I am completely aware that I haven't written in a millennium but I have many reasons:
A. The first week of summer was spent pining over Humbug, which included watching The Way We Were (and singing along because Barbara Streisand is my soul sister), blasting out I Knew You Were Trouble and rolling around on the floor like Taylor Swift in that depressing-arse video :')
B. I went travelling round Europe with my sister! And I went to Mexico with the fam, so I've been a busy bee!
C. This social slug has finally turned into a social butterfly (it's been a long time coming, as many of you will testify) so I've literally been out every day!
D. I'm seeing this new guy and he's so dreamy but I don't want to post about him... :')
But now I'm backkkkkk.
And I'm here to address a serious issue. It is a well-known fact that I read a LOT of chick lit (romance novels) and this education has taught me that there is always
1. The Perfect Guy
2. The Female Best Friend who is quirky and weird and perfect for the Perfect Guy
3. The Evil Girlfriend who is high maintenance and mean and keeps the Perfect Guy from being happy. For instance, think of Emily from Friends - everyone thinks she is a high-maintenance bitch, whilst Rachel is the Female Best Friend that everyone loves.
But the thing is that the Evil Girlfriend doesn't exist. I won't lie, there are girls (myself included!) who are jealous, clingy koala bears who are really high maintenance. But that doesn't mean that we don't deserve love :') We are still the protagonists of our own lives. And it annoys me that people see us as being 'too much to handle'. Like Humbug - he needs somebody who is low maintenance and only requires one text a month or something.
The Evil Girlfriend doesn't exist; she's just high maintenance, and needs a guy who is willing to maintain her :')
And often in these romance stories the Evil Girlfriend is upset with the Perfect Guy because the latter is actually a knobhead! Like when Ross said Rachel at his wedding!!
So the next time you listen to the Taylor Swift song remember that just because the girlfriend wears 'short skirts' and doesn't get her boyfriend's jokes, it doesn't mean that he should be stolen from her by this supposedly perfect best friend.
Just something to think about.
Rant over xxxx
Saturday, 23 August 2014
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
Rise of the Slutty Alter Ego
Before you guys decide to excommunicate me from the blogger-sphere as punishment for my long absence, let me just explain myself: I had exams! Realllllllly hard exams that demanded every fibre of my brain to concentrate on Medea's wiley ways and whether Tess was an innocent virgin or a sly seductress... It was a hellish month.
But now I'm freeeeeeee! As opposed to making obsessive and neurotic lists, I'm spending my days counting my teeth with my tongue, learning the Evita soundtrack and cooking microwave meals without freaking out that the machine was going to explode, amongst other things...
Unfortunately, Humbug and I broke up a few days ago. It was a long time coming and I don't think that anybody on the planet was even remotely surprised when I told them about my decision. Even 5 minutes before I met him I wasn't sure that I was making the right choice, but it is for the best (I'm more telling myself this than telling you...!)
Anyways, the point is that I have recently accumulated Single Status - I am back to being Convent Gal and last night I was on the prowl for a devilishly handsome Manwhore who I could use to rebound with.
Naturally, however, this is not what happened.
I feel that I must first make clear how drunk I was. My liver, Hubert (yes, I named my liver) is even now still reeling from the number of shots, double-Malibu-and-lemonade and other drinks that I consumed last night. I was a complete drunk skunk.
As a result, the Beer Goggles kicked in and the 24-year-old-ferret-man-with-a-creepy-goatee-who-should-not-even-have-been-at-the-club-and-ew-he-was-so-repulsive looked like Chaning Tatum to me. So, one minute we are grinding on the dancefloor (as per usual, this is the only dance move I can actually do. And I enjoy it because I like to pretend that my life is Dirty Dancing and that I'm Baby and that the [albeit repulsive] man behind me is Patrick Suasez) and the next minute we are playing tonsil tennis. Only, tennis is generally acknowledged to be a fun two-player game. This snogging was like being forced to choke on a cucumber stick that was wiggling in my mouth.
So then I became a glum chum and started wondering whether I had given up too easily on Humbug, who is such a pro at kissing that he could literally win a gold medal at the Olympics, Even thinking about it now makes my mouth water like huminahuminahumina-aahh.
But, alas, I decided to snap out of this gloomy mood and to move on to bigger and better things. In other words, the drunk Slutty Alter Ego started kicking in and she was chasing after those boys like a cop chasing a criminal in a classic car-chase: they had no escape.
Not that they were trying to escape, mind you - I had a few boys plying me with drinks. And this is when Boy Number Two happened.
Ok, in my defence HE WAS AMERICAN. You don't understand. An American accent is the one thing that can turn me on faster than a lightbulb. As soon as I heard the words "Oh, I'm just visiting from Seattle" I knew that this boy, Joey, had to be mine. So, naturally, I pounced on him. 'Pounced' is a fun verb which is so unbelievably appropriate in this context that I'm practically crying with shame as I type this. Joey was leaving to go to another club and I sprang upright and attacked his face with my mouth.
Now, this bit is going to sound a tad weird but...His tongue was like a PENIS. I know that's not possible, and I've never had personal contact with a penis so I may be wrong, but his tongue was so...wide!? And he was wiggling that around in my mouth like it was a weapon. So after 7 seconds of that I pushed him away (drunk Grammar Gal is so sassy) and went back to the bar, feeling bloody exasperated as to the lack of talent in the Pool of Potential Kissing Partners, aka the club.
Then up sauntered Boy Number Three. I cannot really tell you much about him - I remember he was tall and looked kinda young, but by this stage I was desperate for someone who would show me that some boys can kiss! And, oh, Boy Number Three, you did not disappoint. Obviously, he wasn't as good as Humbug. But he was 'hella fine' (look at me using youth lingo!)
So, yeah. That was it! The Girlfriend Grammar Gal is dead, long live Single Pringle Grammar Gal.
Having said that, I don't want another repeat of last night any time soon - the idea of kissing a randomer sounds appealing at first but, gals, it's a jungle out there! Boys are literally sex-crazed apes and I'm not sure that snogging randomers is the best escape route for my glumness about Humbug.
Sigh.
Keep you posted,
Grammar Gal xxx
But now I'm freeeeeeee! As opposed to making obsessive and neurotic lists, I'm spending my days counting my teeth with my tongue, learning the Evita soundtrack and cooking microwave meals without freaking out that the machine was going to explode, amongst other things...
Unfortunately, Humbug and I broke up a few days ago. It was a long time coming and I don't think that anybody on the planet was even remotely surprised when I told them about my decision. Even 5 minutes before I met him I wasn't sure that I was making the right choice, but it is for the best (I'm more telling myself this than telling you...!)
Anyways, the point is that I have recently accumulated Single Status - I am back to being Convent Gal and last night I was on the prowl for a devilishly handsome Manwhore who I could use to rebound with.
Naturally, however, this is not what happened.
I feel that I must first make clear how drunk I was. My liver, Hubert (yes, I named my liver) is even now still reeling from the number of shots, double-Malibu-and-lemonade and other drinks that I consumed last night. I was a complete drunk skunk.
As a result, the Beer Goggles kicked in and the 24-year-old-ferret-man-with-a-creepy-goatee-who-should-not-even-have-been-at-the-club-and-ew-he-was-so-repulsive looked like Chaning Tatum to me. So, one minute we are grinding on the dancefloor (as per usual, this is the only dance move I can actually do. And I enjoy it because I like to pretend that my life is Dirty Dancing and that I'm Baby and that the [albeit repulsive] man behind me is Patrick Suasez) and the next minute we are playing tonsil tennis. Only, tennis is generally acknowledged to be a fun two-player game. This snogging was like being forced to choke on a cucumber stick that was wiggling in my mouth.
So then I became a glum chum and started wondering whether I had given up too easily on Humbug, who is such a pro at kissing that he could literally win a gold medal at the Olympics, Even thinking about it now makes my mouth water like huminahuminahumina-aahh.
But, alas, I decided to snap out of this gloomy mood and to move on to bigger and better things. In other words, the drunk Slutty Alter Ego started kicking in and she was chasing after those boys like a cop chasing a criminal in a classic car-chase: they had no escape.
Not that they were trying to escape, mind you - I had a few boys plying me with drinks. And this is when Boy Number Two happened.
Ok, in my defence HE WAS AMERICAN. You don't understand. An American accent is the one thing that can turn me on faster than a lightbulb. As soon as I heard the words "Oh, I'm just visiting from Seattle" I knew that this boy, Joey, had to be mine. So, naturally, I pounced on him. 'Pounced' is a fun verb which is so unbelievably appropriate in this context that I'm practically crying with shame as I type this. Joey was leaving to go to another club and I sprang upright and attacked his face with my mouth.
Now, this bit is going to sound a tad weird but...His tongue was like a PENIS. I know that's not possible, and I've never had personal contact with a penis so I may be wrong, but his tongue was so...wide!? And he was wiggling that around in my mouth like it was a weapon. So after 7 seconds of that I pushed him away (drunk Grammar Gal is so sassy) and went back to the bar, feeling bloody exasperated as to the lack of talent in the Pool of Potential Kissing Partners, aka the club.
Then up sauntered Boy Number Three. I cannot really tell you much about him - I remember he was tall and looked kinda young, but by this stage I was desperate for someone who would show me that some boys can kiss! And, oh, Boy Number Three, you did not disappoint. Obviously, he wasn't as good as Humbug. But he was 'hella fine' (look at me using youth lingo!)
So, yeah. That was it! The Girlfriend Grammar Gal is dead, long live Single Pringle Grammar Gal.
Having said that, I don't want another repeat of last night any time soon - the idea of kissing a randomer sounds appealing at first but, gals, it's a jungle out there! Boys are literally sex-crazed apes and I'm not sure that snogging randomers is the best escape route for my glumness about Humbug.
Sigh.
Keep you posted,
Grammar Gal xxx
Thursday, 15 May 2014
The Narcissus Complex
As all good Classics students will know, there's a myth about a guy called Narcissus. This man was sooooo beautiful that he fell in love with his own reflection and drowned himself.
Clearly, therefore, perfection is pretty dangerous.
And yet, in our society there are still a gazillion Knobheads and vain Arrogant Arses who think that their appearance gives them special treatment - that they should be in the First Class Lounge on the British Airways flight of life. They walk into a room and expect every member of the opposite sex to swoon because of their bulging water-balloon biceps and their pearly white teeth. They stroll with a presence that says 'I could just look at your knickers at they would jump off you'.
But here's what confuses me: we actually go for these guys!!
When you're at the club Tiger there are 4 categories of guys:
1. The boys who have just broken up from their girlfriend and may be devilishly handsome but are NOT interested in anything other than Whiskey and Lads.
2. The geeky guys who are so excited by the sight of drunk girls in dresses that barely cover their bottoms that they are practically shaking.
3. The guys who are wayyyyyyy too old to still be clubbing and thus have been named the Creepy 30-Somethings, who leech on youngsters like creepy people in an effort to salvage their youth.
4. The beautiful Narcissuses. These are the boys that all the girls stare at in their drunken states. These are The Chosen Ones who manage to get served a drink just by looking at the bartender and giving her a cute smile whilst plebs like me have been waiting for 15 minutes. And these are the ones who have their pick of all the fish in the club and usually get with multiple girls in one night.
And I repeat: We go for these guys!
And these guys may never change, that's what scares me. The gym may always be their mothership and they may always have girls falling for them wherever they go.
This is a more frightening thought for me at the moment because we are going on a girls' holiday to Kavos in a few months, where there will be plenty of Narcissuses on the prowl for females of the same Perfectness. And let me tell you, I am not one of those. My thighs look like water-beds, my bum is about as toned as an orange that has been sat on by an obese dog and my boobs are Tic-Tac size.
But it's fine, I've already tried dating a Narcissus and I'm clearly more of a Geek Chic kinda gal.
And if there are no chic geeks then...
Well, Tequila and I have always been the best of pals.
xxx
Clearly, therefore, perfection is pretty dangerous.
And yet, in our society there are still a gazillion Knobheads and vain Arrogant Arses who think that their appearance gives them special treatment - that they should be in the First Class Lounge on the British Airways flight of life. They walk into a room and expect every member of the opposite sex to swoon because of their bulging water-balloon biceps and their pearly white teeth. They stroll with a presence that says 'I could just look at your knickers at they would jump off you'.
But here's what confuses me: we actually go for these guys!!
When you're at the club Tiger there are 4 categories of guys:
1. The boys who have just broken up from their girlfriend and may be devilishly handsome but are NOT interested in anything other than Whiskey and Lads.
2. The geeky guys who are so excited by the sight of drunk girls in dresses that barely cover their bottoms that they are practically shaking.
3. The guys who are wayyyyyyy too old to still be clubbing and thus have been named the Creepy 30-Somethings, who leech on youngsters like creepy people in an effort to salvage their youth.
4. The beautiful Narcissuses. These are the boys that all the girls stare at in their drunken states. These are The Chosen Ones who manage to get served a drink just by looking at the bartender and giving her a cute smile whilst plebs like me have been waiting for 15 minutes. And these are the ones who have their pick of all the fish in the club and usually get with multiple girls in one night.
And I repeat: We go for these guys!
And these guys may never change, that's what scares me. The gym may always be their mothership and they may always have girls falling for them wherever they go.
This is a more frightening thought for me at the moment because we are going on a girls' holiday to Kavos in a few months, where there will be plenty of Narcissuses on the prowl for females of the same Perfectness. And let me tell you, I am not one of those. My thighs look like water-beds, my bum is about as toned as an orange that has been sat on by an obese dog and my boobs are Tic-Tac size.
But it's fine, I've already tried dating a Narcissus and I'm clearly more of a Geek Chic kinda gal.
And if there are no chic geeks then...
Well, Tequila and I have always been the best of pals.
xxx
Monday, 7 April 2014
The Revolution against Arrogant Arses
People always say that there is a thin line between love and hate, but I have to disagree. Unless you are Cher in Clueless, if you like a guy then you like him. End of. I've never seen people hate someone and then grow to fall in love with them. For me, the line between love and hate is more like the Great Wall of China. If I put you in the 'hate' part of the diagram, then you're going to have to sew a 1000ft ladder out of Shreddies cereal to climb into the 'love' section and for me to forgive you.
Yet whilst these two emotions are...(what's the maths term?) mutually exclusive (?), the difference between a charming hottie and an arrogant arse is much harder to define.
Since the start of mankind, there have always been cocky charmers - they were probably the cavemen that made all the cavewomen swoon with their witty charm and smooth way of rubbing sticks together to make a fire. But when is a guy cocky and when is he arrogant?
To be honest, I think the difference lies in the fact that cocky is cute and arrogant makes me want to vom in my mouth. If a guy is cocky then, when you text him "So tired, going to bed" he may reply "But won't that be boring without me? ;) "
A reply which would be both amusing and huminahuminahumina-hot.
If he's an arrogant arse, he's more likely to be self-centred and only care about what he can get out of the relationship.
E.g. when you text him "So tired, going to bed" he may reply "don't be boring" or may be too busy taking selfies to reply at all.
But when faced with these rather similar boys, us girls need to be equipped with my favourite weapons: Sass and Class. Gals, we all put the ass in sass (or, as me and Bazz have lately decided, we put the booty in booty-ful) and we all have the potential to be Confident, Collected and Classy individuals who don't rely on men to feed us compliments or reply to our messages within 10 minutes of their being sent.
I'm proposing a revolution; I don't know about you, but I for one am sick and tired of waiting around for a guy to text me back. I'm not a cute dress on ASOS that you can Add to your Favourites but have no intention of buying. From now on, we are going to treat men with the same courtesy that they treat us - maybe that's what the Bible meant when that guy wrote 'Do unto others as you have done unto you' (or something along those lines!). If a guy takes 4 hours to reply to a text, and during this millenium of time he has been tweeting and thus has his phone on him, then I'm proposing that we take 10 hours to reply to his belated-and-lazy text.
Nobody deserves an Arrogant Arse.
Keep you posted,
Grammar Gal
P.S. Just to clarify, Humbug isn't an Arrogant Arse - he is a slightly-lazy-slash-workaholic-so-he-takes-ages-to-reply Cocky Charmer, don't worry- I'm not settling! (And, my Classy Sassy Chicas I urge you to do the same!).
Friday, 4 April 2014
Kissing - are we all a little addicted?
I don't know if it's just me, but kissing is my favourite activity of all time. It's exciting and I swear some scientists said it was good for you because it releases stress or something...?!
Whatever the science is, there's something about having your hands in a guy's perfectly gelled hair that makes the room spin and gives you drunken butterflies on your stomach.
But...is this just a girl thing? My boyfriend, Humbug, can go days, weeks and perhaps even centuries without kissing me. I, on the other hand, need to be kissed constantly. Ok, not constantly. I'm not like Ron's thirsty girlfriend in Harry Potter! But maybe it's all the years of chick flicks that I've loved or maybe it's just the years of being locked up in the convent :L
So why doesn't hum want to kiss me every moment of every day?! :') I feel like I'm not an awful kisser and my breath is always minty fresh. So maybe it's a guy thing. Maybe they don't feel the need to play tonsil tennis...
Well. No regrets!
Grammar Gal
P.S I have come to the awesome discovery that I'm much happier when I wrote my blog but, honestly, my self esteem has been soaring as high as the Greek economy lately, so Ive not written in a while because I've been feeling blue and jealous and neglected. I've decided that my boyfriend isn't crazy about me but I can't decide how to deal with it - I reallllllly like him...! We shall see what summer brings :)
Whatever the science is, there's something about having your hands in a guy's perfectly gelled hair that makes the room spin and gives you drunken butterflies on your stomach.
But...is this just a girl thing? My boyfriend, Humbug, can go days, weeks and perhaps even centuries without kissing me. I, on the other hand, need to be kissed constantly. Ok, not constantly. I'm not like Ron's thirsty girlfriend in Harry Potter! But maybe it's all the years of chick flicks that I've loved or maybe it's just the years of being locked up in the convent :L
So why doesn't hum want to kiss me every moment of every day?! :') I feel like I'm not an awful kisser and my breath is always minty fresh. So maybe it's a guy thing. Maybe they don't feel the need to play tonsil tennis...
Well. No regrets!
Grammar Gal
P.S I have come to the awesome discovery that I'm much happier when I wrote my blog but, honestly, my self esteem has been soaring as high as the Greek economy lately, so Ive not written in a while because I've been feeling blue and jealous and neglected. I've decided that my boyfriend isn't crazy about me but I can't decide how to deal with it - I reallllllly like him...! We shall see what summer brings :)
Friday, 7 March 2014
The Epiphany
Ok guys, I've made a major discovery.
In the past, I've blamed the knobheads and manwhores for bitchslap ping my heart but MAYBE I was partly to blame, too.
Lets take Knight the Knobhead as an example: we got on really well and texted alllllll the time but then maybe I got too clingy and he withdrew. But then when he withdrew I clung tighter and he withdrew further and so on and so on for 2 years. Yes, he was a self-centred arsehole but I am partly to blame.
Example two: Curly Haired Guy. Again, we got very close and texted everyday. Then he left me for Jilly Big-Tits (the gorgeous 10year old :) ) and maybe that was my fault for not playing hard to get. Nahhhhh I was pretty hard to get for CHG. don't think the rule applies for him...
Finally: Funny Guy. I feel it's ok to mention him on the blog again because he texted me that I'm too jealous and neurotic to be his friend. Soooooo... Yes. Ok. I got too attached to funny guy. I loved him being my best friend and I didn't like that he had so many other best friends so I DRUNKENLY told him that I felt he had replaced me and then all hell broke loose and we aren't talking anymore. Yes, he is a meanie BUT I'm also clingy...
But have no fear! I've met a wonderful boy, my boyfriend Humbug, who I DON'T talk to everyday. I'm not too clingy on him and I'm really loving our relationship. I think I've learned from my mistakes. From now on, grammar gal will be cool, collected and casual.
The neurotic and crazy chick is taking a back seat.
In the past, I've blamed the knobheads and manwhores for bitchslap ping my heart but MAYBE I was partly to blame, too.
Lets take Knight the Knobhead as an example: we got on really well and texted alllllll the time but then maybe I got too clingy and he withdrew. But then when he withdrew I clung tighter and he withdrew further and so on and so on for 2 years. Yes, he was a self-centred arsehole but I am partly to blame.
Example two: Curly Haired Guy. Again, we got very close and texted everyday. Then he left me for Jilly Big-Tits (the gorgeous 10year old :) ) and maybe that was my fault for not playing hard to get. Nahhhhh I was pretty hard to get for CHG. don't think the rule applies for him...
Finally: Funny Guy. I feel it's ok to mention him on the blog again because he texted me that I'm too jealous and neurotic to be his friend. Soooooo... Yes. Ok. I got too attached to funny guy. I loved him being my best friend and I didn't like that he had so many other best friends so I DRUNKENLY told him that I felt he had replaced me and then all hell broke loose and we aren't talking anymore. Yes, he is a meanie BUT I'm also clingy...
But have no fear! I've met a wonderful boy, my boyfriend Humbug, who I DON'T talk to everyday. I'm not too clingy on him and I'm really loving our relationship. I think I've learned from my mistakes. From now on, grammar gal will be cool, collected and casual.
The neurotic and crazy chick is taking a back seat.
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
Lately I've been reading critical stuff for my English Coursework and I've come across this guy called Freud. Some of the things he comes up with are a bit wacky (ie that guys fancy their mothers) but some of his theories totally hit the nail on the head. My favourite is the Madonna-Whore complex: that's the theory that boys either respect you but don't desire you (as a Virgin Mary figure) or want to have sex with you but won't then respect you (as a Whore).
I mean, that just sums up teenage boys, right?!
But this has made me think... Do we, as women, willingly try to conform to these categories? When I was the Mayoress of Singletown I used to wear the most outrageous outfits- see through, ridiculously short and often rather tight. But now that I have a boyfriend I've totally changed - I still wear short skirts but I'm much more subtle because I want his respect. But I have literally run out of clothes - I'm wearing a shamelessly seethrough top today and I feel so embarrassed!!
Do we all dress to impress? Do we try to confirm to the Madonna to avoid being the whore?
Don't get me wrong, it's fun dressing like Jackie-O instead of Marilyn for a change, but the ability to dress promiscuously is a privilege that all you singletons should not take for granted! Cxx
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