Sun Cream and the Ad Man's Dream

Summer; where the skirts are short and my dove roll on is pushed to it's absolute limits. When they say 24hours I take it they don't mean human hours? Because I can barely get 24 minutes out of this aloe Vera bad boy.

 There's something so infectious about those golden rays that make us crave carbon-crusted burgers and drinking on the street. It's risen above 15oC? Hell whip the Strongbow out and let's have Kid Rock's 'All Summer Long' on repeat. Yes Cool FM - I'm talking to YOU.

 Me? I don't really like summer all that much.

Yes, you've read correctly. Due to my albino like complexion anymore than 5 minutes without factor 50 and I look like a piece of bacon in a dress. Which actually may improve my appeal to the opposite sex.

Now where's that babyoil...

Don't get me wrong, it's sure as hell a lot nicer perusing around the streets of Belfast without the constant grey drizzle rendering your hair eternally frizzy. But when it gets to that point where you can't tell if you're perspiring or going for a paddle in your own bodily fluids - I'll pass thanks.

Though I can't deny there's nothing I relish more than whipping out the 'aule sundress and sandles, suddenly turning into an extra from Mad Men. Though I'm more likely be busting balls in the boardroom than swapping diet tips over typewriters.

My diet tip? I like to go by the 5:2 rule - Five meals a day, twice daily.

Thank you once again for your endurance with my written rampage, stay beautiful xo

I can't get no sleep.

I am shite at sleeping. I know to look at me it doesn't seem like that. “There’s a girl who sleeps like a log and eats like a horse” And shits like one too most likely.

But surprisingly I don’t sleep very well at all. When you don’t sleep you get to discover the hidden elements of the night you couldn't have imagined existed. For me this has been Classic FM – the amalgamation of Mozart and the middle class. The presenters sound like they've been found by someone going into Harvey Nicholl’s with a net and some caviar.

Munching your cardboard Lidl cornflakes to the sound of John Sushi – being brought into the small hours of the morning with Margarita Taylor. Nothing screams private education and polo like having a cocktail or a Japanese delicacy as a first name.

If that was to happen in my family I’d probably have been named Battered-sausage Adams.

Mmmmm... Battered sausages.

There’s something so soothing yet gravely intimidating about individuals who use the words, ‘whom and alas’ without being ironic. I can’t even read the word alas without picturing images of Dumbledore going all wise on Harry’s parent-less ass. But that probably says more about how my mind works than the general consensus on the word ‘alas’.

The reason I’m so aware of the obvious difference in class between myself and the Classic FM presenters? I’m currently residing on the upper Lisburn Road. Where the grass is green and the trust funds are pretty. I think they can smell my labeless scent when I’m walking down the street. That or I just look like a busty tramp – which incidentally would probably be my rapper name. 

Busty Tramp – keeping the flow tight and the necklines low.

Again I thank you for persevering with my filth riddled ramblings. Keep ‘er lit. xo 

No motivation and Pop-tart appreciation

I think my mind hates me. I decide to stew in my onesie with Netflix on repeat and my hand firmly planted in the depths of a pop-tart box instead of going to class. The result?

It guilt trips me harder than Robert Pattinson at couple’s therapy.

You thought Kristin Stewart was miserable before? Just you wait now Sir Smoulder-a-lot isn't slipping it to her any more.

So as an attempt to avoid the wave of bed induced guilt I've decided to make my best attempt to grace the academic establishment with my busty presence. Ginger ‘fro brushed and doused in Beyoncé's perfume – which I assumed would smell more of squat sweat and Swarovski diamonds as opposed to mandarin with a hint of vanilla – I've finally made it to class!

Oxford paper in hand, ready for a lecture of mind moulding knowledge and enlightenment!

The Reality? Drawing pictures of muffins with faces while periodically tilting my head to the side to appear deep in thought. Albeit that it may be about bearded men and chicken nuggets... There has to be a website for that somewhere.

Most likely a self help page.

Do you ever wonder how those people do it? You know the individuals who can complete an assignment without doing a line of espresso at 3am with Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ on repeat.

A friend does that... I heard...

What the hell do they have for breakfast? Wheatabix and life coaching?! It’s usually Shreddies and a sob in the shower for me.

And my housemates wonder why the plug is always clogged...

I once again thank you for joining me on my journey of self indulgent scribbles and singleton in the big ‘shaft – keep your heart and vodka strong. X