I hate being straight.
This is our British family album. This is our shared history like we know it.
Standing with dictators. Governments we didn’t vote for. Scandals that are covered up. Privatisation of our Health Service. Illegal wars. Economic crash. Poverty. Foodbanks. Strikes. Protests.
The list goes on.
This is Colin and I’s response to the front page of the Daily Mirror tomorrow.
Today I was drying my hair with a towel when my neck did a big crack and since then my shoulder/neck has been agony and I canny move.
Two things can be gleaned from this:
1. Getting older sucks balls.
2. Bad things are supposed to happen in threes but to me they happen in their dozens.
true children of the Thatcher era will get the irony of there being an advert for free milk on this page
Haha didn’t even clock that.
Also, is that Nick Clegg making a written pledge of some sort? Ahaha
ahahaaaahahahahahahahahhaha fuckin HAHAHAHAAHAHA
can we get every student in England to roll it up and force feed it to him please?
Also, if I sound jilted and bitter and like i’m pissed off at men.. it’s because I am.
Men are so funny.
My point is, unless you’re in a relationship and you’re having sex with the same person all the time and they’re comfortable enough to be open and honest with you etc etc and you learn what works and what doesn’t.. there’s not really any other way to learn.
One night stands and casual partners are never gonna tell you that you’re shit in bed are they? That would be awkward as fuck. That doesn’t mean it was good though!
Sex is an art form, just pumping away is gonna give you a happy ending because you’re lucky enough to be that simple, but it’s gonna do sweet fuck all for her.
It’s a theory and needs further testing but, so far, I’m right.
It’s not your fault poor babies, no one has taught you.
I have a theory that all men who have never been in a long-term relationship are shit in bed.
you miss childhood so much you try dressing like you would if you were seven again. sneakers and frilly socks. big t-shirts and messy hair, because you’ve stopped caring about perfect hair. you don’t mind getting your knees dirty or scabs on your shins. those pains don’t make you flinch. those pains don’t talk to you at night. those pains don’t hurt like the hurt you’ve really felt. the type of hurt that can’t be pin pointed or fixed with copious amounts of Neosporin. you don’t worry about how you’ll feel in the morning until the morning comes. you bite the skin off the tips of your fingers like your aiming for the bone. because the stress and pain hits you bone deep. bone deep. its almost romantic sounding. but isn’t being so broken such a romantic thing anymore? sad music doesn’t even phase you. its all you know. instrumentals lined with tiny violins and crying cellos. you lay back in the grass and close your eyes. you try forgetting about the city surrounding you. the heat rises from the pavement and grips your lungs like my hands grip the small of your neck. the sun beats down on you like you owe it money. but you don’t sweat. this is the small stuff. ice coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. start your day happy. fall apart at the end. repeat. things get better. then they get worse. three months of total bliss for three months of total shit. thats the way life works right? it always gets better though. be still.