How To #25: How To Love Yourself

Justin Bieber is perhaps smarter than we give him credit for- and it's high time we took his advice to LOVE YOURSELF. Don't pretend you didn't sing that out loud.

Stepping away from the comfort of my keyboard, the smart arses among you will notice that this blog post is in video format. Two points for you, you go Glen Coco.

I'm about as natural in front of the camera as Donald Trump is in front of Muslims, but I thought I'd try something new.

Please excuse my exaggerated hand gestures and general appearance. Also the editing is really lame; I used a free editing programme and the background music sounds like the opening titles of a Pixar film, but if all goes well, I promise I'll do better next time. If it doesn't- well, that's four minutes of your life you'll never get back.

The idea is that alongside my blog, I'll have a snapchat you can follow and watch my weekly topical videos and daily antics.

So without further ado, roll the titles.

Let's Talk About...Feminism: Confessions of a Bad Feminist

To define a ‘bad feminist,’ I guess we’d have to know the definition of a good one- but I’m not entirely sure what that is.

I’ve never questioned what kind of feminist I am; I just know that I am one, whatever that entailed. That was until, when procrastinating mid-way through an essay that was never going to happen; I came across a Ted Talk by writer Roxane Gay, talking about what it meant to be a ‘bad feminist.’

Dubbing herself a ‘bad feminist,’ she was making a joke, acknowledging that she couldn’t possibly live up to the demands for perfection of the feminist movement.

"I am a bad feminist. I am a good woman-" Roxane Gay. Photograph: TedTalks 

This was a refreshing take on a much resuscitated topic. From all the feminist speeches I’ve watched, forced to by my all too liberal English teacher or otherwise, I’m pretty sure I could cram ‘feminism’ into a vagina shaped nutshell, because feminism is provocative like that. It hasn’t always sat well with me how seriously feminism can be taken. The only time you can laugh as a feminist is at men, and occasionally, at other women, as if to reaffirm one’s feminist status.

Gay was a breath of fresh air into a room that had been hot and stuffy for way too long. She gave zero fucks about confessing her love for rap music, despite the often less than poetic lyrics, and her hatred of what she called ‘man’s work,’ including ‘bug killing, trash removal, lawn centre, and vehicle maintenance.’ ‘I want no part of that,’ she declared proudly. Had I not been in a public library at the time, I would have jumped out of my seat with a sassy ‘YOU GO GIRL!’

Her confessions about being a ‘bad feminist,’ made me confident enough to share a little something-something about myself. So, last call, does anyone have anything they’d like to confess? Because I do:

Feminism will not stop me loving Hip Hop, despite the eye rolls from my friends accompanied with ‘how can you listen to this trash?’ I will be singing ‘baby girl you’re so damn fine though, I’d like to know if I can hit it from behind though’ * ALL DAY.

Feminism will not stop me from wearing my tightest skirt and cutest bralet on a night out, or liking compliments from men and women when I do.

Feminism will not stop me from kissing, sexting, sleeping with, canoodle-doodling with whoever I please, without the fear of being labelled a ‘slut’ by women who preach about their female solidarity and ‘squad goals.’

But, feminism will stop me from judging other women for their life choices; it will stop me from writing for publications which, although would further my career, continually degrade women, and it will stop me valuing myself according to how I am viewed by men.

And if that makes me a bad feminist, I couldn’t be prouder.

*Alas, not my own lyrical genius, but taken from Fetty Wap's '679,' for the lesser gangsters among us.

Watch Roxane Gay's TedTalk here

A final word...

This is part of a new series where I talk about stuff that no one likes to talk about, so I will. The first topic is feminism, and next week I'll be investigating the problems with modern day feminism. Hopefully I'll think of a catchier name by then, but in that unlikely event, I hope you stay tuned anyway. 

Love Georgia 

  

How It Feels to Always Fall for the Bad Guy

You know the type. If you don’t, you either are one, or you’re hopelessly in love with one and are just on a downward spiral of denial.

I’m not one to put people in boxes, but the guys I’m referring to practically stick themselves in their own box, complete with a bow that they’ll tell you they got from Clinton’s, but was actually the first thing they picked up in poundland.

This is not a guy hating rampage; there are good guys out there, I just avoid them because it’s not what I’m attracted to. I’m a sucker for the guy that I know is going to break my heart, but I do it anyway because of the sick rush I get from chasing something that’s ultimately unattainable. Some people go on roller coasters or rob banks to get their kicks, I chase the bad guys. And not in the superman save-the-world-and-get-the-girl kind of way.

These guys have no one ‘look’ or ‘type.’ It is a common misconception that these guys come in the shape of ‘lads,’ who typically wear super-skinny-I-can-see-your-crotch jeans and bang on about cheeky Nandos and you know, banging. Alas, jeans and your choice of restaurant chain does not entirely determine your personality (although if you favour Nandos over Wagamamas, get out.) Even the guy who is an environmentalist vegan and reads you poetry could be a serial heartbreaker.

In an effort to remain gender neutral, I should also mention that the same goes for girls; the bad egg could be anyone. If you want to know what a “good girl” looks like, ask Drake, he seems to know a lot.

Anyway, I’m a girl who has only ever been with guys; of the bad kind. And if you’ve ever wanted to know if it’s all it’s cracked up to be, or want to relive the painful experience(s) again, this is how it feels.

At first, it’s exhilarating. The guy that is at the top of everyone’s secret wish list is interested in you. You. The girl that talks to her cat in her spare time and takes “Netflix and chill” literally. In the *old days,* he would have asked for your number at the school disco, but in the age where romance appears to be dead (R.I.P the 00’s,) he will register his interest in you by strategically liking your Instagram photos. What you subconsciously know but deny is that he probably likes other girl’s instagram photos because you know, a guy’s got to keep his options open.

"It's like winning the lottery and then realising that everything you thought you wanted doesn't actually buy you happiness."

If he’s an idiot, chances are he has a well-known reputation. If he’s clever enough to cover it up, it will be a delightful surprise later down the line. By this point, your best friend, your mother, even the postman will be telling you to stay away- and this will probably be the best advice you’ve ever been given, but never took. You convince yourself that this time will be different; that he’s not as bad as everyone says; and however cliché it sounds, you try but fail to “change him.”

You keep going along with it because it’s exciting, and you tell yourself that no other guy will like you again if you let him go. It’s like winning the lottery and then realising that everything you thought you wanted doesn’t actually buy you happiness. When it’s good, it’s really good. When it’s bad, it’s really bad. You become insecure and try your hardest not to piss him off, but arguments are inevitable. You feel you can relate to pretty much every Taylor Swift song by now, and before long you go all Blank Space psycho-bitch crazy over the girl in his snapchat story (who he tells you is his second cousin twice removed.)

You’ll hang on for dear life, for as long as possible. If you’re lucky, things will run their course and fizzle out. If you’re not so lucky (which, let’s face it, if you’ve made it this far, misfortune catches up to you like the plague), things will end with a bang when you prayed for a whimper. He’ll cheat, you’ll end it out of psychological torment, or pray to God, you’ll find someone better.

It’ll hurt like hell. You’ll want to get fat, watch Netflix and hide out in your bed until the end of days. You’ll think of calling him (or sending him a strategic totally accidental snapchat,) but think better of it; until you finish a bottle of wine, that is.

Everyone is thinking I told you so, but no one will say that to your face out of fear you might overdose on malteasers and pringles.

But one day you’ll find clarity. One day, you’ll wake up and realise how beautiful the day that awaits you is. You’ll appreciate your family and friends and realise that you have been loved all this time. You’ll realise how much time you wasted on someone who didn’t love you. Not the way you wanted. You’ll realise how great it is to be single because you can get fat and not shave and no one will care.

Everything will turn out okay, and you’ll come to realise that you’re happier on your own than you ever were with them…until the next one comes along. 

Reading Between the Likes

I reedited my Instagram posts with honest captions; but it didn't make me feel any better. 

The world went into hysteria and started to question everything this week when Instagram star, Essena O’Neill (nope, no idea either) decided to quit social media.

I’m not going to narrate the entire 17 minute video she posted explaining why she did it, but the general gist was because “none of it is real.” Groundbreaking stuff.

She started to edit her carefully constructed Instagram pictures with honest captions. One of her lying on a sunbed (as we all do of a Thursday morning) reads: …”Stomach sucked in, strategic pose, pushed up boobs.”

In the mood to try an experiment, but also because it was far more enticing than the degree I’m paying £9,000 a year for, I edited the captions of some of my Instagram posts, explaining what was really going on there.

Here are some of the results, but if you want to see more, you’ll have to follow me on Instagram (SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION)

"Pretty in Pink, whitewashing my instagram pictures."

"I took longer trying to take this picture than I spent at the entire Holi festival." 

I posted this picture because my legs looked skinny from this angle." 

It was liberating…for all of five minutes. After the eight caption edit, I’d already felt I’d revealed too much about myself to a world I didn’t even really know.

And I guess that’s the point of social media. It’s not real. It’s an imaginary place where we can display our best selves. In a counter culture society that’s always complaining that we give too much of ourselves on social media, I don’t think this could be further from the truth; we’re actually holding back; and the pictures and tweets etc. that we post on social media are never entirely public and unexposed, because there’s no way of knowing the thoughts, motivations and emotions of the individual doing the posting.

Perhaps social media is more private than we think, after all. 

Seriously though, hit me up on Instagram: @georgiaecha

Letters to My Ex

Before you're tempted to read the title in its literal sense, don't. This isn't my diary and I'm not pretty or talented enough to go all Taylor Swift.

I'm talking about writing; yes, putting an actual pen to actual paper, and writing letters. That you're probably never going to send.

The idea came to me, as most people's do, after watching Adele's music video for new single Hello. Although I credit Adele (with a special shout out to TayTay) for providing the soundtrack to my teenage "heartbreaks," she does about as much for me as Boris Johnson in a cocktail dress.

Pushing that image out of our minds, the lyrics inspired me to do something I haven't done in a while; two things actually. 1. Write and 2. Tell the truth.

I started writing letters to people, telling them how I truly felt. Things I wanted to apologise for. Things I wish I had said but never did. Things they did or said that broke my heart. Things I couldn't thank them enough for.

I didn't expect it to be as therapeutic as it was, and before long I was writing dozens (okay, maybe 10, let's not pretend I know that many people,) so chances are, if I know you,  there's probably a letter with your name on it.

Of course, we'll never know what someone truly thinks about us, or vice versa. But try admitting what you really think to yourself first, and you might surprise yourself with the words you write down and the people you realise you didn't appreciate enough, and the people who weren't worth nearly as much time as you gave them.

And who knows, maybe one day, you'll post them all. And then change your name and flee the country.

Drinking Out Loud

Forever too drunk to function

It’s sad that in this day and age, we pour our hearts out to everyone who has a wifi connection, but can’t tell people how we really feel to their face.

I came to this realisation when my housemates and I had a few friends over recently. We’re students and therefore poor, so it was nothing too rowdy; pizza hut, lots of vodka and playing drunk Twister in our pyjamas, which I believe is what the kids call ‘standard.’

It got to that time of the night when most of us were too drunk to function, let alone manoeuvre a drinking game. So, in the want of nothing better to do, we had some lovely heart to hearts that I’ll pretend to forget out of embarrassment, but really remember every word of, and that’s the sad thing, because apparently we need to be comfortably inebriated to tell the truth.

It’s sad that I had to be drunk to hug it out with my girlfriends, to tell each other that we’re all beautiful in our own way, and could do so much better than that guy. It’s sad that I had to be drunk to lose all my inhibitions and dance around my kitchen like no one was watching (which my neighbours probably were, sorry.) It’s sad that I had to be drunk to finally tell the good-looking-but-bad-news-guy-whose-name-will-not-be-mentioned that he was treating me like shit, and that was not okay. It’s sad that I had to be drunk to thank my best friend for always being there for me, and to tell them that they’re one of the most important people in my small, made-up-of- 50%- vodka world. It's all pretty sad, but that doesn't mean I'm not glad I said the whole truth and nothing but the truth. 

After that drunken weight has been lifted off of my shoulders, I’d like to remain optimistic. I’d love to say that we should start sharing our feelings and telling our loved ones how much they mean to us far more often than we do. I could bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles, but the logistics of that are impossible and also potentially messy, so I won’t.

So I write this as an ode to all the things I won’t say out loud sober, because everything I do say is brutally, scathingly, unashamedly honest. But until I can say it to your face, I guess I’ll just have to blame it on the alcohol. 

10 Things I Hate About Autumn

You know those blog posts that are listed "Things I Love About Fall," often with a picture of leaves or a pumpkin or something? This is not one of those posts, although there will be both leaves and pumpkins, so don't quit on me just yet.

1. When British people call it 'Fall.'

Say it with me 'AUTUMN,' not 'FALL.'

Okay, I'm a grammar Nazi, not going to lie. The Americans have given us many great things, such as the internet and the Kardashians, but their dialect is not one of them. You are not in a Disney Channel Original Movie, and it is not called Fall on this side of the pond. 'Fall' is what you do when you've had one too many sambuka shots and you stack it walking along the pavement. In this merry old land of Great Britain, we call it Autumn. Okay? Okay.

2. Pumpkin on everything, pumpkin on everythang

Is it nice? Is it really, Starbucks?

I'm all about healthy eating, but pumpkins are kind of the autumn equivalent of Brussels Sprouts, being that they only come out once year. If anyone saw you eating them any other time of the year, everyone would be in uproar. I like pumpkin, I'm a fan of pumpkin soup every now and again. But when we start to think it's acceptable to put it in lattes, you have to stand back and question the sanity of humanity. Would you drink a carrot latte? Or perhaps a cabbage latte? No you would not, so why is everyone obsessed with pumpkin lattes. Like with many of life's dilemmas such as the economic crisis or the rise of Donald Trump, I blame Starbucks entirely.

3. The price of jumpers

JUST NO

Maybe my middle class mindset just means I shop in all the wrong places, but you can end up paying anything upwards of £30 for a jumper (other knitted items are available.) Now yes, you in the back there with the Paul's Boutique bag may argue that Primark jumpers are like £12 or something, but all you have to do is wash it and it disintegrates. Also they're scratchy. If it doesn't feel like I'm cuddling a sheep, I'm not wearing it. I cannot believe that I'm being charged £35 just so I can not freeze to death. If anything, they should be free on the NHS or something. This is why I should be Prime Minister.

4. Halloween hotheads 

I couldn't give a shit about your Halloween costume. 

Halloween is the worst holiday of the year, fact. In fact, it's not even a holiday. Maybe if I actually got a day off, I'd be a lot more appreciative of it. But a select few love Halloween, and they tell everyone about it. I mean, you're 22 years old, do you actually love Halloween, or do you just say you do because that's the cool, oh-my-gosh-I'm-so-nerdy thing to do? It would be fine if they left the rest of us alone, but no, they exclude everyone else who doesn't start planning their Halloween costumes in January. As they say in Mean Girls, "Halloween is the one time of year where girls can dress like sluts, and no other girls can say anything about it." So if I want to wear cat ears from Asda and whiskers drawn on with eyeliner, I will okay.

5. When people say "Is it October already?" in total shock. 

Yes, October does tend to come directly after September. Next stupid question please.

6. Leaving work or school when it's dark

Bubble wrap mode engaged

It's five pm, FIVE PM and I'm fearing for my life when I leave the building.


7. The cold and flu epidemic begins 

CAN YOU NOT SPREAD YOUR DISEASE PLS

I literally had all summer, all summer when I had nothing to do to get sick, and biology chooses now when I have seven hundred and twenty thousand essays due. To make it worse, people cough in lecture theatres one after the other like they've rehearsed some kind of coughing medley. Stop it, go home.

8. People reminding you how cold it is

Everyone just needs to calm the fuck down

I know this is Britain, and I know we love to talk about the weather to a borderline obsessive extent, but I can see it's raining. I know it's cold. Please don't then proceed to tell me how cold you are, because I actually couldn't give a flying monkey about your body temperature.

9. Not knowing when it's appropriate to turn the heating on 

PLEASE?!

As the saying goes, in the game of heating, you win or you die. Turn it on and there's a risk of it being hotter than the sun, leave it off and you could freeze to death- when they find you, you'll just be an icicle of your former self. If you're middle class enough to have a fireplace, this is also an option, but only in extreme circumstances, for example when you come in from skiing practice and Mummy makes you an M&S finest Pumpkin spice hot chocolate with extra pumpkin.

10. The fact that it's not socially acceptable to hibernate until summer 

Preach it, Grandma.

If I could, I would hide under my duvet with Netflix and a cup of tea until April, maybe even May. I really don't think that's much to ask. I might come out for Christmas, but only during presents and food.