A little bit portfolio, a little bit clever & mainly moronic

Tag: heartbreak

It’s not you, it’s me or why behaving like a tosser only makes things worse

I’m really bad at being dumped. Seriously. You know those people who have a little cry, eat some ice cream and watch bad TV, drink a little bit too much and kiss someone gross and then generally behave normally? Yeah, I’m not like that at all. 


I’m that person (and I’m not going to say girl because men are equally guilty of this) who calls the ex at 3 am (for weeks months) sobbing hysterically. I’m the person who lives shell like in the foetal positions for months, only to go out every Saturday night and get so drunk I can’t remember my ex’s name, my friends’ names or even my own name. I’m definitely the kind of person that gets called a ‘stalker’ or a ‘pyscho’.

Basically, I’m shit. Don’t go out with me and dump me unless you can handle my seven circles of hell. From hysteria to the kind of anger that means I cut all your clothes up (it’s happened). I try and physically fight you (it’s happened), I tell all your friends you have a small dick, even though you don’t (it’s happened), I tell you never fucking deserved me anyway (every time), I sleep with your best friend/someone you hate (I don’t even want to admit it, but… yeah).

I’ve spent years of my life thinking things like… ‘Why did he think it was OK to treat me so badly?”, ‘What was wrong with me anyway?’, ‘Why did he break up with me, things were going so well’ etc.


I always want my exes to see how much better I am doing without them (how much thinner I am, how much better at cooking I am, how intelligent I am, how successful my career has been etc). and I want them to know how wrong they were, how stupid they were to ever let my ass go.

ImageAn actual picture of me after a breakup that I put up (minus the text obviously) but this is what I was thinking…


This is why I think Bruno Mars sells so many records (to me, I love him ❤ <3), not only is he a sexy face but so many of his songs epitomise exactly what I’d like someone to feel about me. 

“Too young, too dumb to realise/ That I should have brought you flowers / and held your hand.”

That is basically all I have ever wanted my exes to feel about me. Except they really really don’t. Most of them are more like


My friend was telling me the other day about giving his ex boyfriend what for when he was drunk and basically shaming him about all the shitty things he did during their relationship, something which I totally understand & have done so many fucking times. I’m basically Miley Cyrus without a wrecking ball. And that’s when I realised.


No matter what photo I put on my fucking facebook, no matter how guilty I try and make them feel for treating me like roadkill, it won’t make anything feel any better. Even if I just try and work out WHY, or demand some sort of ‘closure’. It doesn’t help. And it doesn’t matter. We broke up. They did shitty things. I did shitty things. Because we are humans. Even if they answered all my questions, it would never be enough.

Because no answers can take away the heartbreak. I know the answer anyway, they just didn’t like me enough. When it got to it, they felt like there was something better for them out there. 

And no matter how wonderful my life is (or how wonderful I pretend my life is), it doesn’t matter.

They don’t care.

I know this sounds really depressing, but in a weird way, this revelation set me free. No need to pretend, to worry, to obsess anymore. No matter what I do/say/think/feel I’m never going to get answers, or make that person feel bad. And even if they feel bad, it won’t change the fact that I felt really really bad.

it happened, it was painful, they moved on, I moved on. If I’d spent as much time building my wonderful life as I spent pretending it was wonderful, I’d probably be half way to a pretty sweet life. 

So really, it all comes down to the fact that when it comes to break ups, it’s not them, it’s you.



OK so that’s just a gratuitous picture of Ryan Gosling but whatever he’s nice…


Creative Writing Portfolio

Here’s one I made earlier

Cooking his dinner I dreamt. I cut one onion, running my finger tips along it’s sticky skin. I cut the other onion open and exposed a blackened centre, I squeezed it between my finger and thumb and instead of being hard it gave a little. It was rotten. I threw it away disgusted. I added a liberal splash of oil to the pan, and threw the onion in. I waited for the familiar sizzle and thought about the night before. My throat was still sore from the amount of cigarettes I’d smoked, I replayed the moment where he’d kissed me over and again, like it was an internet gif. A boy leans in and kisses a girl, over and over again. He was coming to me. He was leaving her. For me. I muttered these words to my self. I stirred the rice. I washed the mushrooms. I poured in the Coconut milk. Thick and creamy, I imagined him eating it. I saw him licking his spoon and letting out a sigh of pleasure.

I served myself a small portion. I had a black dress on, it was clingy, tight, exposing parts of my body I wasn’t comfortable with. Best to keep the portion size small. I piled his plate high with delicious curry. I placed half a Naan on the side of each plate and brought them over to the table. He looked down at his plate and I saw a flash of a frown.

“Do you not like curry?” I asked, the hot plates beginning to burn my hands.

“I don’t really like spicy food…” He answered, awkwardly, wringing his hands in his lap.

“Oh that’s OK” I replied, trying to keep my tone light. “It’s more creamy than spicy.”

“Try it” I prompted. I put the plates down on the wooden table and smoothed the table cloth with my hand.

He tried it, a small pathetic mouthful.

We ate in silence. I burnt my mouth on my first spoonful and couldn’t taste a thing.

It wasn’t an awkward silence. It didn’t roar in my ears. He wasn’t much of a talker anyway.

He finished his dinner and pushed the plate away from him, a strangely childish gesture. I wondered if he would do the washing up. I’d rather have liked to see his bulky shoulders bent over my tiny sink. I’d have liked to watch him wash my greasy pans and stare at his perfect back, the slight incline of his arse.  He stood up, looking towards the door and said,

“Urr, I think I’ll go for a cigarette.”

“We can have one in my room.” I blurted out.

“Won’t your parents mind?” My parents were away.

I thought about it for a fraction of a second. Yes, they would probably mind. But my sister did it all the time.

I shrugged, “My sister does it all the time.”

He followed me up the stairs. I walked slowly. I wanted him to see what my arse looked like in this silly, cling, polyester dress that had cost half of my pay check. I’d tidied my room   because I’d knew we’d end up here. I’d changed the sheets, I wanted him to smell crisp whiteness. I’d set up a make shift ash tray, for a post-coital cigarette and Blue by Joni Mitchell was in my CD player. I pressed play and Joni cracked to life, “I am on a lonely road and I am travelling, travelling…”

“What’s this?” He asked, as I cracked the window open.

“The music?”


“It’s Joni Mitchell.”

“Oh right…cool.”

He lit his cigarette, and didn’t extend the match to me, as he had done the other night, so I lit mine myself. We smoked and exchanged small talk.

I stubbed my cigarette out, and leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek. As I knew he would, he led me to the bed and the polyester dress ended up tangled in a knot on the floor. In our rush to remove our important clothes, I left my high heels on.

“I love your hips.” He whispered, running his hands over them.

“Curvy.” I muttered.

“It’s nice.”

His girlfriend had no curves.

He planted the softest kisses across my stomach and I forgot, for a second, how to breathe.

I slid my legs over his, and felt my heel catch against the duvet cover. As he moved on top of me, I heard the fabric snag on my stiletto.

After, I pulled his white t-shirt over my head, my breasts filling the cotton out in places his body never would. I smiled at him, I was so blissfully happy. I giggled, sliding back into bed beside him.

“That was perfect.” I mumbled, breathlessly.

I put my hand out, my finger poised to trace over his perfect lip line. He batted my hand away gently and said,

“I’m going to get a glass of water.”

“Can you get me one?” I replied, trying to keep my tone light and breezy. He shoved his legs into his jeans and went downstairs. I heard the tap turn on.

The Last Time I Saw Richard reached it’s finale, “I’m going to blow this damn candle out.”

Jack reappeared with only glass of water. He took a sip, then put it down on my bed side table sharply.

“Can I have my t-shirt back please?” He asked, not looking at me. “I should be going.”

Later, much later, hunched over the sewing machine with the duvet cover, I would think about the fact he didn’t bring me a glass of water.

I knew I’d been an easy fuck. I imagined them walking home together, dawdling on the high street, his arm wrapped around her. Her body slipped so neatly into his, in the way that lovers do. I’ve never had a lover whose body slid easily against mine. I always have to bend to fit.