As a non-binary/gender-fluid person, I spend a lot of my time hiding behind baggy t-shirts, researching private breast reduction surgeries, and attempting to bind my chest in ways only 90s fashion magazines would encourage (someone keep the castor oil and clingfilm away from me).

But a few months ago, for the first time in a long time, I really sat with them. I brushed my teeth and did my skincare in the mirror topless. I used my body oils and moisturisers without covering them or ignoring them. I looked at them, felt them, admired them.

One morning when I woke up, I decided to do my yoga routine topless. And when that was done, I spent half an hour lying in bed and meditating on what my breasts mean to me. It was like something had changed in me overnight. Suddenly, instead of disgust and thoughts like my boobs are so saggy, and I never want to be on top during sex again, I was consumed by, for maybe the first time in my entire life, an admiration for my chest.

I’ve spent most of my life blindly accepting the hatred I have for my breasts, and when my gender dysphoria kicked in, I assumed the reason I couldn’t look at them was that they didn’t fit my gender identity. I’m still on a journey to try and figure that out, but my topless yoga morning piqued my interest in what else could be behind my self-critical behaviour.

I spent the past few years on a journey to decentre male validation and discover whether I actually enjoy being with men, or if I’m a lesbian with a deep-seated need for men to recognise me (spoiler: I am a lesbian). This journey was initially fruitless because I didn’t do anything to change my craving for male validation; I just simply recognised it and allowed it to persist. But I really experienced my first breakthrough on this journey at the beginning of this year when I developed a crush on a man, and instead of pursuing it or letting my mind go wild, I took a step back from our friendship because I recognised he wasn’t what I actually wanted.

That was when I noticed a change in myself. I hadn’t thought about him much beyond missing him as a friend, and I let go of the crush immediately. I (alongside my therapist) was able to assess the situation and realise that this wasn’t a crush at all; it was the desire for a man to desire me. And as someone who identifies as a massive yearner, this realisation sparked a lot of self-reflection.

~ Side note: I have since spoken with my therapist and redefined the word crush. Article on this to follow ~

Following this, I feel it’s been pretty natural for me to assume my body image issues, particularly those surrounding my breasts, could be the result of my need to be desired by men.

I couldn’t find any breast-related shitposts so enjoy these unrelated ones

In February 2020, researchers initiated a survey and research paper titled The Breast Size Satisfaction Survey (BSSS): Breast Size Dissatisfaction and its Antecedents and Outcomes in Women from 40 Nations, which assessed “women’s breast size dissatisfaction and breasted experiences from across-national perspective” by reviewing data from “a total of 18,541 women […] from 61 research sites across 40 nations.”

On finding this research paper, I made some quick assumptions about what the results would be, and just as I had imagined, the experiences of other women and people with breasts sounded very similar to my own.

In the total dataset, 47.5% of women wanted larger breasts than they currently had, 23.2% wanted smaller breasts, and 29.3% were satisfied with their current breast size.

Over 70% of the people with breasts who participated in this survey stated they would change the size of their breasts.

70%!?!?!

I knew a lot of people felt this way about their breasts, but I didn’t realise such a high majority of us shared this experience. As a lesbian, I have never looked at someone’s breasts and been unhappy. Every single nipple, areola, lump, stretch mark, shape and size breast I’ve experienced, I’ve thought of as completely and utterly beautiful. But as a side note, I should also add that people’s breasts do not play a role in how much I like them. At all.

So why are we so critical of our own breasts? (Lowkey wanted to say “because of men” and end the article here, hehe).

Well, there are a lot of reasons why people might hate their breasts, and I’d say in most cases there’s no one answer as to why we feel that way. Factors include socioeconomic status, sexualisation, unsuitable clothing, the way breasts are represented in the media, MEN (lol but also not lol).

“It has been suggested that individuals from sites of relatively low socioeconomic status may idealise larger body sizes because body fat is symbolic of resource security (e.g., access to food or wealth), whereas thinness comes to be associated with wealth and status in sites of relatively higher socioeconomic status”

The researchers behind the 2020 study investigated the link between socioeconomic status and people’s satisfaction with their breasts. What they found was that “lower rather than higher financial security was associated with greater breast size dissatisfaction.” Which they suggest could be a result of “increasing financial security afford[ing] women greater opportunities to negotiate breasted experiences.” In other terms, people with access to resources have the power to change their experience with their breasts, whereas people with less financial security may struggle to do so.

I hadn’t even considered the impact of money and social status on the way women and people with breasts feel about their bodies. It makes sense that in places with lower socioeconomic status, larger bodies are celebrated as a symbol of wealth, but it also doesn’t. Aren’t our bodies more than a status symbol? It’s devastating that even today, 70% of people with breasts want to change their bodies based on standards surrounding wealth, and that it once again links to weight and our relationships with food.

As someone who grew up council-housed in a wealthy country, my personal theory (based purely on first-hand experience and nothing more) is that there’s a level of generalised insecurity that comes with not having money in societies that idealise capitalism and wealth. As such, we try to find security and status elsewhere. I spent a lot of my childhood trying to fit in, to be pretty, to be thin. I have always noticed the same in my peers who come from similar backgrounds. This insecurity is paired with an inability to do anything about it; I couldn’t get a breast lift and reduction* because I couldn’t afford to, so I obsessively worried about how they looked and when I’d be able to change them.

*I’m currently very glad I haven’t changed my breasts.

This insecurity has followed me everywhere. Even at 26, with a secure job and a stable home and income, I still worry people will pick up on indicators that I grew up without money. I analyse everything down to my accent, my intelligence, the way my home looks and the way I look physically. While my middle-class friends dye their hair fun colours and get random tattoos and eyebrow piercings, I shy away from making changes like that because I imagine people would see me and immediately notice I grew up poor.

Which doesn’t make any sense because, when I see people express themselves in those ways, I actually assume it’s because they can afford to without it damaging their reputation. And that’s still incredibly problematic. My insecurity about my social status, largely built on the way people perceived and spoke about being poor while I was growing up, has led me to make assumptions about other people’s wealth. When I meet someone whom I perceive as having grown up with money, I’m immediately intimidated and scared of what they’re going to think and say about me. It’s fucking annoying, actually, because I hate capitalism and all it stands for. So why do I have such a deep-seated need to assess someone’s wealth? I don’t even care about it, I just notice it and adjust my insecurities based on their financial status. It’s bizarre.

I had never recognised the link between growing up poor and my hatred for my breasts, but it makes a lot of sense. My distain for my breasts is the result of an insecurity about how I’m perceived, and my general insecurities are largely rooted in my socioeconomic status as a child.

“Conversely, the pressure to view the breasts in purely aesthetic terms or to internalise a male gaze of breasts as providers of gratification for men may be heightened for women who are less financially secure, precisely because their financial insecurity affords fewer opportunities to negotiate breasted experiences.”

In other terms, people with less money may feel they need aesthetically pleasing breasts to attract a male partner because they view their breasts as an asset in place of money.

This is another key point I wanted to assess in my own journey with my breasts. I realised that I’ve rarely felt insecure about my breasts when being perceived naked by other people with breasts. However, when I’ve had sex with cis men (ew), sometimes the way my breasts and body look is all I can think about. This is mostly a result of the craving I used to have for male validation. I was harming my own self-worth by focusing heavily on being desired, which was purely centred around my physical appearance and my sexualised* organs.

*I won’t be referring to breasts as sexual organs because they are NOT sexual organs

Reading this paper gave me the drive to discover more about other people’s experiences with their breasts. Over 70% of people with breasts want to change the size, but what else?

For me, my main concern with my breasts, aside from the size, has always been the way they sit. Sagging breasts are so common (because, hello, gravity?!), and I imagined this concerned more than just me. So, I decided to conduct my own research. I created a survey titled “How do you feel about your breasts?” and posted it across my personal social media platforms and LinkedIn.

I was amazed at the sheer number of people who responded to the survey so quickly. Results started pouring in, and it became clear immediately that this is a topic people with breasts want to talk about. I’m delighted that a lot of people who responded to the survey were actually happy with their breasts, but, unfortunately, a lot were also dissatisfied for different reasons.

“There need to be more pieces of media that cover this subject because there’s such a taboo around women’s bodies, especially breasts.”
- Anonymous survey respondent

Breasts and the clothes we wear

“I love breasts! I think they’re gorgeous! I also love my breasts. I haven’t been wearing a bra for the past few years, and I’ve never felt better! The only thing I don’t like is that sometimes people give me looks, because they can see my breasts through my clothes. Sometimes texture is more pronounced, sometimes through a thinner fabric.”
- Anonymous survey respondent

Many of the people who filled in the survey mentioned how their relationship with their breasts impacts the clothing they wear. “I have a larger chest, which means I can’t wear clothes in the same way as others, and I find it frustrating that I can’t wear an outfit idea I have because my chest doesn’t fit in the top or dress I’d like to wear in the way that I want it to.” One person answered.

Since my body has changed and my breasts have gotten bigger, I’ve been more aware of how they look, and I’ve often felt compelled to cover them with baggy tops or to bind my chest. This hasn’t always been the case, and it definitely links back to this idea that certain clothing can only be worn by those with a certain type of body. Our insecurities around the clothing we wear are linked heavily to diet culture and fat shaming. Breast size isn’t indicated by weight, but weight changes do usually come with changes in our breasts. We already know that there’s a taught belief that weighing more = looking worse (which is fucking BULLSHIT), so of course changes in breast size due to weight fluctuations are bound to make a difference to how we feel in the clothing we wear, “I used to always wear my hair in front of my boobs and tried not to wear any clothes that revealed them.”

Problems with appropriate breast support and clothing cause more than just insecurity; they also serve as a financial burden, which can lead to resentment for our breasts. “I have to pay a significant amount more for [supportive bras] than people with smaller breasts. I have to go to speciality stores, many companies just don’t make bras in my size. It’s expensive and exhausting. Clothes in general aren’t made for me. Nothing is quite in my size.”

With a lack of education and accessibility, unsuitable clothing can become a health hazard, not just mentally, but physically — “When I was in year 9, everyone was talking about bra sizes. I was a double D, and I didn’t know anyone else who was my size, so I found myself saying ‘I’m a C cup, too’ and wearing much smaller bra sizes to fit into that ‘norm’.”

“Also??? The price of bras????” Another survey answerer said. Real (petition for bras to be free?!?).

Sexualisation in media, shame, and the male gaze

“I hate how people just want something to do with me because of my breasts. That’s all they see; they don’t see me or my personality. And it’s something I’ve had to get used to over the years. It isn’t my fault my breasts are the way they are, but to be seen as only them and not myself as a person. “
- Anonymous survey respondent

53.1% of people who answered this survey said they felt the way the media represents people with breasts had something to do with their insecurity.

42.7% said they have felt insecure about how others treat them based on their breasts (i.e. sexualisation or other).

One survey answerer said, “I have very large breasts and have had them be the first thing some people look at/notice when they meet me since I was about 11.” Which I was sickened by. The idea of looking at, commenting on or sexualising an 11-year-old’s breasts is absolutely disgusting, but something a lot of us can relate to. They went on to say that their breasts “have given some people (men mostly) licence to view and treat me as more openly sexual than I am comfortable with.”

This sentiment was echoed by another person who said, “I have always been “bigger” even before puberty, and sexualization only solidified my dislike of my breasts/body.” And another who doesn’t feel comfortable wearing certain clothes “because it feels like walking with a target taped to my chest. I hate the male gaze with a vengeance.”

For people with breasts, sexualisation seems to be a normal part of life. You’d hope (I use hope loosely because why would we hope for any of this?!) that the sexualisation would stop at wolf-whistling from the local loser and comments from strangers online, but, unfortunately, a lot of us can relate to sexualisation that’s a little closer to home...

“Sometimes I feel like my partner is only interested in me because of my breasts — they are so enthusiastic about them, which I’m ok with during sex because it makes me feel good, but outside of that it makes me feel uncomfortable.”
- Anonymous survey respondent

This comment broke my heart, and I’m saddened to admit that I’ve definitely felt sexualised by people I’ve been intimate with before. Feeling like your worth lies in your breasts can have a serious impact on your mental health and your relationships. Sexualisation is so common that I can imagine a lot of people can relate to the feeling of their worth being valued based on their sexualised organs.

To whoever wrote this comment, and anyone else who feels this way, you are more than your breasts. Yes, they are amazing. Yes, they are beautiful and deserve admiration. But they are amazing because they are a part of you, not because they turn your partner on. You are worth more than someone who limits your value to the body parts they sexualise.

Sexuality

Interestingly, I didn’t see a massive correlation between people’s sexuality and their relationship with their breasts. I had initially hypothesised that those seeking relationships with men and people without breasts would feel more insecure, while lesbians and people who date people with breasts would be more secure. The reason I assumed this would be the case was that my dating life has consisted of around a 90/10 split between breasted/non-breasted people, but I’ve mostly felt empowered by those with breasts and insecure with those without.

I was shocked to learn that pretty much everyone who filled in the survey, including lesbians, bisexuals, pansexuals, omnisexuals, asexuals and straight people, had similar experiences with feeling insecure about their breasts.

19.2% of people who filled in the survey said the desire to look a certain way for men and people without breasts played a role in their insecurity, while 17.3% felt the same for women and people with breasts. Only one specifically stated that lesbianism changed their view on their breasts:

“Being a lesbian really helps with [insecurity] cause I quickly realised I like allll the boobs, no matter the size or shape.”

- Anonymous survey respondent

They went on to say that they “had a similar journey with [their] hairy pits and legs, and [they’re] still working through that with having a big bush of pubic hair that goes way over the bikini line.” Which is something else I want to deep-dive into in another article (watch this space).

It’s important I note that the survey asked if they had ever experienced persistent insecurities about their breasts, and not if they did currently. There is therefore the chance that these insecurities changed as their sexualities became more defined. It would be difficult to link sexuality to insecurity about breasts without further research.

Physical implications

“For me, it’s not about feminine or masc, or nonbinary or presenting in any sort of way, but that big boobs aren’t comfortable for me — and I just want to feel comfortable in my body for once.”
- Anonymous survey respondent

Relatable for most, struggling with breast size doesn’t have to be about insecurity. Sometimes, it’s about pure inconvenience. Back pain, unsupportive clothing, comfort, endless everyday items that were never intended to work for people with breasts.

This article details how simple inventions, like seatbelts and stab vests, were never designed to fit around breasts. It’s amazing how men are obsessed with breasts until they have to consider them practically. It’s almost as if they value sexualising us more than they value our lives (oh yeah, they do, lol, silly me).

Much like endometriosis, I’d argue that the reason we’re so behind on accessible sports bras for all shapes and sizes and treatment for breast-induced back pain is that people with breasts aren’t taken seriously, and men simply haven’t cared enough to research anything that would benefit us.

“There are practical reasons that I hate them too. I have significant chronic back pain due to the weight of them, and there’s really nothing I can do besides a reduction/top surgery. That is honestly a more significant issue to me than even the dysphoria. Also, to a lesser degree, I play sports, and they make it way less pleasant to run, hike and do any physical activity really. Even with a good sports bra.”

Age

Something that came up a few times in this survey was how age had an impact on the way people felt about their breasts. This wasn’t something I thought about before publishing the survey, but it’s unsurprising.

A few people mentioned that developing breasts at a young age caused them to feel abnormal or insecure, and that they were subjected to comments and sexualisation because of it. “My relationship with my boobs has been complicated and such a journey. It started in school when puberty hit. I’ve always been a larger breast size with a slim build, and I always felt like there was something wrong with me for that. People in my life have always commented that my boobs are out of proportion with my body.”

Others have commented on how natural changes to their breasts due to ageing have caused them to feel insecure.

I cannot stress enough — wanting women and femme-presenting people to look young is fucking disgusting. This goes for wrinkles, hairlessness, perky breasts, the colour of their hair, the tightness of their skin, and anything else. We have created a societal standard that tells us that all the natural changes in our bodies are unnatural. If you take one thing away from this article, please let it be this: if body hair weren’t natural, we wouldn’t grow it. If breasts didn’t come in all shapes and sizes naturally, they wouldn’t come in all shapes and sizes. If greying hair and wrinkles weren’t natural, they wouldn’t happen.

Please, PLEASE, stop letting people tell you that you need to look young. Ageing is the only inevitable thing. It’s a privilege to get older. Please don’t try to change that because the patriarchy tells you to.

This is not only a note to you; it’s a note to myself as well. I’ve hated my natural body for years. Please feel empowered to change your body for you if you want to, but please don’t do it for a societal standard rooted in paedophilia.

Other

I opened up the floor for people to add their own options to this survey so I could gain a better understanding of their experiences beyond what I had asked.

One answer mentioned an insecurity about acne around the breasts, which, according to this article and others I’ve read, seems to be a common problem. It makes sense; our breasts are tightly wrapped in a bra, we walk, exercise, sweat, and bacteria get trapped in that area easily. For me, personally, I’ve been lucky not to experience this. However, I have had stubborn spots elsewhere on my body that I’ve obsessively tried to remove, and I know multiple people who have struggled with breast acne. It’s totally understandable to feel insecure about it, but it’s normal and common, so this highlights that we should all make an effort to start being more accepting of people’s acne (pls). Also, I’d recommend using an antibacterial soap bar for body acne (thank me later).

Another survey responder added that they’re insecure because “one [breast] is bigger than the other, but [they] don’t know why.” Not adding that as an option originally, considering how common it is, was a massive oversight on my part. I‘ve heard countless people talk about the difference in the size of their breasts, and it’s totally normal. According to this article, “breast size differences can develop gradually or become noticeable at different stages of life.” They do go on to note that more than half of the people with breasts have one bigger than the other, but if the difference is significant, there are some suggestions as to why this may be. I’d definitely suggest reading the article for further clarification on whether it could be simply developmental or a result of hormonal changes, weight fluctuations, pregnancy and breastfeeding, lifestyle factors or other potential causes highlighted in the article.

“My boobs are noticeably uneven — one areola is bigger than the other, and I think it isn’t very flattering. If both were the same as my ‘good’ one, I would be happy. In the past, I’ve had female friends make negative comments indirectly about bigger areolas (after seeing mine), and that made me more insecure than anything a man could’ve said.”
- Anonymous survey respondent

Someone commented on how much they change over the month, which is so interesting to me because even though I track my cycle every single day, I don’t usually notice changes in my breasts except during ovulation, when my nipples are more tender. This could be because, before the revelation that led to this article, I tended to ignore my breasts completely. Since then, I’ve been intentionally spending every morning doing topless yoga and tracking any changes. The only additional change I’ve noticed so far was that my breasts felt firmer and looked noticeably bigger in the late stages of my luteal phase, around 5 days before my period.

My conclusion

This viewpoint may sound nihilistic (it is; I’m going through a nihilism phase), but I think my overall summary is that no matter what happens, nothing in the world matters (…) enough to make us hate our breasts. OBVIOUSLY, our insecurities are very real and valid, and obviously, societal standards, access to healthcare services, sexualisation and a lack of suitable clothing all need to be addressed. But instead of being the reasons we hate our breasts, they need to be the reasons we LOVE our breasts.

“My relationship with my boobs has changed massively. I went from always wishing I had smaller boobs to just accepting my body for what it is, and I feel like everyone should do the same. It needs to be spoken about because not all boobs look the same.”
- Anonymous survey respondent

Homework (optional) (probably)

This week, I urge you to set aside some time every day to spend with your breasts. It doesn’t have to be long — 5 minutes is enough if that’s all you can spare. If you have longer, I’d recommend at least 20 minutes of quiet time alone with your breasts. Feel them, look at them, talk to them if you want to. Acknowledge that part of you that feels insecure about them (even if you don’t feel insecure about them, it’s nice to spend some time acknowledging them anyway), and remind yourself of what’s underneath the insecurity and/or negative emotions.

*Note — if you don’t feel connected with your breasts due to gender dysphoria or other reasons, the following affirmations may not apply to you. Our breasts are not defining features, and we do not have to want to keep them around to love ourselves.

If you’re on a journey to loving your breasts or you want to be, repeat these affirmations:

I love my breasts because they are a part of me

The battles I face for my body make me love my body more

My breasts are worth fighting for

For my trans readers and those with gender dysphoria

I get it. Despite this journey, I still flit between enjoying them and wanting them to disappear. It’s totally ok if you don’t want to go on a journey to loving them and you just want to get rid of them — our gendered experiences are all unique.

Here are some affirmations you can use if this is the case:

My breasts do not define me

It’s ok to feel disconnected from my body until I have the power to make affirming changes

Breasts belong to people, not women. Having / not having breasts does not change my gender

I can respect my body for keeping me alive until I have access to feel more comfortable in it

“I’ve learnt to love them. My boobs do sit lower because they’re bigger. I used to think I wanted them to be perky, but they’re just not, and who cares? All boobs are beautiful no matter the journey someone’s been on.”
- Anonymous survey respondent

Love and good vibes ❤

Dylan (they/them)

Sources:

Breast size Satisfaction Survey

Manchester Private Hospital

Medical News Today

Disclaimer: If you’re attracted to me and you want to stay attracted to me, maybe don’t read this. Or do. Idk.

It was a cold, dark Halloween in October, and the clocks were striking 8ish. The year was 2021.

I hadn’t been to work for a few days because some dickhead came in with a sickness bug and passed it on to me. You would’ve thought just having lived through a pandemic where we’d all been taught to wash our hands, self-isolate to avoid spreading illness at all costs and wear masks, that an adult would know not to come to work with sickness and diarrhoea. Apparently not. I was in recovery for a longstanding eating disorder (I call him Ed because it’s easier to be mad at a man than at myself), and throwing up and not being able to eat were the LAST triggers I needed.

~ Quick message to everyone: don’t go near ANYONE if you’re ill. You might cause someone with an eating disorder to throw up. You might cause someone with a chronic illness to DIE. ~

It was Halloween, and instead of the usual house party, my friends and I decided to go to the cinema for a back-to-back showing of A Nightmare on Elm Street and Scream (thank god we weren’t throwing a party). The 30th was still a bit rough, but I woke up on the 31st feeling much better and managed to eat some plain foods. So, I decided to go.

~ Quick message to everyone: You are still contagious for at least 48 hours after your symptoms subside for almost all common illnesses. I didn’t research this before going. This was irresponsible on my part. ~

Oh fuck, I should probably start by giving you a rundown of the cast before we get into it:

Me: the hot one, the gay one and technically the final girl

Dominic: the hero (my ex, who was living at my mum’s house with me. We were potentially working things out) ((we didn’t, but we’re still besties)) (((this info is relevant to the story)))

Bex: the Randy Meeks and nacho enthusiast (my sister) ((the other gay one))

Boris and Fiona (not their real names): the couple (they’re unimportant to the story)

Other friends: I actually can’t remember which of my friends went anymore because this story has become so centred around me shitting myself, but I do know there were around 9 of us

To put things in perspective, Scream is 1h 51m and A Nightmare on Elm Street is 1h 31m (the 1 min thing is weird, I can only assume Wes Craven was doing something there because he was a genius).

~ OMG, just researched and The Last House on the Left was also 1h 31m ~

In total, we’re talking 3h 20m of film watching without the ads on top. What I’m trying to say is, we were there for a while.

The feeling of being back out in the world again was comparable to breathing in the crisp ocean air on a calm, sunny day. Except, instead of sun-kissed skin and sand between my toes, my trainers were cushioned by the old, dirty carpets of Eastleigh Vue. Still, my only company for the days prior had been the toilet seat, so the smell of popcorn and sweat was a welcome one. Meeting my friends at the door, I breezed into the cinema in my comfy joggers and baggy hoodie, ready for some much-needed fun.

If only I had known.

The break between the two films was short, but Bex had just enough time to run to the front and buy some nachos before Scream started. And on the other side of the cinema, I had just enough time to run to the toilet. “I’m gonna throw up,” I said to my friends, which was code for “I’m gonna shit myself.”

But alas, I was safe. For now.

Half an hour passed, and Bex innocently turned to me mid-film, arm extended with a plain, dipless nacho. “Want one?” She asked, and I was faced with a choice. Now, you’re probably thinking that with my near-shit experience between films, I wouldn’t have risked my life again for a nacho.

WRONG.

Of course I accepted it. All I’d eaten in three days was a bit of boiled rice. I was starving and desperate to pretend everything was fine again.

~ Quick message to everyone: don’t ignore your symptoms. You will shit your pants. ~

It was 10 minutes before the end that my insides, much like the film, were screaming at me (…cos we were watching Scream). But I managed to hold it together, rushing to the toilet on the way out.

Again, nothing.

I was fine, but I took another brief moment to curse the colleague who decided to spread their illness to me. What a LOSER.

More context: we lived in the middle of nowhere, around a 35-minute drive from the cinema. The area is so rural that the closest shop to my mum’s house is a 10-minute drive away. There are no street lights for most of the country lanes surrounding the area, and it’s all forest, so it’s impossible to see anything. Remember this for later.

Luckily, I wasn’t driving; Dominic was.

We headed back to the car park, said our goodbyes, and we were on our way home. Music up, spirits high, slightly tired because it was late on a Sunday and we had work the next day (I believe it was around 1am, but it could’ve been later).

Life was good.

I was feeling ok for the majority of the drive home, but as we headed down the A road, a mere 5 minutes from the house, my stomach started to cramp up. “I’m gonna be sick!” I screamed at Dominic. This time, it wasn’t code for anything; I genuinely thought I was going to be sick. “We’re almost home. Can you make it?” he replied, speeding up.

Nope.

He swerved (safely) onto a grassy bank at the side of the road, swinging open his door and running to the other side of the car to assist me. As my door flew open, I knew I’d made a huge mistake.

I wasn’t throwing up.

I was shitting myself.

By the time I’d managed to pull down my trousers, my shit was already on my clothes and down the side of Dominic’s car. Poor Dom, he loved his Honda Civic.

He gripped onto my armpits and held me out of the car door as the most explosive diarrhoea exited my body in his direction.

I should mention that the worst part of all of this is that having diarrhoea and sickness is actually more painful than it is inconvenient. The stomach cramps were almost unbearable, and I was crying from the intermittent sharpness shooting through my body.

Instead of being annoyed, Dominic held onto me like a child and got me through it. He grabbed a plastic bag from the boot of his car for me to sit on and helped me clean myself up with some covid masks he had lying around in the car.

Now, I don’t condone this, but the masks were in a pile on the floor, completely covered in my shit, and we could barely see. Instead of messily picking them up when we had nothing to clean our hands with, we agreed to leave them in a neat pile and come back to clean them up as soon as it was light outside. I need to reiterate that we were only a few minutes from home, so we knew we’d be able to clean them up easily in the morning.

After wiping and abandoning the masks, Dominic got us both back in the car and drove half a mile down the road to our front door.

More context: my mum’s next-door neighbour is an 80-year-old woman. Her 50-year-old son lives with her (let’s call him Jim). Jim smokes weed, but his mum doesn’t know he smokes weed, so he often sneaks out of the house to smoke in the car. The road has designated street parking. Below is a diagram of how this looks.

I’m sure you can see where this is going.

We pulled up in front of the house, me trouser-less and weeping, Dominic strategically mapping out the next stage of our ‘get Abs inside and cleaned up’ plan, and who do I lock eyes with? Fucking Jim smoking a joint.

I actually find it pretty funny when telling this story to imagine what Jim was thinking in this moment. So, the next part of this story will be told from the entirely imagined POV of Jim:

It was 1am, and Mum finally went to bed after insisting we play Scrabble for the 40th time this week. I hadn’t been out in a few hours, and I was starting to get pissed off with how late my nightly smoke was getting. “Watch Eastenders with me!” “Help me clean the kitchen!” “I can’t find my glasses!” God, mums are so annoying. I wish I could move out, but I’m just a 50-year-old man. It’s so unfair!

Anyway, Mum unleashed me from her clasp, and I headed straight to the car with my baccy tin and a grinder. The only thing worse than having to sneak out would be my mum catching me in the act. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m a loser, so I smoke weed in the car at 1am to be sure she doesn’t.

I had just lit up and taken a few drags when I saw a car pull up in front of me. It was Dominic, the neighbour’s ex-boyfriend, parallel parking towards me in his white Honda Civic. Now they’re gonna catch me smoking weed, I thought. I gave a wave of acknowledgement. I didn’t worry too much because I knew they also smoked weed, I just hoped they didn’t say anything to Mum.

In the passenger seat was Abs. They looked like they’d been crying. Probably went on a drive to have a fight or something. I don’t know. We locked eyes, urgh, awkward, so I went back to smoking my joint, taking deep inhales so I could get back inside as quickly as possible. Dominic left the car, slamming the door shut. Yep, definitely had an argument. Abs stayed put, meaning it was just the two of us. I was in the middle of searching desperately for something else to look at when I noticed Abs had no trousers on.

What the fuck? I thought. I was pretty baked at this point, but they definitely had no trousers on. I think? No. I was definitely 100% sure they had no trousers on. I kept smoking, trying not to look but becoming desperately unaware of my actions. Were they thinking I was being a creep? I wasn’t, genuinely, I just wanted to know why they were sitting trouser-less in the car opposite me.

Before I had any more time to worry, Dominic was coming back down the path towards the car carrying a plastic bag and… wipes? At this point, I had no idea what was going on. I watched as Dominic headed to Abs’ side of the car and, as if I wasn’t sitting there watching them, they started messing around with the wipes, Dom’s body shielding Abs as he threw something into the carrier bag and handed them what looked like a pair of joggers.

My joint was almost finished, but I couldn’t go back inside until I knew what was happening. A few more minutes passed, and Abs finally exited the car, no longer trouser-less, holding a carrier bag containing what I assume were the trousers they left the house in.

Ahhh, they must’ve shit themselves, I thought, rolling the window up and heading back inside. Either that, or I was extremely stoned. I guess I’ll never know.

Hello, Abs again. My mum woke up when Dominic was fumbling around looking for a plastic bag, so when we finally headed inside, I was met by laughter and lots of care. My sister famously thinks people shitting themselves is the height of comedy, so obviously my mum had immediately texted the family group chat to alert everyone. What followed that evening was uneventful. A shower, lots of shame and tears, and a long, restful sleep.

The next morning, Dominic and I headed out early to clean up my shit. I’m not going to do another diagram, but as I mentioned earlier, these country lanes are completely surrounded by forest. Any houses along this road are tucked away neatly behind a long gated driveway and lots of trees. We pulled over to the spot where it all went down, and with a gasp, we realised I hadn’t shit on some random bank at the side of the road after all.

I had shit on someone’s gated driveway.

I know this is very LinkedIn of me, but the thing about this entire experience was that, yes, I did shit myself, but also, I learned so much about the type of partner I want to be with.

Dominic and I were high school sweethearts who were and still are not right for each other (AT ALL), but that night really proved to me that I can be loved by someone who not only doesn’t get angry at me when I shit all over their car, but someone who remains calm in a crisis, takes care of me without a word, and showers me off while simultaneously reassuring me that I’m ok.

True romance isn’t just the dates, the flowers, and the poetry; it’s the low moments where they have to be the one to wipe your tears (or arse).

It also taught me that spreading illness is no joke. Realistically, my having to throw up while recovering from an eating disorder was incredibly difficult for me, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as if someone chronically ill had caught it.

My best friend has Long Covid, a chronic illness preventing her from living her life as she once did. She caught Covid in June 2022, and her symptoms never went away. She spends most of her life wearing a mask, she can’t eat inside public places, and she can’t be around people if they have any symptoms of illness.

She caught it because one of her housemates didn’t warn her that they were unwell, and the consequence of that is that this year will be my friend’s fourth year living with a chronic illness.

Over the past two years, I’ve seen her struggle with friends and family who refuse to include her in things because, to them, it’s more inconvenient to sit outside than it is nice to have her there. People often try to debunk her illness or tell her she’s imagining it, and she lives in fear that someone is going to lie about being ill because they don’t believe her.

Chronic illness is NOT A JOKE. If she catches something, she’s bed bound and risks becoming even more ill, or worse, death. This is not dramatic, it’s fact. A lot of chronic illnesses are invisible, and so it’s easy to forget they exist.

Most people avoid being around their heavily pregnant family or elderly grandparents when they’re unwell, but they don’t tend to consider wearing a mask or staying away from the general public until they feel better. The world is filled with chronically ill people who could be at serious risk, so before you go into work, please consider the impact you might have on someone else’s life.

It’s already cunty (not in the gay way, in the you’re a literal cunt way) enough to make someone shit their pants, but threatening someone’s life is a whole other danger.

I’m not trying to suggest I’m better than you. I went to the cinema not knowing I was still contagious because I didn’t bother researching it. I just want you to consider staying home, wearing a mask, using hand gel, and looking after those with invisible (and visible) illnesses.

Yes, I manipulated you into reading information on Long Covid by telling you my shitting story. I think it was a fair trade.

Thanks for reading <3 love you xoxo

P.S. I’m trying to become a writer! If you like my writing, please consider becoming a paid subscriber OR donating to this link. No presh :)

~ I’ve never dissected ‘trigger-happy’ before, and it feels a bit disturbing considering how often people die due to gun misuse (not that I think there’s any correct use for a gun). I take it back, but I don’t want to delete it because maybe this will also make you consider not using it as an adjective. ~

Don’t worry (I’m sure you were worried), we’ve left the underfloor heating in the bathrooms off. Mainly because we can’t figure out the controls. Oh, also, we’re not rich; heating is included in our rent. And I’m terrified of mould. So terrified that I’d probably grab my hydrometer before anything else in the event of a fire.

This morning, Kate started panicking because it was too hot. Fair. We both hate being too hot. I don’t usually have the heating on, but we don’t have double-glazing, so the mould risk is too high. Plus, my bedroom was fucking freezing last week. We did turn the heating off today, though, and opened a few windows. I have the windows open in the living room now. We live on the high street in Brighton, so there’s always a bus going by or a couple fighting in the street. Maybe I’ll tell you every time I hear a bus. There’s a bus lane on our road and a bus stop right outside. Trust me, there are so many buses.

Bus ~

Last night, at around midnight, I heard someone screaming. I ran to my bedroom window, ready to spring into action, but it was just two people closing up the restaurant below us. They were taking out the bins, and I assume (bus ~) that one of them was running from a mouse. I was ok when I realised neither of them was being murdered.

Bus ~

Bus ~

Now I’m getting distracted.

Bus ~ (omg I didn’t realise there were this many actually)

Our building is quite similar to the one in Only Murders in the Building (bus ~), if your definition of quite similar is completely different, with a few minor similarities. I want to back up my theory of the building having Only Murders vibes, but I (bus ~) literally have no idea what the similarities are. Just trust me, I guess?

~ I’m checking the Brighton bus schedule quickly because now that I’m tracking it, I kind of feel (bus ~) like I’m imagining things.

Ok, so it turns out more than 24 bus routes stop here. Makes sense. I’m gonna stop tracking now for all of our sanity. ~

Bus ~

Bus ~

Anyway, I read a poetry book that a new Brighton friend lent me this morning. Then I chatted to my friend, Jake, because we’ve been writing poetry and whatnot (bus ~) together for 8 years, and (BUS!!!!!) they know that my poetry is a bit shit.

I usually tell people the reason my poetry is shit is that I don’t follow forms, and that they’re full of scattered thoughts. I studied creative writing at uni, so, in theory, I could write a poem in form. I just don’t want to.

That doesn’t matter because it’s a lie. The real reason my poetry is a bit shit is that I’m not very good at writing poetry. I like it when my poetry rhymes, but it feels juvenile because it doesn’t have any depth. None of my poetry has any depth, which is strange because I have a lot of depth. Too much depth, maybe. I’m a Scorpio Sun and Aries Moon. I think if I had any more depth, I’d be at the centre of the earth (which I already am, but that’s because I’m a Leo Rising).

The room temperature has been a bit more manageable for the last hour or so, so I’ve been relaxing on the sofa with my Lord Farquaad blanket, listening to the ending of the song Roddy by Djo on repeat. My favourite part starts at around 3:06, so I listen to that part over and over again while I write.

I got bored with doing that, anyway, so I started reading Arrangements in Blue by Amy Key, a book Kate let me borrow recently.

~ Now people are drilling outside. It’s 9pm. Cities are wild. There must be babies sleeping. ~

Jake said I should try writing about how my poetry is a lie and why I don’t feel seen through it. I tried, I told them, but I still don’t feel connected to it. I read it to them in a voice message, and they questioned my motive for writing poetry.

This conversation gave me a bit of clarity. I guess my desire for writing poetry is fuelled by my desire to share my poetry and have people tell me my poetry is good and that they see me.

So really, I just want to be seen. But I also feel intimidated by the idea of being truly seen. So my poetry is a lie. And I write shit poetry.

After that, I wrote some pretty good poetry.

I was reading Arrangements in Blue just now and thinking, wow, Amy Key really can write.

Writing stirs some weird emotions for me. I consume so much of it. My entire life revolves around it, really. Novels, short stories, poetry, long late-night texts and Substack articles. It’s a sore spot for me because I really want to be good at it, and I get intimidated when I read other people’s writing because I think I should write like them. And then I think if I write like them, I won’t have my own personal style. And that’s when I start to think that maybe I’ve never had my own personal style and I’ve always just copied from other writers I’ve consumed. Then I’m just overwhelmed because I wonder if I should stop writing. Then I think I need to find a niche. Then I find a niche, but then I get inspired by someone else and convince myself I’m a liar and all my work belongs to every other writer but me.

And on and on and on and on and on.

Amy Key is a really good writer. I’m only on page 9, but I can tell because I stopped midway through one of her sentences and thought, no one cares how many books I’ve read.

What a realisation. I’ve been reading books forever. I used to do 100 a year when I was naive, then I cut it back to 50, and now I read when I can. I’m aiming to do a casual 50 again this year. Not that you care. A lot of my friends read books. I don’t know how many books, but they probably do.

I think that’s the point here. I want everyone to look at me and think that’s Abs who read 50 books this year. But I don’t even do that. And when the year is over, I’m back onto the next challenge of how many books I can read, how fast I can run and how many mountains I can climb. All so I can tell someone that I read 48 books, and they can excitedly pretend to listen while they tell me how many books they read. I don’t remember how many books they read because I wanted them to know how many books I read.

When I was studying for my degree, my therapist told me that if the point of having a goal is to wait for the goal to be completed, we’re ultimately just waiting for our lives to pass us by. Or something like that.

That is to say that instead of enjoying the books I was studying and the knowledge I was obtaining, I was living each day waiting to say I had a degree. And once I said that, I immediately set my sights on something else.

This changed my perspective for a while. But it’s one of those philosophies you forget about and have to relearn when you remember it exists (this essay is kinda me doing that, but also an existential realisation of some sort).

Sometimes, when I’m reading a book, I feel like I’m just reading it so it can be over and I can say I’ve read it. Bit weird, really. People don’t care how many books I’ve read. I’ve been thinking I need to read more books, and I should be reading right now instead of writing shit poetry and Substack articles. I’ve also been thinking I should be writing right now instead of reading because at the end of the year, I’ll need to tell everyone how many Substack articles I’ve posted.

I was reading Arrangements in Blue by Amy Key, and I realised that no one is going to care if I’ve read Arrangements in Blue by Amy Key.

So, will I continue reading it?

Back to the Leo Rising. I’ve always thrived on attention. I post my entire life online daily so that everyone can see me.

If something happens, I immediately tell someone about it. I live for communication, and when I’m on my own, I live in a fantasy world where I’m successful, and everyone is giving me praise for some amazing thing I’ve accomplished. Call it a praise kink (I will), but it’s also the result of me living almost entirely for external validation.

I used to think I was the type of person who lived for myself, but that was another lie. Whoops.

I’m struggling to think of many things I do that I enjoy because I simply do. The first few things that spring to mind are Sudoku, being vegan and solving murder mysteries. Reading books is also on the list of things I genuinely enjoy. And writing. But I can’t tell if I’d do them to the same extent if I couldn’t talk about them, because I pretty much live my entire life to talk about myself.

Perhaps this essay is just me discovering the ego. I know I thrive on attention, but I wonder how much of who I am is built purely on attention.

What a rollercoaster.

Will I continue reading books? The deeper question is actually, will I continue existing purely for others, will I start existing for myself (what does that even look like? Doing Sudokus, eating vegan food and solving murders?!), or will I just stop existing entirely (probs a bit dramatic).

Maybe I’ll just sleep on it.

It was seeing my dad on his deathbed that made me realise he had spent his life alone.

I haven’t really written about it much, even though, years later, I still get the familiar tightness in my chest every time I imagine his lonely days.

And though I noticed he had died alone, I hadn’t really registered that dying alone was an option until this year.

I’ll spare you the worst details, but in summary, my childhood was tumultuous, and my dad was an addict. It was very difficult to help him, especially as a child and teenager with a limited understanding of what was going on. Addiction is a horrible thing, and my relationship with my dad’s addiction was a tricky one. Part of me felt guilty and sorry for him all the time, but I didn’t know what to do; the other part of me resented him for neglecting us.

It’s hard to step back and recognise the mental health struggle beneath the addiction when your memories of childhood include not having proper meals or clean clothes and being put in dangerous situations with a lack of care.

In adulthood, the anger faded, and the reality of it all became nothing less than intensely painful. Thinking about my dad sent me into a spiral. It was like every single part of me became numb, and I made myself suffer for not doing more to help. When I finally arrived at the point of understanding and knowing how to help, it was too late. He could barely talk in his last few years; he couldn’t care for himself, he couldn’t do anything really.

The day I got the call from my brother to say my dad had had a stroke, my entire life shattered into pieces. I said goodbye, and a few days later, he was gone.

The hardest part of losing my dad was imagining him alone for all those years, unable to speak, unable to function. I know I could’ve seen him more, but it was so painful to see him like that. I’d see him and spend the next few weeks tortured. It hurt when he was alive; it hurts now he’s dead. Overall, it just fucking hurts.

Obviously, I recognise I’m not in the same boat as my dad. Before my mum left him, he had a wife and kids and a stable job. Yes, he was a drug addict, but he had stability. My mum left him because it wasn’t a healthy or stable environment for her or for us, and I can’t blame her for that. I’m glad she left, but I’m also sad that instead of being able to pick himself up, he spiralled and the addiction took over.*

*Disclaimer. It’s much more nuanced than letting an addiction take over. Addiction is a mental illness and is very tricky to navigate.

If I were in his place, it’s easy for me to say I would’ve done things differently. I’ve been through a lot of hardship in my life, and I’ve always worked through it and created my own happiness.

My dad ending up alone was the result of addiction leading to bad behaviours and self-isolation. He was sick. He was struggling. I won’t end up like that.

…But what if I do?

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I should start by saying, I don’t think I’ll ever lose my friends or family. I’m a community person and I always find my people wherever I go. When I say I’m scared to die alone, I’m talking purely about romantic love.

I’ve spent a lot of my time recently exploring the idea that I won’t find someone to settle down with. At first, it was a shock. I’ve always been a dreamer, a hopeless romantic obsessed with love in all its messy, heart-wrenching forms. My wedding dress has been designed, my flowers arranged, and my venue options chosen. The only thing I’m missing in all that is someone to spend my life with, but I haven’t ever worried about that part before.

My approach to romance has always been that it will happen. There has never been a doubt in my mind.

So, why am I suddenly questioning it?

The first thing that sparked me to imagine dying alone was losing a friend over it. It’s a complicated situation, but in short, my friend was in love with me and wanted us to end up together. After years of assuming it would happen, he eventually decided to give up and settle for someone he wasn’t in love with. The reason this ended our friendship is that she was in love with him, but he was in love with me. I couldn’t support my friend doing that to someone, and after many talks, I said that I couldn’t stick around to see it happen. I hoped not being friends would allow him to let go of his love for me and fall in love with the woman he decided to settle down with.

Some of the reasons he decided to settle down with her were that he’s in his mid-thirties, and in his culture, people get married in their early twenties. He had a lot of pressure from his family, plus, he didn’t want to die alone (sound familiar?).

I've started to wonder recently what I would do in my mid-thirties if I started to realise I wasn’t going to find anyone. I wouldn’t settle for someone I don’t love, but I can understand the fear and thought process behind it.

This is what really made me start to ask myself: what if we don’t all find the one? I had been naive this entire time to assume that everyone will find their person, but in reality, a lot of people don’t.

The next thing that made me start to question whether I’d find someone was my bad luck on dating apps. I started dating again at the end of last year following my breakup in the summer. I wasn’t fully ready at that point, so I took a bit of a break after some dates in February. I haven’t really seen myself dating anyone I’ve spoken to since then. I don’t know if that’s because I still need more time alone or if I just haven’t found someone to spark that interest in me, but either way, I’m not connecting with anyone.

And the final thing that made me realise I might end up alone was travelling. When I went travelling, I met so many incredible single women in their late thirties. They were happy, independent, and free. This really made singledom seem idealistic to me. They can do whatever they want whenever they want, and they only have to rely on themselves.

As someone who doesn’t want children, the idea of being single is a lot less daunting than it must be for those wanting kids. But as a romantic, the pain still looms.

I go back and forth between loving the idea of being free and single forever, and missing the intense intimacy I get from a romantic relationship (I’m a Scorpio with an Aries moon - if it’s not intense, forget it).

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How do I cope with the fear of dying alone? Well, here are the steps I’ve been taking:

Dating apps

Remember just now when I said that using dating apps is one of the reasons I’ve started doubting my ability to find the one?

In first place on my list of things I’m doing to combat the fear of dying alone, we have one of the main things that’s adding to my fear of dying alone.

Going on dating apps is a way of coping - I endlessly scroll through the list of eligible bachelors (gender inclusive) hoping the love of my life will pop up. The reason it doesn’t work is because conversations end up being meaningless, they don’t match my vibe, the search is boring, and the list goes on.

I finish my search with more anxiety than I started with, and quickly swear off dating apps.

But what happens when I’m not actively receiving validation from matches? I get scared I’ll end up alone, and the cycle continues.

Mindfulness

One of the main things I’ve been focusing on that actually is helpful and healthy is mindfulness. I remind myself frequently that I am enough on my own and that I don’t necessarily need to end up in a romantic relationship.

This doesn’t take away the desire, but it does help minimise the fear. I envision all the things I can do and achieve on my own, and it makes the fear of never falling in love feel much more manageable.

Forgetting about it

Stay with me because this may be the option that actually makes the most sense. I’m not one for avoidance or bottling my feelings (quite the opposite, in fact), but I do see the benefit of ignoring this particular problem.

I’ve only been single for 1.5 years, and that was because I made an active decision to only date casually following my breakup. Also, I’m only 26.

I’m not saying my fear of dying alone is invalid at all, but I do enjoy being single most of the time, and I still have plenty of time to find someone (the rest of my life).

My way of coping at the moment is to just let it be. If I find someone, I find someone, if I don’t, I don’t. If I become more desperate, I’ll actively try again.

I just have to remind myself that whether I find romantic love or not, I am worthy of love and it doesn’t reflect who I am as a person. This is the hardest part for me, since I have a tendency to doubt myself and question whether I’m loveable.

With self-assurance in mind, here are some of the reasons I’m deserving of romantic love:

• I care about people deeply and always find ways to show them

• I’m communicative and will tackle problems by talking and listening

• I have an ‘us against the problem’ approach when it comes to conflict

• I actively listen and ask questions about people’s interests

• I’m hot :)

• I’m romantic and will write poems and all that gay shit (I’m queer so I’m allowed to say that)

If you’re worrying about dying alone, write yourself a little list of reasons you’re deserving of love and remind yourself every morning. You are enough, you are loveable, and your worth is not determined by your romantic partner.

If you're struggling with addiction, click here for support

P.S. I lost my job last month and have applied for over 500 jobs 🙃 I currently have £8 and bills to pay. If you happen to like my writing and are in the position where you could support me, please click this link here <3

P.P.S. Just you reading my writing is enough support. Please don’t help me out if you don’t have the means to do so.

Ok, love you. Bye xoxoxo

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…BY BEING UNWELL?!

And that’s usually either due to the manager treating us like we’ve just lit their house on fire, or the fact that our workplaces reward people who don’t take any sick days and punish those who do.

The main issue I have with this is that we’re LITERALLY human beings. We get sick. We work CONSTANTLY. We work to live, and, in turn, we end up living to work.

By the time we get home in the evenings, we don’t feel up to seeing our friends or hanging out with our families because we’re exhausted. We only make enough money to pay our rent, and we consider going out and doing things on the weekend a ‘treat.’ Even weekends are tiring and often end up being rest periods before preparing to head back to work on Monday morning.

We live in a constant cycle of work → rest → yearn for a better life → work → rest → yearn → work → and the cycle continues.

Before temporarily heading to Greece, I managed a busy, NHS and private 5-surgery dental practice. And though I loved it (mainly cos my team were amazing), the stress was unbearable towards the end. Not just because of the fact that I was working long hours and had to be available for staff absences and other work-related tasks outside of my normal working hours, but because the culture was so money-centred that the obvious pay gap sucked the life out of me.

We didn’t have a staff room to eat lunch in because our boss wanted an extra surgery to make more money. My office was glass so I could be monitored, which meant that if staff needed to vent, they had to whisper and hold back tears to avoid patients seeing them struggle. Everything we did was about bringing in money for the business - money that the staff never saw.

My role as a manager at this practice helped me realise that it’s almost impossible to achieve equality in capitalism. Not only is it a system built for the patriarchy, meaning the gender pay gap and work inequality are still extremely prominent (even with women having entered the workforce fucking ages ago), but it’s also built purely to make the rich richer. Capitalism only works when people are being exploited.

At the dental practice, I witnessed dentists coming overseas from India to make a better life for themselves in the UK, working tirelessly on low salaries and having their visas threatened every time they refused to work overtime for free. I comforted crying nurses, witnessed receptionists being yelled at, and experienced my own fair share of days feeling completely undervalued and worthless.

You have to question why you feel guilty for taking a day off when the boss hops out of his brand-new sports car to tell you he can’t offer a pay rise right now because money is tight.

This experience led me to the conclusion that we all need to open our eyes to the glaringly obvious truth: we are being manipulated by our bosses.

Capitalism is not built for the people; it’s built for the rich. Your boss will continue to get richer, and you will continue to struggle and beg them for validation. They’ll go on ten holidays a year, while you feel guilty for even requesting annual leave.

You taking a day off for your mental health or requesting a work-from-home day is NOT an example of you being a bad employee; it’s an example of a manipulative system in which you are forced to feel guilty for being a human being and not a robot.

Because this is what they want - they want you to be a robot, and that’s why stingy business owners are now replacing humans with AI. They save money on an employee who doesn’t complain or ask for breaks and annual leave. Their desire for lifeless robots isn’t new - that’s what they were trying to shape you into by stripping away your humanity and making you feel guilty for being anything other than a good little worker.

You were always the lifeless robot to them. They’ve now replaced you with the cheaper option.

Even after leaving this job with the knowledge that I didn’t want to partake in this anymore, I still found myself in a similar situation. I started a new job last month for a company I’ve been dreaming of working for. A small business owned by a woman my age whose ethics aligned with mine (or so I thought).

The job was advertised as a flexible freelance position – my understanding from the multiple interviews and daily calls during my training period was that I could work from anywhere and work as many hours as I wanted to, as long as the work got done. The only things I had to be available for were a few calls per week, which I was fine with. I agreed on the set monthly figure of £1500.

I had assumed, given the figure and the very clear wording, that this was flexible on hours, and that the rate had been decided based on a workload of around 15 hours per week, give or take, depending on the week. I very quickly realised, however, that this was not the case AT ALL.

Instead, I was given tight deadlines almost immediately, along with a hefty task list for each day, meaning I had to be available Monday-Friday. I had a lot of calls every weekday (way more than the amount advertised), and on top of all that, I had to reshape the business to reduce customer churn.

Straight away, I was working a minimum of 7 hours per day. Some days, due to the tasks that kept piling up and the overwhelming workload, I was working up to 12 hours into the night. Calls were as late as 10pm, and some in the coming weeks were booked in for 1am.

The fee I was being paid BEFORE TAX and WITHOUT ANNUAL LEAVE was £1500 per month. For at least 35-40 hours per week, I was being paid less than £9.80 per hour. For reference, the minimum wage in the UK is £12.21, and this is for employed staff with annual leave and benefits.

I quickly noticed that I was being exploited and lied to.

I mentioned to my boss a few times during the first two weeks that the workload seemed fit for a full-time position and that I was monitoring my hours, and she reassured me that it was flexible and I could work whenever I wanted. She’d then give me another list of things that needed to be done that day. Even when working 7 hours a day, there were still tasks I couldn’t fit into my schedule.

After my second week was over, I decided to mention it to her once more and tell her that I would need to do a breakdown and discuss the hours and/or pay. She agreed, and I sent over a document explaining that I could either continue working for the set fee for the workload it pays me for, which is 15 hours a week, meaning the workload would need to be significantly reduced, or that she’d need to pay me a suitable retainer that was not less than minimum wage.

I also checked in with the previous person in my role, and they confirmed they were employed full-time and were severely underpaid. The workload hadn’t changed, but the wording in the job ad had. It was the same full-time position the previous person had been doing, but it had been given a flexible label to make it more desirable.

And after realising this and saying I wouldn’t work until we had worked this out, I felt guilty.

Why did I feel guilty?!

I was being exploited and working for less than minimum wage BEFORE TAX, and I felt guilty?

It was absolute bullshit. It IS absolute bullshit. And when she started saying that my asking for a ‘pay rise’ early on had ‘blindsided’ her, I had to leave. It wasn’t a pay rise. I had been misled and mistreated, and I asked for the payment for the work I was actually doing as opposed to the work that was advertised.

I was made to feel guilty because bosses with capitalist mindsets DO NOT CARE ABOUT US. They care about money.

This boss does not pay the people she involves in her business, she does not reward those who work for her or who volunteer for her, and she does not care about anything but making money and hoarding it for herself.

How dare she make me feel guilty?

I’ve once again had to learn my lesson, and I’m begging you to do the same. If you work for someone, do not feel guilty for calling in sick. Do not feel guilty for asking for a pay rise. Do not feel guilty for hating your job.

We have to decentre capitalism and stop valuing ourselves based on how good a worker we are. We are not built for this lifestyle, and it is not benefiting us.

Don’t be a fool for capitalism. Your boss does not care about you; they’re manipulating you.

P.S. If anyone wants to start a vegan lesbian commune, I’m there.

P.P.S. Next time you feel guilty, remember that we’re sharing this world with a literal TRILLIONAIRE. Fuck capitalism.

P.P.P.S. As you’re now aware from that fun little exploitation story, I am currently JOBLESS AGAIN. Lmao (cry). If you like my work, I’d really appreciate your support (no presh) <3

buy me a matcha here xo

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The family I’m now in contact with consists purely of my sister, my brother-in-law, my step-sister, my niece, one cousin, and my ex (sparknotes on that situation since I’m sure you’re curious - we were besties, dated for almost 5 years as teenagers into our twenties, broke up amicably so he stayed part of the family and now, 5 years on, we act like siblings) (I also refer to him as my incest brother for this reason) (we are NOT related, dw).

I don’t believe that blood is thicker than water, and I don’t believe (as Keira Knightley disgustingly put it) that we should all just “figure out how to live together.” (VOM). Since when did human rights become an opinion?

When I left school and started understanding the world around me, I realised that I don’t have to get along with people who casually throw around the r-word and who “don’t understand” pronouns. I also realised (after my second relationship) that I don’t have to settle for anything less than what I want in a partner OR a friend.

The most amazing part of this is that I’ve found some incredible friends in my 20s. Not to brag, but as someone who thrives on building communities and bringing people together (not in a culty way), I genuinely have A LOT of really, really good quality, close friends who match all of my non-negotiables.

Since you’re a nosy fuck (I assume, hehe), I’ll share some of my requirements with you:

1. OBVIOUSLY no racism, homophobia, transphobia, classism, etc. etc. etc.

The bar is in absolute HELL if I have to spell this out, but I will not date, be friends with or socialise with anyone who won’t educate themselves (and be on the right side of) social and political issues. This also includes body positivity in all forms. If you support diet culture and can’t respect pronouns, I don’t want you. NEXT.

(Side note: my romantic partners must also be vegan. I wish I could say this for friends, but it’s way more difficult to enforce unfortunately).

2. They cannot be apolitical

I’m going to write an entire article about this, but in short, being apolitical IS NOT A THING. Sitting back comfortably while minorities lose their rights and their lives is a privilege. Ok, so you’re lucky that these issues don’t impact you directly, but do you not care about fighting for the rights of your fellow human beings?! BYE.

3. They have to have friends

This became super important to me following my previous relationship. My friends and partners don’t necessarily have to have loads of friends, but I can’t be their only friend. As someone who naturally problem-solves and takes care of people, relationships where I’m their only connection can become co-dependent really fast. This is draining for me, and it doesn’t match my need for freedom.

In a relationship, I need them to have at least one friend they can spend time with while I’m away. It’s important that they’re able to talk about our relationship with someone other than me. I spend A LOT of time with my friends, and I like alone time, too. They have to be able to fill their time with something other than me while I do the same.

4. They have to trust me

As I mentioned, I will reciprocate anything I ask for, and as a Scorpio, trust is super important to me. If you don’t trust me, I can’t be with you. Equally, if I don’t trust you, I don’t want to be with you. My partner will not look through my phone, read my texts, monitor who I’m with or what I do. I will reciprocate by also trusting them wholeheartedly. I NEED my freedom.

5. No raising of voices

As someone who grew up in an abusive environment, anger issues are a NO GO for me. I won’t tolerate someone raising their voice or snapping at me. Anger isn’t a choice, but the way we react to it is. If a friend, family member or partner is angry, it’s their responsibility (as an adult) to regulate their emotions and tackle the problem without lashing out at me.

6. They must actively listen and take an interest in me

Again, the bar is in hell, but it’s amazing how rare it is to find friends and partners who actually care about us.

There are a lot of things that people can do to show they care about me. For example, I love romance, and as a witch who does a lot of floral magick, it’s really special to me when someone buys me flowers (even better if they research the meaning behind them). My friends are my biggest cheerleaders - they always hype me up, compliment me, read my work, follow up on conversations we’ve had, listen to me, buy my favourite flowers, write me letters, etc.

I expect this level of care from all friends, family and partners. I offer this to everyone I connect with, and I won’t tolerate anything less (again).

7. Good music taste / passionate about music

Ok, this is negotiable because I definitely have friends with a shit taste in music (sorry, but Take That being your favourite group is an actual crime). I pride myself on my fantastic music taste and ability to match any vibe / recommend the best songs in most genres.

That’s not to say we can’t have guilty pleasures, ofc! I’m not that much of a snob, and I love shit music, too. I’m just super passionate about music and need a partner who can really feel music and have discussions about it, not just listen to it.

8. They must be passionate about something

I’m an incredibly passionate person; I’d even say passion is one of my number one qualities. I feel everything deeply, passionately and with my entire body.

All of my friends, family members and exes are passionate and creative in one way or another. I love creative people - writers, artists, musicians, cake decorators, crocheters, etc. I don’t mesh well with people who aren’t passionate about the things they love. I also need them to be passionate about me and our friendship/relationship, and, again, I will reciprocate this (without any trouble).

9. They must get along with my sister (Bex) and brother-in-law (Christian)

Bex is my ENTIRE WORLD. Christian is a close second. If they don’t like someone, something is horribly, horribly wrong. It’s rare, but anyone they’ve disliked has eventually gone in the bin. They’re the most loving, kindhearted and intuitive people I know. They’re also extremely similar to me, so if they find an issue with someone, it's only a matter of time before I find it, too.

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The list goes on and on, but what I’m getting at is this - you should never settle for less than what you’re willing to give your friends and partners, and you should never expect anything from your friends and partners that you can’t give in return.

I’d truly rather end up alone for the rest of my life than settle for a life where my needs aren’t being met. Whether it’s human decency, words of affirmation, physical touch, trust, quality time, head, gift-giving, passion, romance, care, cuddles, or anything else - I will reciprocate everything I ask for and more. I urge you to do the same.

I’m a thirsty attention whore who runs on bad dates and matcha lattes. If you like my writing, you can buy me one below (no presh love u thanks for being here) 💕

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What I really want is to meet someone organically, build a friendship, secretly fall in love with each other (but keep it to ourselves to avoid ruining the friendship), and eventually get jealous one night, leading to an angry, dramatic love confession, preferably in the rain. Or at the beach. Or both.

But alas, I’m stuck in dating-app land. And as someone who dates a lot, I have to take my fair share of breaks to preserve my sanity, reevaluate my dating goals and assess how I want to proceed. Sometimes it’s an active decision I make, sometimes it’s the result of a bad dating experience that puts me off, and sometimes I notice myself naturally slipping away from dating.

This time, I’m making the decision to step back because I need to.

On moving to Chania, Crete, for three months, I focused heavily on having a summer romance. We arrived on the morning of Monday, 8th September, and by 3pm, we were out for lunch and immediately scrolling through the dating apps. 5, 10, 15 matches later, my ego had been boosted, and I was already getting excited about some of my prospects. But something was missing - my desire to actually date them.

Though it was exciting to chat to my matches, the second an in-person date got mentioned, I’d delay it. I’m busy. My friend and I are exploring the island that day. That won’t work. This won’t work. It was all bullshit. We could’ve very easily fit these dates into the plan, but I didn’t want to. I did end up going on a few dates, but I didn’t enjoy them or want to go on a second date with any of them. Not even necessarily because they weren’t interesting, but because I wasn’t interested.

I’m currently on week 5 of living in Chania, and I haven’t been on any dates for the past 2 weeks. I’m not even actively trying to flirt with anyone, other than a couple of people on the roster from back home, which is unusual for me. Usually, I have one main person I’m actually interested in who flirts with me daily, a few side characters who flirt with me (but less consistently), and a few prospects on dating apps.

Right now, I have a couple of side characters, no main character, and I’m uninterested in using dating apps. I do have a few coffee shop and local restaurant crushes, which is a bit of fun, but not fun enough for me to actually pursue them.

So, why am I making this an official dating break?

1. I’m addicted to attention

I’m missing the constant attention and ego boost I get from having one main crush, but this is a sign that I need to stop dating. Of course, it’s fun to have people to flirt with, but I’ve realised I’m obsessed with it and never go without it. Now that I don’t have it, I’m realising just how much of my life focuses on the reassurance of others.

For this reason, I’ve also decided to delete Instagram until I turn 26 (13 days total). That doesn’t seem like a lot, but as an Insta addict, it’ll be pretty good going if I actually manage it. I’m already anxious knowing I won’t be able to post my daily Instagram story, I’ll be missing out on the group chat, and my followers will have to survive without my weekly main-feed thirst trap.

Realistically, that is RIDICULOUS, and I think it’s deep-rooted in the idea that if I don’t make myself present and known constantly, people will forget me or no longer be interested. Needless to say, there is no risk of the important people in my life forgetting about me if I don’t post on Instagram. And if a random person I flirt with now and then forgets about me, why does that impact my life so heavily?

Hopefully, this break will teach me to live without being constantly perceived and to be ok with just existing. I’m also hoping it’ll reset the habit of constantly needing someone to flirt with.

Though, full disclosure, I’m already making plans in my head for my social media comeback post.

2. Poor dating pool and bad experiences

Dating in Chania hasn’t been great, mainly because the queer scene is less prominent. Not to say it isn’t good here, especially (as far as I can tell) in comparison to a lot of other Islands, but something I’ve learned from the queer friends we’ve made here is that lesbians tend to anonymise themselves on dating apps by changing their names, and they’re usually resistant to going on dates. I’ve only matched with a few women and female-presenting people since being here, and it’s only remained consistent with this one girl who moved back to Athens before we could arrange a date (cry). As someone with a strong preference for women and female-presenting people, I’ve been left in a sea of jacked straight men (I don’t even usually date straight men, but I’ve met ZERO bi men so far).

The men I’ve met just haven’t been right for me, even for a casual dynamic. I haven’t truly connected with anyone here or been interested in pursuing anything with them.

I mentioned in a previous post that I’ve been having negative experiences with men recently, which range from unsolicited dick pics to the man working at a restaurant near my apartment trying to push me to go out with him and making sexual comments constantly. Either way, I haven’t had an enriching and respectful conversation with a man since moving here, and it’s left me feeling completely exhausted.

3. Body confidence issues

TW: eating disorder, body confidence issues

I’m about to go on a bit of a tangent, but I promise it’ll eventually link back to the dating.

I’ve been battling with disordered eating since I was 11, which is when I started starving myself at secondary school. Things only got worse when I was around 15 and realised I could exercise and lift heavy weights at the school gym with my friends every day after school. This led to working out until I was sick, starving myself for days at a time, binge eating and then, eventually, throwing up.

Luckily, through therapy and A LOT of work, I’ve managed to work on the physical aspect of this. I don’t make myself throw up or exercise excessively anymore. When I’m finding it impossible to eat, I vocalise it to a friend and we find ways to get me eating (even a little bit). I don’t allow myself to restrict food anymore. I eat when I’m hungry and I eat what I want.

But while the physical aspect is under control, the mental torment has never left me, and if I can be candid, I panic sometimes that it never will. Almost every day, my brain tells me not to eat. I look in the mirror or at photos of myself, and I convince myself that I can easily lose the weight I’ve gained through recovery if I just starve myself for a few weeks (I have a fantastic therapist who helps me through this).

As a way to cope and avoid getting angry at myself, I’ve personified my eating disorder and named him Ed (clever, I know). Instead of, “I’m being so annoying, why can’t I just eat?” I say to my friends, “Ed is being a prick today.” And we all bitch about him.

As a sidenote, I’d definitely recommend naming everything - anxiety, depression, self-doubt - after a man you hate. It’s so much more rewarding to blame them.

Ed does still get triggered frequently because, unfortunately, we live in a society that focuses on eating habits and weight. My old workplace was terrible for diet culture, and I even once had someone come into my office to tell me I’d gained so much weight since I’d been there.

One of Ed’s main triggers, aside from the societal focus on dieting, is dating men. I genuinely don’t want to blame the men I’ve slept with for this (trust me, I’m more than happy to blame men for things when it’s warranted). I think it just comes from this idea of men being more judgmental of our bodies, which, realistically, I haven’t experienced much of. But still, the fear of being seen naked by a man is STRONG.

I’ve never experienced this with a woman or enby person, ever. I always feel empowered and beautiful when I’m with them, and I don’t fear their judgment at all. I genuinely don’t think I’ll ever fear being naked in front of a woman.

So, being in Chania, where the dating pool is a sea of straight men, has led to my brain focusing heavily on my body image.

THIS IS NOT THE VIBE.

Again, this isn’t their fault, but it hints at a wider problem with my mental state. If I’m focused on male validation and I don’t have room to love myself, then I’m not in a place to be dating.

For further reading on this, Kate from Kate Dates recently wrote an article on letting go of male validation:

Read Kate's Article Here

With the shitty dating pool, Ed being a cunt, and my addiction to attention (partly thanks to being a Leo rising), I’m taking a dating break (at least) until my 26th birthday. And I’m sure I’ll take another couple of dating breaks before the end of the year, which is fine. I’d rather press pause on dating and attention than settle for boring dates where I feel disrespected.

I run on matcha lattes! If you want to support me, you can buy me a matcha now:

Buy me a matcha here (no presh) xox

Me writing this on 4 hours of sleep hehe:

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I like The Life of a Showgirl, but I also understand the criticism surrounding it. I’m surprised that I loved it so much on first listen because I didn’t care for The Tortured Poets Department (TTPD) when it came out, and now it’s one of my favourite TS albums. I assumed I’d feel the same about The Life of a Showgirl, and I was prepared to give myself time and multiple listens to assess how I felt about it, but The Fate of Ophelia immediately captured my attention.

I'm a sucker for Taylor’s upbeat, catchy pop hits - I think they’re fun in a way that a lot of pop isn’t for me. I can’t explain it, but Taylor’s songs don’t really get old, and I’ll listen to them on repeat for years without getting bored. The Fate of Ophelia is catchy, and I like the concept behind it, but I also understand why people don’t. Whether it’s because it doesn’t sound exciting to them (which I tend to hear from people who don’t like Taylor’s music in general, and that’s fair enough) or because they’re confused about how it fits into the album, either way, I get it. The theme of the album is, after all, The Life of a Showgirl, and The Fate of Ophelia is clearly about how falling in love with Travis Kelce has saved her (if you don’t know - Ophelia is a character in Hamlet who is driven to madness and dies at the hands of a man who mistreats her).

I don’t personally have an issue with this, though, because I don’t think an album concept should limit you to one theme, and anyway, Taylor’s love life is a massive part of her life as a showgirl. Does this make it less enjoyable for some people? Sure. But I personally liked it. I also like the idea that she’s suggesting she won’t die at the hands of a man who mistreats her because she’s found love with a man who doesn’t.

Moving straight onto Elizabeth Taylor. Elizabeth Taylor, as well as being enjoyable to listen to, just makes sense. Outside of those who actually enjoy her music, Taylor Swift’s career has been almost entirely dominated by the backlash she receives for dating and writing about her love life. This is why I feel Elizabeth Taylor, a celebrity (or showgirl) who famously married seven men and was heavily criticised for it, is a great channel for Taylor to express what it is to be a woman in show business. Not only this, but she’s clearly grateful to have found someone who she is desperate will stick - despite the public criticism she is (once again) facing for her choice in men (Matty Healy is a whole other situation & I will be discussing it).

I’ve heard a lot of criticism for Father Figure, and it all seems to be the same, so I’m going to share my opinion - I don’t think she’s talking about being a father figure for other artists, and I think that’s kinda obvious?! She seems to be discussing power dynamics within the music industry - the protagonist of this song is a powerful figure in the industry who promises to protect younger artists, but instead sets out to control and dominate them. And I don’t think, as some articles have suggested, that she’s glorifying this. To me, the protagonist is clearly a villain, and the lyrics hint at the challenges she - along with other women in the industry - had to face early in her career. If anything, I think Father Figure is the most on-theme song on this entire album.

Opalite - this song is about finding love, and I love it. I think it’s a bop, and sometimes that’s just what music is all about. Again, I don’t personally care about it being off-theme.

CANCELLED! is a tricky one for me, and I understand the backlash for it. I like it, even though the line “they’re the ones with matching scars” makes me cringe. Most celebrities who get cancelled get cancelled for a reason and should be held accountable - this is something Taylor brushes over in this song. But I think it’s pretty clear that she’s talking about people who get cancelled for minor issues. After all, people have literally attempted to cancel Taylor herself purely for writing and singing about dating lots of men. Selena Gomez, one of Taylor’s best friends, has almost been cancelled over numerous things that were, realistically, all speculation (beef with Hayley Bieber, falling out with the friend who gave her a kidney, etc.) In my opinion, this can be the issue with cancel culture and seems to be what Taylor is talking about when she discusses her friends being cancelled. Needless to say, cancelling celebrities for their wrongdoings is absolutely the right decision sometimes. Either way, it’s all part of the life of a showgirl.

I’m not even going to get into Wood because I really don’t care that much. She’s an adult woman who wants to sing about her fiancé’s dick. If you’re upset about that, grow up?!

Let’s move on to Honey. I struggled with this one. I like the song, I think it’s enjoyable to listen to, but I think her off-handedly referring to a woman as a bitch (after years of saying she was actively unlearning this and didn’t agree with it) is a problem. I didn’t enjoy that, and I think it speaks to the wider issue of who Taylor Swift is as a person VS who her brand pretends she is, which I will come to in a moment.

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Wi$h Li$t - I literally laughed out loud when I listened to this song - not because it was funny. I laughed because I couldn’t believe I was listening to a billionaire talk about how all she dreams of is a humble life with a basketball hoop in the drive, and comparing herself to those who want a luxurious lifestyle and plastic surgery.

Is a humble lifestyle all you want, Taylor? If so, I reckon a billion would help in sending aid to Palestine - you know, due to the genocide Israel is committing that you’ve yet to acknowledge.

For someone who claims to want a simple life, she didn’t release singles or even any snippets of the songs on this album before selling a shocking number of variations of it. Girl, don’t pretend you’re not driven entirely by money - you are literally a billionaire!

Don’t even get me started on the highly problematic issue of her calling out and comparing herself to people (let’s be real - women) who’ve had plastic surgery. Suggesting superiority over those who want plastic surgery is old, inherently misogynistic, and brings us back to the fact that Taylor is not who her brand suggests she is.

Ok, now we’re getting into it, so let me just stop and explain why it has been extremely hard for me to write this.

I’m a Swiftie

I am a huge fan of Taylor Swift’s music. I enjoy every era for a different reason. Her music brings me a lot of joy. I go to a lot of concerts, and The Eras Tour was one of the best I’ve ever been to. I think she’s a fantastic performer, she is passionate about her art, she’s a good writer, she’s a good singer, and she’s a great artist.

I’m also a HUGE fan of the fandom. I love Swifties, and I love what Taylor Swift’s brand has done for girlhood. Trading friendship bracelets and wearing pink and glitter has never been so cool. Being in a room full of Swifties feels like having your hair braided at a sleepover - it’s nostalgic, it’s girly, it’s pure.

I find that a lot of people who hate Taylor Swift hate her due to the abundance of misogynistic rhetoric about her. I’m not saying this is the case for everyone who dislikes her, but I think a majority of people who decide they don’t like her music (or her as a person) have decided that based on her being a powerful and influential woman who dates a lot of men and sings about it. This is NOT valid criticism, and it IS misogynistic.

However, I am now going to discuss my issues with Taylor Swift as someone who is simultaneously a massive Taylor Swift fan.

My struggle with being a Taylor Swift fan

Let’s put her music aside and delve even deeper into who Taylor Swift is as a person. No, I don’t know her, but I know her controversies, and it’s important that every Swiftie recognises and acknowledges them.

Matty Healy

Honestly, her dating Matty Healy was bullshit. I am also a big fan of The 1975, and it fucking sucks when you enjoy art created by terrible people. Taylor Swift, who claims to be a feminist, dated a man who openly joked about getting off on porn that degrades and brutalises black women, made racist jokes about Ice Spice, and did a Nazi salute on stage (AMONG OTHER THINGS!!).

While she frequently participates in speaking out against sexism when it impacts her, she actively brushes misogyny under the carpet when it comes to women of colour. White feminism, anyone?

Taylor Swift’s confusing silence on political and humanitarian issues

As an activist, I struggle back and forth between expecting celebrities to constantly participate in political and humanitarian debates, and recognising that it’s a tall order for anyone to be that politically active. There are A LOT of issues in the world, and it can be very easy to get burned out when trying to tackle them all. Taylor Swift has been active in the political world for a long time - she speaks out against the Trump administration, she is candid about who she votes for, she is pro-choice, she supports the LGBTQIA+ community, she is an advocate for stricter gun control, and she is openly liberal.

On the other side of the coin, Taylor Swift hasn’t (to my knowledge) used her platform to speak out about Israel committing genocide in Palestine. And, as mentioned above, there are conflicting messages in her music. She calls herself a feminist, then refers to other women as bitches. She dated a man who was racist and misogynistic, and only stopped dating him because he ghosted her (by her own admission).

Why do I think she doesn’t always speak out?

We saw the backlash she faced with her dad and management team in Miss Americana when she wanted to speak out about protecting the LGBTQIA+ community in her state. I think, after all these years in the industry, Taylor has somewhat been consumed by her brand. Everything she says and does is monitored and calculated. She has to avoid backlash at all costs, and so sometimes, instead of saying something, she says nothing (unless it’s about something that directly impacts her, of course).

Do I think this is reasonable?

No, I don’t.

Her billionaire status

There is no such thing as an ethical billionaire. It is not ethical to hoard money while people starve. It is not ethical to act like you want a humble life while continuing to release album cover after album cover to exploit your fans. And on top of that, it’s not transparent to pretend you’re down to earth while charging your fans £600 to come to your show.

To understand this better, watch the video below, which puts into perspective what a million VS a billion looks like. In summary, 1 million seconds = 11.5 days, while 1 billion seconds = 31 years.

One last (incredibly important) point of discussion is that the criticisms I’ve brought forward throughout this article are not unique to Taylor Swift. A lot of celebrities, especially men, get away with the same and worse behaviour. Most singers and actors are not politically active and are never questioned about it.

I truly believe that the reason Taylor Swift receives so much backlash, more than most celebrities I can think of, is the result of sexism.

I also think that the most important thing to take home from this, if anything, is that worshipping celebrities is never a good idea. We all fall victim to it - I do it all the time. But we don’t know who they are, and when we do, they will often disappoint us.

Love their art, admire their brand, participate in their fandom, but don’t idealise who they are as a person.

And in case it wasn’t obvious, I am still a Swiftie, and I will be shamelessly listening to The Life of a Showgirl on repeat for the next 294713985 days (give or take).

There are other important topics that I didn’t discuss in this article, such as Taylor Swift’s impact on the environment and her comments about Charli xcx in the song Actually Romantic. I have attached articles for further reading at the bottom of this page alongside my sources for this article.

Thank you for reading! I run on matcha lattes, so if you like my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a matcha below (no presh) xoxo

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Sources and further reading -|
Matty Healy and his controversies - https://graziadaily.co.uk/celebrity/news/matty-healy-controversies/
Taylor Swift and white feminism - https://www.rockandart.org/white-feminism-critical-look-taylor-swift/
Taylor Swift on politics - https://www.euronews.com/culture/2025/08/27/donald-trump-vs-taylor-swift-a-bad-blood-timeline
Taylor Swift and her impact on the environment - https://carbonmarketwatch.org/2024/02/13/taylor-swift-and-the-top-polluters-department/
Charli xcx fued - https://variety.com/2025/music/news/taylor-swift-charli-xcx-feud-actually-romantic-timeline-showgirl-1236538041/

If you haven’t read the first part of my novel, you can read it here:

Chapter One

The first part was originally going to be the prologue, but upon reflection, I’ve decided to make it chapter one (for now, I’ll probably change my mind again). Below is chapter two! It’s pretty rough at the moment, but I hope you enjoy!

Chapter two

“So yeah, that’s where we landed. I’m the worst lesbian ever, and he is the loveliest and most understanding guy ever. And he thinks I’m a warlock.” I slammed down my mug, matcha spilling over the sides as I did.

“A warlock?” I was grateful that the slight curl of Vincent’s lips disappeared as he realised this was serious. “I’m sorry, but…” He took a peppermint tea break, carefully selecting his words. “...You had sex with a man… for the first time in your life... and you don’t remember it. And he thinks you’re a warlock?”

“I doubt he actually thinks I’m a warlock. We didn’t really discuss it more than that.”

“So, you slept with a man. Emphasis on the man,” he giggled to himself, “and you went for breakfast with him because he was a man who you slept with.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m just asking what the breakfast was for?” His face was one of genuine intrigue.

“I needed to know what happened.”

“Which was?”

Read more

I realised this week that I’ve never looked for a relationship.

I had a few obligatory school relationships that meant nothing and ended as quickly as they started, and I’ve had two long-term, real relationships.

My first relationship was with one of my best friends. We met when we were 11; he had a crush on me, but I didn’t find out until we were 15. When we were 16, we fell into a relationship. We went on dates, safely and intimately explored our sex lives together, and learned how to do the whole being in love thing. Our relationship lasted 4 and a half years and ended when we got to our twenties and realised we were different people going in different directions. It was an extremely heartbreaking end, but we’ve remained best friends to this day.

My second relationship started when I was 22. We were friends and casually dating / sleeping together for 8 months before I decided to become exclusive with them. Alongside them, I was seeing a lot of other people (the most I ever have at once), and I was having fun and enjoying my sex and dating life. When we got together, it was immediately tumultuous. I caught them on dating apps early on, they had a weird on-again-off-again texting thing with one of their friends they used to sleep with who would bitch about me and send them nudes, they had a porn addiction, and they later admitted to me that they’d think about their ex to cum - something that completely killed any ounce of self-worth that was left in my body. This led to me becoming an anxiously attached demon who desperately sought their approval and reassurance constantly, lost all sense of who they were and lived and breathed them.

I didn’t go looking for a relationship in either of these circumstances, and with the last only ending last year, I haven’t looked for one since.

What I look for on dating apps is casual, but not purely sexual. I describe it as dates, friendship and sex, with the latter coming when I feel comfortable with them. No commitment, no jealousy, no exclusivity. I’m not opposed to a relationship forming if I meet someone and end up catching feelings for them, but I’m not looking for it.

Now, back to the sex. I enjoyed having sex when I was single and casually dating between my first two relationships. A lot. I was dating constantly and connecting with new people every other day. I had the opportunity during this time to explore sex with women and female-presenting people a lot more, which was fantastic since I lean more towards them anyway.

The difference between my sex life then and now has been astounding. Back then, I found it effortless to meet someone, date them, have sex with them and not catch any feelings. The sex was fun and fulfilling. I was connecting with them on an intimate level, making the sex way more exciting and passionate, and I was building friendships that have lasted to this day. But now, I kinda hate it.

There are a few things I’ve realised may be contributing to this change:

I’m older now, and the dating pool has changed

When I was 21, it was a lot easier to find people who were interested in having this friends-with-benefits type situationship. More people are single at 21, and most of them don’t want to date for a relationship. Now that I’m 25, I’m often finding either people who exclusively want a relationship (good for them, honestly) or people who only want sex and are straight to the point with it.

My self-worth has been reduced

Following my first relationship, I felt pretty, I felt wanted, I felt good enough. That’s how my partner had made me feel, and I emerged feeling valued and valuable. My last partner, however, left me feeling completely unwanted. I’ve spent the past year battling with self-doubt, questioning my ability to be a good sexual partner, questioning how I look and feeling insecure about every little thing.

Bringing this into a casual dynamic is dangerous. Feeling insecure while having sex with someone can completely ruin the experience for me, even when I communicate it openly with them. Luckily for me, I never feel this insecurity with women and female-presenting people, but I do feel it with men. Every single time, in fact.

Sexual trauma

Experiencing sexual trauma, specifically with men (which I won’t be going into detail about), makes it hard for me to enjoy sex with them. I mainly have sex with women and female-presenting people, and the little sex I’ve had with men this year has been quite stressful for me. My discomfort is so obvious, and it makes the experience less enjoyable for both of us.

Back to the dating pool. When it comes to female-presenting people, I seem to match with baby bi’s, which is really fun, but they don’t flirt with me *cry*. And male-presenting people seem only to want sex. No matter how I meet them, they are so hyper-sexual it’s alarming. I met this guy the other day on Raya who made fun of men who reach out immediately for sex, and pretty much straight after that, he sent me a photo of his dick and now only wants to talk to me if we’re sexting (I unfollowed, dw).

Last week, a guy who works opposite my apartment flirted with me and invited me for free drinks at his restaurant. I accepted and went along with my friend, thinking he was going to woo me. Instead, he IMMEDIATELY started making sexual innuendos while we were there and didn’t stop texting me about how he ‘fucking wants me.’

On dating apps, my friends and I get an insane amount of first messages from men asking to lick our pussy or show us their dicks. So now, thanks to them, I’ve become a cliche cunt who has to ask the question - what the fuck happened to hello?

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This is how I plan on reframing sex from now on:

Wait until the third date

…Or at least try to. I often wait anyway, but recently, I’ve been finding it harder and harder to set this boundary. No, this isn’t because I’m desperate to fuck them. It’s because coercion is a much bigger problem than we like to discuss, and we need to discuss it because we can all relate to it. I’ve been struggling to keep this boundary in place because even when you tell them beforehand, they tend to try anyway. Then, when you say no, they tend to try more. It’s like they think if you’re having any kind of physical intimacy - hands touching, cuddling, making out - this means you’ve changed your mind and want to have sex with them. No matter what you say.

Alternatively, you tell people you won’t have sex with them until the third date, and suddenly, they lose interest in talking to you as soon as they realise you’re actually serious. This is tough as a recovering attention whore who cannot handle rejection, but I have to remember that it’s not me they’re rejecting, they just want different things, and that’s ok.

If they’re not interested in listening to my needs and desires, ditch them

This has happened to me this year as well. I’ve tried expressing exactly what it is I need, and the person hasn’t listened. I like a slow build-up, lots of foreplay and even hours of completely non-sexual care. It’s like aftercare, but it’s pre-care. I like the cuddling, the talking, the playing with my hair, the massages, and the insane make-out session before we’ve even removed our clothes.

What I’ve experienced recently is rushed - one moment we’re kissing, and the next we’re naked and touching each other. I hate it. It’s boring. They don’t take the time to make me need them so desperately that I’m trembling.

If it’s clear they want different things, don’t try to control the situation

I really need to learn how to do this. As a Scorpio and control freak with anxious attachment issues, I like to be in charge of every single thing. I will give myself credit and say that I’m self-aware about this, and I’m extremely careful not to ever control another person. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to control a situation. Call it optimism, but if I have one good chat with someone and my interest is piqued, and then they show me that they’re actually not a good communicator, only want me for sex and will not respect my wishes, I will keep going in an attempt to go back to that one good conversation. If I had it once, I must be able to get it again. And even though they’re showing me that they don’t give a shit about me, and that our date will be shit, I try to manufacture a way it will go the exact way I want it to go.

No more. I have to stop with this. If someone is interested in me, they will actively make the effort. If they want the same things, I won’t be doubting them and recognising red flags that tell me the opposite. If it’s going to be a good date, I won’t have to manufacture anything.

I need to let go of the fear of not having enough sex and just do it when I want it and when the circumstances are right. There shouldn’t be any societal pressure for me to be out there dating. Enjoying my twenties is not about who I’m having sex with. Plus, what the fuck is the point in being able to say I’ve had sex if it wasn’t fun for me?

2025, for me, has been the year of shit dates and shit sex. And that’s fine. I’ve had a lot of sex in my life, and I’ve decided that, going forward, I’d rather slow down and have a few good shags a year than 100 shit ones.

Just in time for The Life of a Showgirl, I’m entering my next era: The Death of the Meaningless Shag. I want a slow build, I want a few dates, I want to know your grandma’s name before we do it (preferably not directly before). We don’t have to be entering a relationship for you to respect me, get to know me, and be romantic with me.

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I’ve already seen you before on our wedding day. I cried at your vows. I stepped on my dress and it ripped a little at the bottom, but I didn’t care because I was marrying you. The love of my life. The one who saw me through losing my job and trying to make it as a writer. I didn’t care because you grabbed my hand and kissed me and told me it was ok because our love was all that mattered.

Ok, obviously you don’t remember that, because it didn’t happen. But still, what’s so strange about me being in love with you? If you don’t fall in love with every stranger that intrigues you, then what do you do for fun?

I’ve fallen in love 83,000 times this year (that’s just an estimate). With the girl I took on that one amazing date in April, the guy I went on a walk with briefly in Chania and will likely never see again, the stars, the moon again and again and again, the smell of stagnant fountain water (why is that smell like crack to me?!), the person I kissed at my leaving party, the 4-month situationship I HATED, the song Back to Friends by Sombr, the pita bread I ate yesterday, my friends, my friends’ friends.

And you might think that’s weird. I see your point. But let me raise you another point: you’re weird.

Falling in love is my natural state.

I was talking to this guy I met on Raya the other night, and I told him there was no risk of me falling in love with him because I’ve only ever been in love twice, and they were both long-term partners. I don’t fall in love with people I date and sleep with casually.

Later, I told him I fell in love with a French guy this week, and he said he thought I didn’t fall in love. It’s different, I said. I fall in love every single day with every little thing. I hope he knows I fell in love with him, too. Just briefly. It was his wit, his charm, his ability to make me blush. And it all meant nothing. And it all meant everything.

Life without falling in love and having your heart broken over and over seems colourless to me. I’d rather be too much.

I’m fuelled by matcha lattes, so if you like my writing and want to support me, you can buy me one below! (no presh hehe)

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When I’m not awake, you steal my dreams. And I’m sorry if I steal yours sometimes, too. I only wish I knew if I appeared in them. I’m confident I’m with you when you see the moon, or when you hear even a snippet of something I may have said.

Are you consumed by little slices of hell every time I cross your mind, like I am when you cross mine?

What am I now but an open wound, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding into the abyss. No stitches can hold my heart together like the grip of someone who loved me so wholeheartedly as you did.

Perhaps we were cursed from the moment we laid eyes on each other - two romantic dreamers with a passion for unrequited love and tragic endings. Maybe it was written in the stars, with tear-spattered ink, that we’d gain and lose each other with such intensity.

Either way, you hold my heart in your hands, and I can feel it - trust me, I can feel it - every time you squeeze.

I’m a whole person on my own, Kate reminds me. But she’s wrong. So wrong. You will always have the other half of me. I lost a part of me when I lost you, and I will never be whole again until we’re reunited. And if we should never reunite, I will simply go on living as half the human I once was.

Or maybe I never was.

I’ve suspected for a while that you were the piece that made me whole. The Patroclus to my Achilles, the broken wing mirror to my star-lit room, the unnamed dreamer to my dear Nastenka.

This is me now - a creature of immense pain. But one that’s been lucky enough to know love to such depths that billionaires, in all their stupidity, would die for a chance to explore them.

Sometimes, without you, it feels like I’m alone in the universe. But then I realise - you’re in the universe, too. And as long as we share the same stars, we’re together. Somehow. Somewhere.

Take care of my heart, now. It’s yours. It’s all yours.

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The magazine is available both as a physical publication and a digital download, and we’ve been lucky to have had some success early on, with the first and second editions being sold in bookshops in the UK.

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Now, with the genocide in Gaza having led to famine and the death of 65,000 Palestinians (at the time of writing), we have decided to donate 100% of our profits until the end of 2025 to send aid to Gaza. We’ve tried to find mutual aid organisations led by Palestinians who are working on the ground to support Gaza, and would appreciate any suggestions or guidance on other legitimate organisations.

Some of the organisations we’ll be donating to include:

Dahnoun Mutual Aid
https://chuffed.org/project/115245-dahnoun-mutual-aid

Dahnoun is run entirely by volunteers and led by Gazawis inside and outside of Gaza. 100% of funds raised go directly to our teams on the ground. We work with a tight circle of long term partners in Gaza who carry out all distribution efforts.

The Sameer Project
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Donations based initiative, led by Palestinians in the diaspora, working to supply aid to displaced families in Gaza.

The Sanabel Team
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Our mission is to continue providing direct aid that’s available on the ground, to families during this time. Funds will go towards necessities like food, water, and building materials for shelter when available. Life rebuilding will be in the next phase. We thank you for your ongoing support friends!

By supporting our magazine, you’ll not only be supporting smaller artists, but you’ll also be sending much-needed aid to the victims of the devastating genocide Israel is actively committing in Gaza. Aid comes to Gaza in the form of food, water, medical care and supplies, and it is a necessity that we do as much as we can to support them.

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The problem with dating without the intention of developing feelings or getting into a relationship is that the second the c word gets mentioned (casual, not cunt), the prospect immediately jumps into sexting and inviting me over for a shag.

GIRL!!

What happened to casual meaning we go on a few dates, flirt, vibe, stargaze and talk about the future, stay up all night texting about our favourite songs, write each other poetry, and THEN shag? (for any non-Brits reading this, shag = have sex)

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Just because I don’t want to be exclusive with you or catch feelings, doesn’t mean I want to jump straight into bed with you. It’s boring, it lacks passion, and the sex is fucking terrible.

When did we exchange calling someone beautiful for immediately calling them sexy? When did we decide that sex was an assumption on a first date, or that we can’t connect on an intimate level without it leading to attachment?

The second I think someone has matched my vibe and respected my boundary, they start sexting me again. Do they not realise I’m chilling with my friends rn, and couldn’t give any less shits about what they want to do to me?

Since joining Raya, the number of offers I’ve had from men to fly me out to Paris is insane, but of course, they follow it up by telling me they want to tear my asshole apart (true story). Fly me to Paris without the expectation of sex?? Maybe??

I’m sick of this, and honestly, I’m terrified that it’ll be exactly the same when I do eventually start looking for a relationship.

Advice for anyone who wants to date me: I’m way more likely to have sex with you if you take me on a date, provide interesting conversation, match my energy and flirt without needing to make it about sex. LEARN THE ART OF THE BUILD UP.

If this casual dating shitshow has taught me anything, it’s that I’m definitely demisexual (something I’ve been questioning for a while now).

I’ll (hopefully) be back next week with news of a successful casual dating experience. In the meantime, do a romance spell for me (I desperately need it).

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Have you ever been loved by someone so much that it hurts you both? I write about my desire to be yearned for - to be missed and prioritised, for them to be driven mad with jealousy at the simple thought of me with someone else. But in truth, I had that, and it was the most painful experience of my life.

“I love you because you didn't fall in love with me.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights

In April, I lost my best friend of six years to unrequited love. When I imagine what true love is, I think of the love he gave me - undying, all-consuming. What I failed to notice was the torture that came with it. Every New Year’s kiss, first date, hookup, and relationship I had wasn’t just a choice I made, it was a choice I didn’t make - to be with him.

It wasn’t until October 2024 that the cracks started to show. He couldn’t take it anymore. The waiting. The longing. The concept of one day slipped through his fingers every second, and my respectful friend (who had always been happy as long as I was) became consumed with jealousy. Hurtful comments and emotional outbursts became weekends of binge drinking and unimaginable turmoil.

The security of being loved by someone so ardently was reassuring for me, but the second I opened my eyes to the pain behind his, I opened my heart to sharing it. I didn’t want to date because of the fear of hurting him. I lied about where I was going or who I was talking to. I even saw my other friends less to see him more, hoping he’d be reassured that I still loved him (even if it wasn’t in the same way).

But how do you call it friendship when the closest person to you, your everything, spends their life intoxicated while you rapidly lose your own sense of freedom?

It had to end.

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Below you’ll find the beginning of my novel, Good Morning (this is a working title, and it’s literally titled this right now because that’s the first line of the book. I know - very lazy).

I guess this is the elevator pitch?? Good Morning is a witchy, queer, spicy, murder-mystery-ish (ish cos you know who did it from the beginning) comedy?? (I think I’m funny idk if you will). Is it a romcom? Might be a romcom.

Anyway, enjoy the prologue.

Prologue

Daphne

“Good morning,” yawned the guy in my bed as he rolled over to face me, his morning breath suffocating me like a leaf blower on full blast.

“Morning?” I echoed, half expecting an answer to one of the many questions rolling around in my head. What drugs did I end up taking last night? Why did I go to sleep with socks on when I literally never sleep with socks on? And, most urgently, who (in the actual fuck) is this guy?

“Not a morning person, huh?” He crumpled his face and reached for his jeans, which were folded neatly on the ‘getting ready’ chair in front of the mirror next to my bed, with the speed of a sloth on tranquilisers.

He wasn’t bad-looking: fluffy blonde hair, slim yet ridiculously ripped figure, angelic eyes, and a cute little smile. No, he wasn’t bad-looking at all. In fact, he was super extremely good-looking. Not really my type, though, considering I’m a lesbian.

“So…?” I offered, annoying myself at this point with the completely unanswerable questions. “What…?” I tried for the dreaded question but struggled to find the words. Urgh. If I were him, I’d have turned murderous by now. But he just laughed at me, pulled his socks up, and shrugged. His back was carved like one of those nude statues of Zeus stolen by The British Museum.

I wrapped the loose sheet around me, suddenly conscious of my nakedness. Of everything I’ve done in my twenty-five years of life, surely waking up next to a handsome model-man with no memory of the night before has to be the craziest. Did I mention I’m gay?

“If you’re trying to ask if we had sex…” His innocent smile twisted into a cheeky, half-smirk that threatened to implode my entire world.

“…then the answer is yes. We had sex.”

This is the part in the film where I throw myself back down on the bed, screaming NOOOOOO at the ceiling before they cut to me retracing my steps from the night before.

“Not very good sex,” he added, reminding me I’d been silent for at least thirty awkward seconds. “But it was sex.”

“That last part felt unnecessary.” I shoved my face into a pillow and rolled over, hoping that if I closed my eyes tightly enough, I’d wake up yesterday and relive the day over and over again until I got it right.

A man?

In my flat?

Walking toward my bedroom door?

“Breakfast?”

Offering me breakfast?

“Or I can just leave. If that’s better for you?”

At least he can take a hint. I stared at him, wordless. God, this man must think I’m completely out of it. Or insane. Or both. And now he was in the hall, slipping his shoes on and nodding to himself. Or maybe at me. A silent agreement passed between us, and he headed for the front door.

The heaviness of my eyelids threatened to carry me back to sleep. Had I even slept properly? The only person who could tell me was walking out the door.

“The aesthetic of your house is cool.”

I jumped up, startled to hear him still in the hallway.

“Are you, like, some warlock or something?”

I followed his voice to find him gripping one of the crystals I’d inherited from Nana - purple amethyst by the door for protection. Next to it sat my pink Himalayan salt jar, two singing bowls, and a book of herb spells I’d picked up from one of the many local magick shops.

“Yeah, haha.” I laughed, completely unconvincing. “A warlock. Sure.”

He scanned me with those brown eyes, and I felt like I was going to faint. Whether from the extreme hangover I just realised I was having or the fact that this strange man I apparently slept with was questioning me about witchcraft when I’d clearly (in my head) asked him to leave, I didn’t know. I stumbled a bit, grabbing the amethyst from him with a defensive tug and placing it back where it belonged.

“I’m going now. Thanks for… umm. Last night,” he forced.

“Yeah, thanks.” It came out way more sarcastically than even I expected.

He was finally actually going, leaving me with an overactive imagination and a complete identity crisis.

Thanks, I mocked at the closed door.

For a split second, I stared at the empty hall, struggling to believe myself. How had I made such a mess of such a simple night? Would I ever know what got me into this mess? How could I…

It would be ridiculous to chase after him. Instead, I paced back and forth, overthought and overthought again until…

“Wait!”

I screamed, sprinting down the path, still wrapped in a sheet and nothing else. The cold air hit me (and my nipples) immediately.

What the fuck was I doing?

“Don’t go. I need to talk to you.”

Don’t tell me what you think cos I’m actually very anxious about this

love you thanks for reading bye

xxx

Casually, of course. Which probably gets confusing when I start practising my signature with their last name and hanging posters of them on my bedroom wall. How do you explain to the people you’re casually dating that you miss them, you wanna lie on their chest for hours so you can smell them, and that you stay up just to listen to their favourite songs and think about them? I know what you’re thinking - that’s love.

No. It’s yearning.

I don’t want to be with them. My focus will shift from them to the next person I sleep with with ease, and when we stop fucking, they’ll go into the archive with the rest of the people I’ve obsessed over and forgotten about.

You’re probably wondering - if I’m such a yearny little lover girl, why am I only dating casually?!

The answer is that I’m not healthy enough for a relationship right now.

I do miss having a built-in best friend who gives me butterflies and plays with my hair, but the anxious attachment issues I’ve been recently plagued with won’t go away.

It’s not something I’m proud of, but my hot-and-cold ex left me with a need for constant reassurance and affection (to the detriment of my sanity) (hey *** fuck you if you’re reading this) (pls remind me to never date an avoidant again).

When I start to develop feelings now, my neediness reconfirms the juxtaposition between my relationship ideals and the horrible conditions my heart is currently trapped under. I want trust, freedom, and a life separate from my partner, but instead, I bleed insecurity and pessimism. My friend Marvin once said that when he’s in a relationship, his partner has to trust him to sleep naked in bed with someone he’s slept with before. This is the level of trust I had with my first partner (shoutout Dom), and the level of trust I aspire to bring to all my future relationships.

Unfortunately for me, I’m just a Scorpio who falls for emotionally immature Pisces with no communication skills and avoidance issues. The more they play with my emotions, the more I want them (dw I’m in therapy lmao).

I’m also at the age where if I get into a relationship now, we might stay together forever. What if it never ends??? Terrifying.

Anyway, if you’re an astrology girly and you know why I always fall in love with Pisces, please help me!!

If not, please stay tuned for my next newsletter, where I’ll tell you the embarrassing ins and outs of my current crush (it’s bad).

Well, that’s if I’m still crushing on them next week.

I don’t know how to end a Substack newsletter. This is my first time.

Bye.

Love you xxx

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