Where there’s a wool, there’s a way

This summer took a lot out of me. Acne-ridden and anaemic, I fell in love with both strangers and myself, watched my sister get married, discovered the ingenuity of nipple covers and spent more time dancing than I did asleep (you’d be surprised how many of those events happened simultaneously).

I’d like to compare this summer to a hurricane to demonstrate the sheer movement of it all, the devastation, the magnitude. And, although an amply chaotic simile, I realised whilst sleeplessly watching the sunrise from my doorstep: it’s me who is the force of nature.

I am invincible. I am loving every second of this. Who said millennials don’t have their lives together? I look great in this halter-neck. I really gave that guy a piece of my mind. I won’t take anyone’s shit. Why did I ever feel scared? I feel great. This feels great.

And it did feel great… until I got glandular fever and then everything felt much more swollen (aka significantly less great than before). Literally who knew a person had so many glands? As the reality of my status as an evidently non-goddess-like being came crashing down on me, it’s safe to say I was inconsolable. The world doesn’t look so pretty after being knocked from a high horse made predominantly of tequila-induced arrogance – and I learned that the hard way.

What gives? I thought I was invincible? I thought I was being rewarded for my pains by becoming halter-neck-rocking-heartbreaker for evermore? No one mentioned any obligatory inflammation as part of the deal. I want a do-over!

Yet, the engorged tonsils festering in the pharynx of this indignant white girl wronged by the world and the Epstein-Barr virus ensured that none did ever hear these shrill lamentations. Alas indeed.

From the get-go, I can tell you that I wasn’t taking kindly to being accurately described by the term ‘glandular’. Not only because this is possibly one of the most horrendous words to globule its way into the English language, but also because a number of things change when good glands GO BAD…

Oxford University Reject

Hi, my name’s Martha and I’m an Oxford University Reject. 

I hope you read the first sentence of this post in a proud, ‘owning it’ voice and not a breathy, defeated one, because that is certainly the spirit in which it was intended. Maybe I should release an audio book to prevent any further confusion…

It’s taken me three years to move from whiney, deflated Oxford reject to strong independent reject who don’t need no Oxford! That’s your cue to burst into spontaneous applause – gosh I’m really having to spell things out for you today.

Why don’t you ‘like’ me?

Hello there little beauties! Only a quick note from me today…

First of all, thank you so much for all your likes/shares/views on my previous post ‘Less catcalls, more cats’ (If you haven’t read it, then click here you fools!) It’s so lovely to see all of you clicking around with glee on my blog and I really appreciate your loving lovely loveliness.

I’m just checking in to make sure you’re alright, if you need anything like choccy digestives or A VERY EXCITING ANNOUNCEMENT FROM YOURS TRULY. ARE YOU READY FOR THIS? I DON’T THINK YOU ARE. GIRD YOUR LOINS AND BRACE YOURSELVES.