas and it’ll be so romantic and we can go ice skating and then watch people punch each other”.

I definitely didn’t cry because my boyfriend invited me to New York – Ice skating and UFC sounds perfect (except that I’m not dying to go back to NYC, I went as a teen and wasn’t enamored. Shock horror am I allowed to say that? A 20-something white girl blogger who doesn’t love NYC?! I’ll be excommunicated…)

But, regardless, the answer was no. I couldn’t even consider it. How the fuck was I supposed to pull ¬£340 out of my arse on an hours notice? Yeah – he wanted to book it RIGHT AWAY. I’m currently paying off my credit card, trying to save money to pay him for the air bnb he booked for Paris at the end of August, trying to save spending money for Paris and money to buy him a 30th bday present (he wants dinner at a restaurant that’s like ¬£300 PER PERSON). I mistakenly bought flights to London for a weekend to visit a friend, thinking I could do it on the cheap since flights are only ¬£25, little did I realise it would cost ¬£100 for a half decent hotel. His answer? ‘Just stick it on your credit card’ (he’s not the best at managing his finances). If I’m already saving for all of that other stuff how am I supposed to just stick another ¬£340 on my credit card? Knowing full well that I won’t be able to pay it off for months and months, that I’d be gaining interest on it AND worrying about it every fucking day? No. The answer was just no – can’t be done. Plain and simple.

But making sensible financial decisions is FUCKING BORING. And maybe I am too, because I am good with my money (I have so little of it I have no choice but to be!). I’ve very little on my credit card and to be honest my savings can cover it if needs be (but they’re my rainy day fund atm). The only loan I have to repay is my student loan, which, let’s face it, doesn’t really count… I’ve never had bad credit, I’ve never been in debt or owed anybody money. But I’m also constantly saying ‘I can’t, I’m skint’, which really translates as ‘I could, but there’s far more sensible things I need to spend my money on.’

Was that why I cried? Because I had to say no AGAIN to something I wanted to do? I mean, I’ve wanted to visit my pal in London for like 2 years but never had the money. Now I finally can (although I wish I’d put more planning into it and organised accommodation first…). But there’s so many other things I have to say no to – a deal for a night in a fancy hotel with a hot tub and a bottle of champers with my girlfriend cause I can’t stump up ¬£75 for one night. A few nights away with my mum, because I’m saving for Paris instead and can only afford one holiday. A night at a hotel and spa with him, just because. Lunch at a nice restaurant, just to try it. And the countless other holidays he’s tried to get me to book on a whim. Is it always saying no that made me cry?

Or is it the pressure of trying to keep up with everybody else? With my boyfriend who is inexplicably flush ALL. THE. TIME. With my girlfriend who has the same expensive taste as me but actually has the means to fund it. With all my other girlfriends with their mortgages or fancy hotel-looking apartments (if you’re reading this, you know who you are ūüėČ ). The friends who pay more bills than me and still manage to go clothes shopping and plan holidays.*

These seem like valid enough reasons to get emotional in the middle of the day at text messages I haven’t actually read yet. But that’s not why I cried.

I cried because he’s going anyway. Without me.

He’s gonna go and he’s gonna have a great time without me and he won’t miss me or wish I was there and he won’t need me and he doesn’t need me and that’s perfectly normal because a person shouldn’t need their partner but for some reason I can’t apply that rule to him and I want him to need me or want me and not go live his life without me.

I mean, I’m not even part of the decision making. I have no control whatsoever over what he does or doesn’t do, who he does it with or where he goes… We’re living two separate lives and he’s cool with that. And I’m powerless to change any of it. And that’s why I cried.

I can control how much money I spend or save. I can control how much sugar I eat throughout the week. But I can’t control my feelings, or his.

…Or grinding my teeth at night. Hence the tooth/head/face ache. Ow.
*Disclaimer – Most of these friends also worked a lot harder to get a career/get their shit together than I did. I do realise that… just sayin’, cause I know how much of a little bitch I sound!

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Stiff Upper Lip

 

So it’s been quite a while since I posted. I’m making a conscious effort to be a bit more positive and chilled out, and considering my blog posts are usually inspired by anger/frustration/misery/insert-negative-emotion-here, I thought it better not to vent publicly. Truth is, I’m still very bitter & wounded from my heartbreak (I was a moody bitch before so just imagine how cynical¬†I am now!) but I don’t want people to see me that way. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not running around grinning and exuding rainbows and shitting candyfloss… I mean even if I wanted to I’d never be able to shift this bitch-face or dry sense of humour, but I just want the world to think that I’ve picked myself up and carried on. Because I kind of have… I’m not giving in to the tears or temper tantrums. When I feel it all building up, instead of completely losing my shit I’ll send a friend some rant-y texts, apologise for said rant and get an early night. I’ll try to keep myself busy the next day until the rage subsides (yes those are delirium lyrics *In this white wave, I am sinking, in this siiiiiilence* Good tune).

You guys already know how paradoxical I am. So although I totally back the whole self love ‘movement’ (is it a movement? What defines a movement? The amount of people hashtagging it?), I struggle with it on a personal level. In the same way that I’m battling my own internalized sexism in my feminist awakening, I’m tackling the self-deprecation that’s really instilled in the British & Irish. We are definitely not taught to love ourselves. It causes problems on a national scale, including a mental health crisis (because we cannot talk about our emotions no no… stiff upper lip and all that!) but also something that I’m sure deeply affects every one of us… Not having any idea how to fucking sell ourselves in a job interview.

Interviewer: And what would you consider your strengths to be?
Me: Well, I’m kind of good at this and I once did that kind of well…
Interviewer: And your weaknesses?
Me: Oh god, where do I start? I’m always late, apathetic toward my work, lazy, hate responsibility, moody, short attention span…
Interviewer: Please stop
Me: I yawn a lot, I need to eat at least every 2 hours, constantly on my phone…
Interviwer: Please
Me: I’m sarcastic, can’t do simple maths, have jealousy issues, oh and I pull sickies at least 4 times a year.
Interviewer: We’ll be in touch

We are definitely not taught to love ourselves, look after ourselves or take time for ourselves. No, because that is self-indulgent and JESUS DOESN’T¬†LIKE IT. Hell, if I had a quid for every time I’ve been called selfish… And being even slightly selfish, vain or egotistical is like one of the worst things a person can be. Better to be unhappy, unhealthy and unfulfilled than be accused of being self-centered. But fuck it. I am selfish. I love working on myself, what a fucking sin, right?

And this is exactly what I mean!¬†When faced with (or apparently even just thinking about) the kind of people who think that looking after yourself is a bad thing, or somebody who isn’t selfish enough and is miserable because of it, it’s easy for me to get on my soapbox and preach the glory of self love! Yet, I have so many days and nights where I feel absolutely worthless because of what other people (one person) thinks (or doesn’t think) of me. Like half my brain is totally tuned in and yes we love ourself and fuck everyone else ’cause we’re totally killing it!!! And the other half is asleep/stoned/paralyzed and just kind of flopping about in there like ‘what now? What are we doing? I’m just gonna go lie in this dark corner OK? You got any ice cream?’. It’s probably the side that’s supposed to do maths. Fuck maths.

But, hey, I’m trying. Like I’ve said in an early blog post, I hold out hope for my thirties, on the sage advice of my lovely mum. Maybe if I try to start loving myself now I’ll have it figured out in 5-10 years! I’ll get a few comfortable years in before I start lamenting my youth and having a mid life crisis…

You can really tell I’m trying to be more positive, right?

 
No for real though, I do think it’s working. And I do think it’s really important for everybody, in terms of your relationship with yourself and with other people. If you are totally drained you can’t give other people what they need – love, empathy, a shoulder to cry on, whatever it may be. When we don’t look after ourselves we become exhausted and uncaring, and usually feel guilty about it to boot! I want it to be socially acceptable and even encouraged for people to take a step back from their life, their drama, partner, friends, family, job, all of it, to take a breath and step back into the ring with a second wind – without carrying a tonne of guilt with them!

So. I’m trying not to be so hard on myself, trying not to be so negative & doing things that make me happy! And since my relationship has very much taken a backseat in my day-to-day life, I can say with certainty that everything I do now is for me. And that’s how I want it. That’s maybe not how it has to be for everybody, but considering the way in which I lost myself in my relationship and subsequent heartbreak, it’s what’s right for me, right now. I’m eating right (trying to), I’m working out, I’m trying new things, booking trips with friends, I’m starting a new job & eventually I want my own place. Even if things work out with him, I think it’s important for me to have my own place, at least for a while. As scary as it is to be out on my own, I want to be that girl, who can be on her own. So I’m faking it til I make it… I’m suppressing all the stress I get over things I can’t control and I’m suffocating the bastard ’til it gets the fucking point.

Bad days – I am tougher than you. Lonely nights – You’re getting the cold shoulder. Self-loathing – I will punch you in the goddamn throat.

Who knows, maybe I’ll be preaching love and peace by the time I’m thirty. Namaste, bitches.

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Wasted Youth

  

I had lunch with a friend the other day and while complaining about our love lives we started to wonder whether we were losing our best years this way… I mean, I feel like I’ve always had a boyfriend. I’ve been trying to fulfil the duties of a girlfriend since I was 15 years old.

I have this image of the independent single girl with her own place and her career and all her friends and I totally support this idea and I feel bad sometimes that I’m not her and have never been her. I’m always involved with somebody and have been carrying the guilt and the fear of that around for the past 10 years…

Fear; Because I’m constantly scared that I’m doing something wrong. I didn’t used to be… but over the years I’ve been shouted at so much (don’t get me wrong, I’ve done more than my fair share of shouting too) that I second guess everything I do or say at 25 years old. Example: A friend of mine tagged me in a photo on Instagram, alluding to a wild night out I had years ago, right before him and I were ‘official’. My immediate reaction was to smile, giggle, agree with her that we need a similar night out again. But that night is a very sensitive subject for him. So almost immediately I’m worrying: Can he see this post? Can he see my response? Am I going to get in trouble for this?

I actually looked through every one of her two hundred-odd followers to see if he was one of them before I commented with the giggly monkey emoji. And I’m still worried that he’ll see it and have an almighty fall out with me.

I’ve spoken before about my contradictory nature and this contradiction is one I particularly hate. I’m always a girlfriend who’s censoring and limiting herself for the sake of her boyfriend. I’m not trying to sound like a victim because I can be a nightmare girlfriend. I mean… yeah. It’s bad, when I haven’t got a handle on it. I’m only a victim of my own choices. And I strongly believe that a woman should be able to be herself, to do what she wants, to say what she wants, to be unapologetic about her past and that her partner should accept her entire being; the uncensored version that her partner fell for in the first place. Yet in every one of my three relationships (which isn’t many, but they’ve managed to span the past 10 years of my life so I feel like a pretty seasoned monogammer. Yeah, just made a word.) I have changed and subdued myself. I’ve lost all my male friends and at this point lost any ability to talk to a male of similar age naturally, because I’m too worried that I’m ‘giving him the wrong impression’ or simply that he finds me attractive (because I get in trouble for that, too). I don’t speak as candidly as I would like. I don’t go out very much, I hardly ever get drunk anymore lest the real me reveal herself (although to be fair, she’s a total train wreck sometimes). I’m downright anti-social.

At this point, I feel like being in a relationship allows me to only be half of myself. How different would I have been had I been single for at least some years of the past decade? But that question is double-edged. Yeah, I might have been more conscientious, more driven, more focused, more creative, more fun… But I may also have been a hot mess. I feel as though I need a boyfriend to keep me in check, but I’ve never really found out for myself. I imagine if I were single right now I’d be spending my weekends dancing on drugs until I sweat my makeup off and start moving like a zombie before sleeping it off in a cold, dark room… And then I think, is that how I should be spending my last youthful years? Am I missing out on partying until zombification?!

I feel as if I really know myself now. I know that I’m full of contradictions but I can recognise them and I’m at peace with probably 90% of my flaws. But the ‘me’ I know is girlfriend me. I’m not sure that I know single me (when she’s not completely and truly heartbroken, that is). Would I be a liability? A total boss babe? Or a lonely cat lady who spends Saturday nights in beds with cups of tea and sudoku? (Actually, that’s me currently.)

So I’ve been wondering if getting back with him was me relinquinishing my last chance to find out what kind of life single blonde would carve for herself. At the time I felt as though I didn’t have a choice… I loved him, so how could there be a choice? Surely I had to give it a go? And I think I love that idea because there is an ironic kind of freedom in it. I was free from taking responsibility, which is probably my biggest fucking fear ever ever ever. It was the easy way out… and yet it’s not been easy. It’s been a lot of sad, lonely nights peppered with attacks of anxiety. Where is he? Who’s he with? Is he thinking of me? Why doesn’t he want to see me? Of course, it’s not all bad; there’s also been lots of laughs and fun.

So, to be single would mean losing so many things that I love and so many that I hate. I risk losing the person the past 10 years have shaped me into; shedding my skin and starting all over again. Which is a fucking terrifying concept, but there’s something very alluring about the image of that single, independent woman. It should be the case that I can be that woman, who is unapologetically herself, independent, with her own career, her own place, her own life… full autonomy, while being in a relationship – that’s the dream, tbh. That’s 100% a vision worth working towards.

Still feel like I’m missing out on going to raves and getting fucked up, though. If I ever get hitched I’m gonna need a week-long hen do of pure debauchery. You’re all invited!

 
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Toxic

  

Why do I love the things that are bad for me?

  1. Chocolate cake.
  2. Men with emotional issues that they won’t face up to.
  3. Cheap champagne.
  4. Dipping all my food into peanut butter.
  5. Instagram.

Now, I love Instagram so much that I’m reluctant to admit it may be damaging me, which may be a recurring theme in my relationships… Like a toxic lover it captivates me; it feeds me; I crave it; I adore it; I love it. Yet sometimes it leaves me leaving worthless, sad, fat and ugly… (and poor! Mostly just poor tbh).

Perhaps it isn’t the lover who does this to me, but my own raging jealousy that I attempt to fight off every day with an arsenal of self-love slogans and memories of those couple of times I did something kinda great or looked pretty bangin’. Either way – Instagram is BAD NEWS. For me and my bank account. Here are some of the inane things I have decided I need to make my life a success thanks to the pathetic-aesthetic universe of IG:

  • WHITE hair. Not light blonde, not grey… it’s gotta be white. I almost lost my mind last week and bleached it myself with a ¬£10 set from Boots. Now, considering I can’t even put my hair in a messy fucking bun, just imagine the damage I could have done. *shudder*
  • A tan. To really set off the hair, make me look more toned AND make my tattoos look cuter. Black on white, pasty skin can look a little harsh… black on a golden-toned, glowing body = sexy af.
  • Abs and crop tops. Crop tops have been around for a while now and sadly (so very sadly) do not seem to be disappearing any time soon. Time to loose a few lbs and show a little skin! (IRL though I’m fully aware that this will never happen).
  • A white house. With ALL the windows, a perfect kitchen and perfect light for ALL the photos, any time of day.
  • Perfect dishes to go in the perfect kitchen where I will take snaps of my perfectly prepared meals and smoothie bowls! (Again, not a chance – except for maybe a perfectly prepared bowl of super noodles).
  • Bralets, bralets, bralets. In every kind of lace, in every kind of style, in black, white and grey… Bras are out. ¬£70 bralets are in, in, in!
  • Selfies in which I have perfectly highlighted skin and somehow manage to not look at all vain. (How do they do it?!)
  • Unbelievably and unnecessarily stylish gym clothes. I don’t know where they come from and I don’t know how people can afford them, but they exist. And I now need them in order to have a successful workout.
  • Flexibility. If I can’t do complicated yoga poses on a beach, in my new gym gear, on an eco-friendly yoga mat, while somebody takes photos of me, then am I even living? (Who takes the photos of these girls every day? WHO?!)
  • Chic city breaks with my best gal friends where we stay in the fanciest hotels and snap pics of each other lounging about in dressing gowns eating macarons or just gazing out romantically from the balcony, as you do.
  • Sam Edelman over the knee boots. Because the rest of the world can seemingly afford them.
  • Extremely hard to come by skin care in minimalist, super-stylish packaging.
  • A shit-load of ¬£45 candles. Equally hard to come by, equally minimalist.
  • A very good camera!! To take flat lays of the candles, cosmetics, bralets and piles of jewellery I’ve somehow accumulated despite spending all my money on the above.
  • A bubble butt. Proportionate bodies are OUT.
  • Massive lips painted with PRO make-up skills, in the most unnatural colours, preferably from NYX cosmetics.
  • Bunches of white roses, or other fresh flowers, every day. Must be white, to match the house.
  • An addiction to coffee. (I’m not a fan tbh, it just makes me need to poo).
  • A pet in colours that match my house and accessories.
  • Sunglasses and a top knot. Every outfit is 10 times cooler with sunglasses and a top knot.
  • A high flying career that somehow leaves me time to workout every day, prepare perfect, clean meals, go out for cocktails, go jet-setting with friends, chill at home with candles and coffee AND take photos of everything to post on insta.

 

Just how do they do it -___-

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