Signing Contracts, General Adulting, and Inexplicable Loneliness

This week marks the last week of my first semester of University. I’ve signed my first contract (here meaning I signed the first contract I’ve ever properly read and/ or cared about, I’m sure terms and conditions come under contract law somewhere), I behaved more or less like an adult, and I may or may not find myself slipping back into unhealthy habits and a generalised feeling of supreme loneliness.

Lets start with the fun bit huh? I signed a contract, a good one (well not a good one actually) for a house, a good house (a very good house) and it was stressful and exciting and genuinely terrifying for a minute there. The contract itself was quite possibly the worst thing I have ever read ever (and I’ve read Pamela.) The spelling was atrocious, the grammar was terrible and the fact that at one point one of my flatmates looked like she was gonna cry really only begins to describe how absolutely shhhhhhhocking this piece of writing was. But we signed it anyways. Why I hear you ask? Surely signing a shitty contract is, like, the worst thing ever??????

I mean, you’re not wrong.

But the fact is the house is amazing; good area; close to the uni; round the corner from town, and the main student pub; seven absolutely massive double bedrooms and original Georgian features. With my student debt I’m never gonna be able to live in somewhere as spectacular as this again. So, good contract or shitty contract, I’ll take it.

I’m not going to lie to you, the speed and confidence required to find a property, let alone a solid property for next year, whilst simultaneously dealing with your unchanged work load (and the fact that you can’t be certain of your choice in housemates because there’s months before move-in day) is stressful. House hunting sucks, and you have to answer unknown phone calls and talk to random blokes called Steve from XXX-Properties, who absolutely could run two viewings, but won’t, even if getting seven people with different schedules in one place at the same time is fucking impossible. It is truly terrifying, but needs must.

The less fun part of this semester has been the general adulting required to navigate it. Bus timetables and shopping lists and laundry and assignments with mean word counts. It’s hard, and it makes you want to cry, and then it started snowing, so now you’re sad and cold. Really student life is just a cycle of sad/cold and hot/drunk with some bad R’n’B music, a lot of pasta and some quality time in the library chucked in for variety.

I made a Christmas dinner, that was fun. And it went well. Unbelievably well, actually. I made Brussel sprouts for the first time, and they went so well I even got my veg-phobic flatmate eating them (the secret is pan-frying and smoked garlic, 60p in Morrrisons invest people, invest.) I never truly understood why my Mum drinks wine with dinner until I sat down with a burnt finger, cold potatoes and nine people wearing silver paper hats to eat a minimal amount of chicken and some frankly incredible Brussels. Stress.

Final part of my semester is loneliness, for want of a better word, and bad habits. It’s not so much that I’m alone, although I am and sometimes you notice your singledom more than others, its just that I feel pretty isolated. I’ve never been brilliant with the whole feeling left out thing, I was bullied quite badly as a child and the result was me spending a lot of time alone, as such I tend to get pretty sad and mopey when I feel left out of things. Like my best friends group of friends for example. It’s not necessarily that they don’t like me, although it would probably be best if they did, it’s that they don’t like me enough for me to be included in things, but like me just enough that I know I could ask for an invitation and receive one. Although I’d feel rude and imposter-y the whole time. And because I know they don’t really like me every time I see them I’m on edge; I feel jittery and sweaty and a little bit like a failure and there isn’t really any reason to. And yes, I know I should just talk to her, but old habits die hard and I’m still in the suffering in silence stage of angry-sad.

Also, I’ve started going out more, and that somehow makes me feel lonely too, I didn’t know it was possible to feel more entirely isolated in a humid room full of people and bass, than when you’re actually by yourself; but here I am. I think a big part of it is the separation I feel between me and the other people there. I’m never quite drunk enough, I never feel sexy enough or like my dancing is any good, I never feel in place. And its really fucking tiring. And I think the worst part is how entirely aware I am of how I look as well. Because I know facially I’m not terrible, my skin can be a bit shit and my foundation and my blush don’t always get on but I’m not ugly, sometimes actually I’m quite pretty. It’s not my face, It’s my size. I’m bigger. Not BIG, but bigger, curvy in the right clothes, but flat-out bad looking in the wrong ones. And looking sexy when you’re very aware of you’re own size is hard; you get self-concious and it knocks your confidence and you start wondering if this is why you’re single, and if it is what can you do about it.

So thats my semester in a nutshell, adulting and contracts and feeling lonely. Bad mental health days and Brussel sprouts. It’s been a time.

Until after my next accidental hiatus

Yours with love and Christmas (or Holiday) wishes

TheSarcastic Blogger





Poetry in Motion

I would like to say that my life is a series of poetic moments

held together by the string of chronology.

That I look for the poetry in my life,

the great heart wrenching,

soul swelling,

life affirming moments

that define me.

I would like to say that I have people that fill me,

with a such a warmth,

as though I am my own sun,

my own springtime.

As though the love I feel cannot be contained,

and it bursts forth,

golden beams from my soul,

from my eyes.


the truth,

is that I am without poetry.

My life,

is a series of mundane moments.

A string of the day to day with no variety,

with no love to give me warmth,

with nothing except the reality

of a smile,

of a hug,

of a laugh.

With nothing but the honesty

of a cup of coffee

and a chat on the bus.

With nothing more, and nothing less,

than friendship.

Which maybe, just maybe,

is poetry in motion


To the guy that makes her smile

like the sun has taken up residence behind her eyes

I trust you,

I trust that you will not hurt her

I trust that you know the treasure that now sits in the palm of your hand,

the jewel that sleeps curled up on your chest

I trust that you know her worth as well as I do.

To the guy that makes her gush

like the entire universe is living in her mouth,

I trust you,

I trust that you will keep her safe,

I trust that you will no let harm befall her

and that you yourself are not harmful,

I trust that you know her heart as you know your own.

To the guy that makes her happy,

I trust you,

I know she makes you happy too

Feeling Not OK

It’s a difficult thing to define, feeling not OK. In this case it’s feeling tired and warn down and like I’ve had a very, very long day even though I didn’t get up until 12 and haven’t left the house.

It may or may not have something to do with my realisation that even though I definitely have friends here, people that I genuinely care about and of course my lovely best friend, I don’t really feel, well, OK telling them I’m not alright. I have spent the last half hour debating whether or not I should message said best friend and tell her I’m not OK. One part of me knows she’ll help, she won’t get mad, she won’t get pissy, she won’t tell me I’ve ruined her night and ask me to come talk to her in the morning instead. Because she cares. The rest of me is telling me that she’s a) definitely hanging out with her flatmates (they’re having a movie night) and b) possibly hanging out with her maybe something, (who happens to be a fab guy who will also not get pissy), and thus the notion of sending her something totally out of the blue asking for her support makes me feel guilty. which is really not helping matters, just for the record.

And so, here we are, instead of messaging her, I’m going to write this, and I might even post it.

I’m not OK. I’m not OK because today I had a several hour conversation first over DM and later on the phone with one of my friends from home. Don’t get me wrong I love her, I really do. She’s had a shitty last couple of months and, as much as I feel like sometimes we’re very uneven in the way responsibility and support falls in our relationship, I do genuinely enjoy hearing from her. During the course of this conversation we arranged times she would come up and visit and times I would go home and see her, we figured out, kinda, where the others life is at, I told her I was going to seek some mental health support (which I will as soon as I successfully book an appointment), oh, and another one of my friends (not friend, we are not friends) started weird one sided drama.

The drama got to me. Bad. Some days are better than others and today was a bad day. I honest to God just couldn’t cope. I was sat on the floor of my bedroom verging on a panic attack and trying to keep myself calm enough to remember that she is much, much too far away from me to do anything. It didn’t really help. Then I fought the urge to reach out to my best friend on the basis that she was out watching her flatmate play football and I would feel really terribly, awfully, guilty if I dragged her away. At the same time I really needed her, but I didn’t want to do that, and a tiny terrible self-deprecating part of me honestly believed that even if I messaged her she wouldn’t come, she wouldn’t leave for me. I’m not worth it. And then I felt bad for thinking that of her. Of course she would.

It hasn’t really stopped since then. I feel bad, I feel guilty, I feel like I might cry, or I might shut down at any moment. It probably doesn’t help that I just finished and submitted the first ever film studies essay I have ever done, ever, and It’s at degree level. It probably doesn’t help that today I woke up to a bad day for my mental health and one of my flatmate’s parents in the kitchen. It probably doesn’t help that I spent my first three hours awake today shut up in my room, that I feel like I haven’t seen anyone today and that I’m now (by virtue of that) some kind of social pariah, even though I know full well that no one in my flat has really seen anyone today. It probably doesn’t help that I have a bunch of stuff I was supposed to get done and that I just haven’t done. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve had a headache for the last hour and a half at least. And it definitely doesn’t help that if my best friend is hanging out with her maybe something and her flat at hers tonight that I won’t see her until tomorrow, and I won’t see her maybe something (my flatmate) until tomorrow when he brings two of his mates round, which is a shame, because he is one of the easiest people to be around ever, and right now I feel like even sitting here in the kitchen with one of my other flatmates, my typing the only sound in the room other than the constant hum of the heaters, is taking more effort than it should, and maybe he would alleviate that.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m not OK, and the thought of reaching out to the only person in the world I want to talk to right now is really, really scary. I don’t want to push her away, and I don’t want to feel like I’m relying too heavily on her, but at the same time, I really need her.

But I’m a coward at heart. And so instead I’m going to post this under oversharing, I’m gonna make some dinner that I don’t really want on the basis that I should eat, and I’m going to try and do the required reading for tomorrow before my head explodes.


TheSarcastic Blogger


Kinda Rapey Roommates and Being So Poor You Don’t Even Worry About Money Anymore

So I can now say I have officially been at university for a month, and in that time I have made new friends, gotten impossibly closer to old ones, and somehow lost almost £100 worth of rings. It’s been eventful.

University is one of those weird places where you have to act like you’re at home from day one to really get anywhere. You have to be already friends with your flatmates, which is pretty hard when you haven’t met or spoken to any of them and two of them move in the day after you anyways, you have to be ahead on reading you haven’t been given yet, and kind of aware of how to get home from a club you haven’t visited. But I think I managed, mostly. That is, I definitely managed to make friends (and the other day one of them called me “Queen of the Flat”, so I guess I’m going up in the world), the reading isn’t going great but its been mostly done, and as of yet I haven’t lost a single flatmate on the way home from the club (well, not accidentally at least.)

I have to say the weirdest part of my university experience so far was moving in with three guys and two girls I’d never met before. Now as someone with two sisters moving in with two girls (randoms or not) didn’t worry me at all, I knew I could cope. The issue was the three geezers, but two out the three are totally sound and having lived with both of them for a month its strange to imagine not living with them really. Coming in to see one or both of them in the kitchen looking entirely too tired to be awake is a key part of my day, and I look forward to talking to both of them, the third is a bit hit and miss. Hence the title. Now I should stress that I do not take that term lightly, and I do not for a minute think he is genuinely capable of anything truly violent or even mildly aggressive, BUT… I’ve tried other adjectives and that’s the only one that really fits. He’s a bit rapey, bit creepy, bit… weird.

I’m not the only one that’s struggled with rapey flatmates, I was lucky enough to move to uni with my best mate, and having her with me every step of this month was god’s gift. I’ve become impossibly closer to her and cannot imagine not hearing from her everyday, it’s incredible how relationships grow when you’re both under pressure, and I can’t imagine loving this girl more. Now, rather unfortunately for her she is also stuck with a rapey roomie, this bloke is big enough and oblivious enough to be just a little worrying. He also has a nasty habit of black marking nights out if he can’t find any single girls to creep on. But her flat’s keeping an eye, an ear and a restraining hand on him, so I’m not worried.

In fact the only thing I’m even a bit worried about is the fact I am so entirely skint I can’t even afford to think about it. And I managed to lose almost £100 worth of rings fuck knows where?????!!!!!!!!! And fuck knows how. But hey ho. Freshers is supposed to be a shit show right? (The worst part was I lost the rings totally sober, and I spent the money on more boring things than VKs, like books.)

If you’re ever in the position, or inclination, to go to University you absolutely should,


TheSarcastic Blogger




Kindred spirits

When most people declare a new friend a kindred spirit they mean they’re the kind of people they could go to weird glittery festivals with, and whilst I’m sure I could drag my new friends to glittery festivals, thats not quite what I mean.

If the title of this blog, and my multiple rants, haven’t yet tipped you off I’m a sarcastic, bitchy student, who’s too poor and too fed up with life to properly express any form of optimism, or hope, or positivity. At least not on the internet. And I’ll tell you what, these people are my people. Biting. Sarcastic. Funny. Sweet. Brilliant.

Kindred spirits. Lets hope they stay that way.

Be kind to each other, make friends, find kindred spirits,


TheSarcastic Blogger.

On the topic of toxic masculinity

Toxic masculinity. If you talk to any of my friends they’ll tell you its something that gets me going. I might be a sarcastic bitch, but I’m also very empathetic, a little bit glitter obsessed, fond of fruity drinks, a lover of poetry, children and animals, and more than capable of laying down a verbal smackdown on anyone who suggests boys can’t be all those thing too; its something I pride myself on. My ability to own my own femininity and my own emotions, and to show kindness to others is something I’m proud of, and to think that men are prevented and shunned for presenting or having or enjoying any of those supposedly feminine traits/things is not only extremely disrespectful, it is frankly ridiculous. And here’s some facts to prove I’m right:

Suicide is the biggest killer of men under 50. Fact.

Suicide is indeed the biggest killer in men under 50 in this country, wanna know why?…

Men are less likely to seek mental health treatment than women. Fact.

Yet another fact. Likely stemming from the emasculation associated with mental health care and the general and well established belief (perpetuated by pop culture and arseholes) that having emotions, feelings, issues and being neurologically atypical is some how inherently feminine, or at least not masculine. I imagine this issue is exacerbated by the fact that men have been shown to be less likely to seek medical attention generally than women. Don’t believe me? When was the last time your dad/ brother/ grandpa/uncle/ male friend went to the doctors? Even when he knew he was sick? Exactly. Still don’t believe me? Hit up google. It’s the truth.

Now this is probably the time to stress that I am not discussing masculinity in the sense of ones own masculine traits or indeed in any form of personal expression, or how someone feels etc. I’m talking about masculinity in the sense of societally encouraged, constructed and reinforced ideals that mandate the way in which people are allowed to behave and/or express their own gender. Onto more facts:

Men are encouraged to present a multitude of emotions through violence from a young age as a way to assert their own masculinity, thus reinforcing ideas of men as violent abusers. Fact.

Again, if you don’t believe me hit up google, you can read about it. The notion that men are naturally violent or more likely to be abusers is founded in the way we teach boys to express themselves, through anger. I’d go into more detail about it but I don’t know enough to comment with conviction, so take my word and read into it yourself if you want to know more.

Male victims of abuse, particularly sexual abuse, are not only less likely to come forward, they are less likely to see their abuser prosecuted. Fact.

Hardly surprising is it? Pretty heart breaking that. From a statistical point of view men are more prolific abusers, but they’re also less likely to see their abusers brought to justice, particularly if that abuser is a woman. Now women can abuse other women, and men can abuse other men, and non-binary folk can be abused and be abusers in much the same way, but the fact of the matter is, when people can’t come forward, when they can’t be honest about what they’ve suffered, and when they can’t see the people who have hurt them punished, they don’t heal in the same way. Rape culture and the way we deal with assault is already a massive problem, the way the system is geared against victims is fucking atrocious and, in short, toxic masculinity isn’t making anything any better.

In march of THIS YEAR there were only 18 refuges nationally that help male victims of domestic violence. Fact.

Does this need explanation? I don’t think so. Men need help too, anyone who think otherwise can fuck right off.

Toxic masculinity encourages homophobia. Fact.

No. Explanation. Needed.

So there we go. Those are my facts. Do I have more? Yes. Could I go one? For pages. Am I going to? No. These are some of the facts that shock me, the ones that remind me why this is a topic so close to my heart. Why I need to be there for my male friends in a more active emotional way, you see my female friends will simply tell me, my male friends beat about the bush. Keep an eye out peeps, your boys aren’t always happy, be vigilant, be loving, be there for them. They deserve it.

Be kind to each other.


TheSarcastic Blogger


To A Woman I Have Never Met


Usually I make a point of starting all correspondence with “Dear…” but you are not now, nor will you ever be, dear to me. So much so that I cannot bring myself to write it.

You will never read this, in fact I very much doubt even your daughter will read it. But that is not why I am writing it.

My anger, neigh my disgust at you is such that I cannot let it be contained within me, for fear that it has the power to poison my blood. How dare you speak to your own child like that? How dare you leave her in pieces and abandon her to pick them up herself? How do you wake up in the morning, look at a child that tries so hard, that struggles so much and that loves so deeply and turn your back on her?

Perhaps you don’t.

But it is the only way I can rationalise your behaviour, that you simply do not care, or worse yet they you honesty harbour malice towards your own daughter. I have not lived in your house, I cannot attest to her treatment of you, nor can I say that I have witnessed your treatment of her. But I can say that I have spent hours worrying desperately about a person you destroy in SECONDS. I can tell you that whilst you move on, whilst you start new arguments and cause fresh heartache I am replaying the last conversation of that sort in my mind and hoping that I said the right thing. I stopped tears, or provided warmth in the winter of your relationship.

I cannot say that I have witnessed one of your arguments, but I have witnessed the fall out, I have seen the aftermath and walked in the shadow of your destruction. I am in a position to dislike you.

To a woman I have never met, you make me sick beyond words, you pain me beyond pain, and I dislike you not only in my conscious mind, but in my soul.

To a woman I have never met, I am not a mother, but one day I hope to be one and I can only pray that my children will never feel as your children feel.

To a woman I have never met, it is entirely possible that I one day will meet you, and I will smile my sales assistant smile and trot out my customer voice and be polite and gracious and the cookie cutter bright-young-girl I have been my entire life and you will not know that inside I am seething.

To a woman I have never met, she is better than you in every way. You don’t know that yet, but let me tell you, to everyone else is it is glaringly obvious.

To a woman I have never met, I am truly sorry you cannot see her worth, because I do, and others do, and we are blinded daily by her light, we are amazed endlessly by her intelligence, and we are left breathless by her endearing charm and effortless wit.

To a woman I have never met, I dislike you, but perhaps I pity you more.



Group chats

This week I’ve been thinking about group chats, why you ask? Well, because I spend wayyyy too much of my life on them not to think about group chats. But first, some background…

It all started about two years ago…

[Cue dreamy wiggly music]

I was added entirely without warning to a group chat full of strangers who proceeded to verbally abuse me at the behest of someone who I looked upon not only as a friend, but as family. Someone who was in my mind almost above reproach because I loved them like I loved my own self. Unfortunately for me, family meant very little to them. The result, I spent literally months building up to the point when I could have my phone on all day without having sudden bouts of anxiety, where I could receive a message without being on the verge of a panic attack. I got there. Eventually. It took me a long while, and even now I’m not 100% when it comes to social media (group chats in particular), so how is it I spend a solid 70% of my time on one?

The answer:

Bugger knows.

But I manage it. I think they’ve become such an ingrained part of how we communicate, with their own entirely separate rules of etiquette and socialisation, that to disassociate myself would leave me entirely out in the cold. That’s not to say they always go to plan though. This week I’ve been thinking about group chats, because they’ve gone tits up.

Incident One:

Incident one happened mid week when my friend (mostly friend? kinda friend?) of about seven years accused another one of our friends of taking drugs. In town. With maybe-friends boyfriend. What??? And worse yet she did it on the group chat???? Not a direct message????? Pretty sure it was for attention but hey, what do I know? The result was this particularly dramatic series of messages between me and another member of the group chat about events on the group chat:

I’m still flabbergasted about this! What on earth led this person to openly accuse someone we both know not just of taking drugs, but of doing drugs with her own boyfriend? What would have led her to that situation? And worse yet, after she’d done this, she kept telling the girl she’d accused to “Chill”. ARE YOU SERIOUS?!? You can’t cause an argument and then try to end it, that’s not how it works!

Incident number one is a perfect example of how things can go from 0-100 really quickly on group chats, and more importantly of how people can use them to show others up or gain attention they want. Everyone likes a bit of attention here and there, but group chats allow a certain level of immediate gratification, you can ask for attention and support and receive without delay, most of the time thats pretty good, sometimes it goes a bit wonky. Now I’m as bad as anyone else when it comes to this (you think I write a personal blog just for the joy of writing? Getting attention has to come in there somewhere right?) but I think I’m in a position to say that this individual was doing nothing but seeking attention, and furthermore seeking to stain the name of one of my closest friends. Incident number one is a brilliant example of the issues I have with group chats.

Incident Two:

Ok, so after all that stress incident number two is actually a lot funnier and lighter. Long story short I accidentally added one of my Uni mates to a group chat of all my girl friends planning a coffee morning and bitching about maybe-friend. This poor bloke found himself in the somewhat turbulent waters of all female friendship. Whoops?

Luckily he’s a pretty chill dude and the whole incident was as funny as it was embarrassing. In other news, I shouldn’t be allowed to use social media, because I’m a mess.

What are your thoughts on group chats?

Let me know


TheSarcastic Blogger

Terrible by omission

Last week I did something I will regret for the rest of my life, or at the very least for the next few years. I did something I told myself I would never, ever do. I compromised my own beliefs, my own integrity, in order to prevent an argument. I allowed ignorance to reign, in order to safeguard the way I am viewed by the perpetrators of the ignorance.

It’s not hard to see my own privilege, I’m aware of it, as far as I can be, but sometimes I am more aware of it than others. This week I made the decision not to say something when I saw an issue, and I shouldn’t have, and the guilt and distress I feel about it is something I struggle to put into words. This week I became aware of my own privilege in a very corporeal way, because I simply chose not to say something. It was a decision I could make. I saw something happen, something I disagreed with, and all I had to do was choose not to say something.

Now the fact was that my not saying anything didn’t prevent this moron from getting something of a verbal lashing. The guy she was ignorant towards (about?) was more than capable of delivering it himself. In fact if anything my guilt about this matter is entirely selfish and frankly ridiculous. This guy is 18 years old, well spoken and more than capable of telling ignorant, racially insensitive people to do one. He doesn’t need a silly white girl to do it for him. And yet here I am, a whole 72 hours later, desperately trying to rationalise my own decision.

And the fact is, if I had done this (or rather not done it) purely because he was on it, he was sorting his own issues and educating people by himself, I don’t think I would feel bad. I have total faith that this guy can handle himself, and had things gotten out of hand I would have happily weighed in on his side. But that’s not why I kept quiet. I kept mum because the thought of starting a confrontation, particularly one over social media which is something I struggle with, made me feel deeply, deeply anxious. Because my own discomfort got in the way of my social views.

Worse yet, I did this because the people I was talking to were ones I would have to be with next year, and them not liking me ( or rather the notion of them not liking me) fills me with dread. I compromised my views, my stance on issues, my social thoughts and feelings, just so that I didn’t upset a load of randoms who may or may not grow to dislike me regardless.

So to the gentleman who stood up for himself,

I should have said something

I’m sorry

With love

TheSarcastic Blogger