Am I still that tragic teenager??

As you know from the previous post, I've been enjoying Caerphilly life again. My Dad told me that he will be redecorating my old bedroom soon, by painting over the bright orange walls, which I strangely insisted on at the age of 12, with a more neutral tone. So to prepare for this uncharacteristic bout of DIY, he asked me to clear out my wardrobes and drawers. As I have explained before, I have a habit of hoarding. It seems that this horrendous habit of mine goes back further than I thought. I found boxes and boxes of old diaries, and even old school books, including a scrap book of art work from when I was four. Incidentally, even in 1993 I had a creative streak.

Did my parents think that these scrapbooks of paintings by a

three-year-old and swimming badges from the 90s would

increase my chances of getting into University?

Oh, this painting definitely would have given my
University applications more pizazz!

Back to the diaries I found though; I really did lead a tragically insignificant teenage life. Here's a little excerpt from Tuesday 6th January 2004 (with names changed though because I am still slightly embarrassed about some of the crap I wrote about!):

 Back to normal again! Marley* is even more lush than I remember. I had English first thing and we had our coursework back and I got an A. Miss said we could re-draft them if we were on the brink of something else and I was one mark off an A*. You must think I'm mega swotty but I don't care what people think of me anymore, I'm clever and that is that. After break I had French and then P.E. Theory. I went home for lunch with the girls, as always. Then I had the best lesson of the day, Biology. I love Science and Marley sits behind me too, so I got my chance to talk to him. Swoon! Just after 6 Lilly* came to knock for me with John* and Brian* and they all came in for a bit. I swear John is so perverted. He kept going for my boobs. He always goes on about them and it creeps me out a bit. My diet went well again and I really know I will stick to it this time!

Most of the diary reads the same, basically because absolutely nothing interesting started happening in my life until alcohol was introduced a good year after I had stopped writing these pathetic accounts of my day to day life. Who did I actually think would read back on these entries and be interested in what lessons I had done well in and who I had a crush on? Though, I must admit it has proved a perfect procrastination tool and has given me a really good laugh at that girl who I really can't even remember.

What makes me laugh the most is that throughout all the entries a common theme keeps coming up. My weight. I was a girl obsessed with my weight and looking back, although I was always curvy I would give anything to have that teenage body back. I'm even bigger now and am constantly stopping and starting diets, which, evidently, I have done since I was 14. I even wrote about the Kellogs "Drop a Dress Size in Two Weeks" diet, which I had another go at, at the beginning of this year. I suppose I am still that tragic teenager deep down, I just don't make a habit of writing down all my thoughts anymore. Ummm, except on this blog. Oh Christ, I haven't changed one bit. Please excuse me while I go and over pluck my eyebrows, cry over a boy with a latent homosexuality who I think I love, and squeeze the small mountain range which is threatening to re-erupt on my chin.

You know you're back in the Valleys when....

• An elderly, croaky-voiced, junkie stands in the middle of the train shouting into a mobile, "Are you all fucked already?"
• The same elderly man hangs up the phone and proceeds to have a loud, seemingly hilarious, conversation with the strangers sat next to him. All I can do is try to avoid eye contact as I'm not sure I will be able to laugh along convincingly, and will probably get stabbed.
• Every young woman that you see has a Bermudian tan, even though the sun in Wales is not strong enough to even frazzle my delicate and pasty skin.
• People run past in full-on Adidas tracksuits, apparently under the impression that it is okay to be drinking from a can of Special Brew in broad daylight.
• It is impossible to be anonymous. Everyone knows everyone, and even if they don't know you, they will know your brother, who knows their friend, who is related to your mum by marriage, etc.

This weekend I've ventured back home to Caerphilly, and I have to admit I sat on the train hugging my bag to my chest and avoiding eye contact with everyone. To be completely honest, Swansea is just as bad, if not worse, for druggies and perma-tanned bimbos. It just seems so much worse when I come home.
The reason I came home was for one of my oldest friend's birthday. Her mum made us punch (my tongue is still blue, despite scrubbing and gargling) and we all got a bit tipsy in her house before we got a taxi into Cardiff. To say the rest of the night is a blur of Disaronno and Cranberry juice is an understatement, although I do remember grabbing a Burger King, and then dropping most of my Whopper burger on the floor of the taxi.
Even though last night is now just another faded memory to add to the list, I do remember one thing: I enjoyed being around people who I knew, even if it was through my brother's friend's mother. Even though coming back to the valleys can be a little like walking into an episode of Jersey Shore with different accents, the drama and the tans just made my night even more enjoyable.

A Tidy House is a Tidy Mind.

I have trouble keeping my flat tidy. I have always been the same. When I lived at home with my parents, my Mum would beg me to tidy my room, and instead I would shove all the carpet-covering clutter under my bed or into my wardrobe. Then when I moved into my house at University, I was lucky enough to live with people who had the same kind of mindset as me; why tidy, when you could be living instead?

Now that I live with my boyfriend in our little one-bedroom flat, I struggle more than ever to keep my junk at bay. Unfortunately we both seem to be hoarders and struggle to throw anything away. With Jack it is newspapers for some reason that he cannot bear to part with. He has copies of the Guardian dating back months  which are gathering dust in the corner of the living room.

Enough newspapers to wrap all of the fish and chips in Swansea.

But I cannot shout at him about it, because I am as bad, if not worse. My hoarding habits have made our bedroom such a shameful place that I have to shut the door on it, even if I am in the flat alone. I think that my obsession with keeping clothes which I haven't worn for years stems from my belief that one day I will be slim. This belief physically stops me from throwing any item of clothing away. What if I start losing weight? Then I will definitely need my six-year-old netball kit. I can use it as workout clothing. That saves me from buying new workout gear in my new, smaller size. All this hypothetical weight loss and working out means that I have to keep all my old clothes because as I'm losing weight they are bound to fit me again at one point, which will save me loads of money from not buying new clothes as I steadily drop down through the dress sizes.

The clothes were fed up of their cramped conditions
and were simply walking out in protest.

Of course, even if I was to lose weight, I am such a compulsive shopper that I will not end up saving any money from my cunning collection of clothes. I will simply buy even more clothes to add to my stockpile. Do I need help? I think I need a serious clear out but I don't want to simply chuck my clothes away, and I have a feeling they are a bit too worn to go to a charity shop. Any other suggestions???

Virtually Wigging Out

Urban Dictionary Definition: To wig out is to throw a huge fit.
My language: To wig out is to try on lots of wigs.

I have a new favourite thing. The genius people at InStyle.com have provided me with the opportunity to try on wigs in the comfort of my own home. They are wigs of the virtual persuasion so it's hard to put them on just right, and the only half decent front facing photo I had of myself is with my hair down but no matter!!! I have still just discovered my new favourite past time; trying on celebrities hair and laughing hysterically at the outcome.

I started off, in all seriousness, attempting to find out if I would suit a fringe. My friend had told me ever so delicately when I had asked if I should have one cut in, "No, your forehead is too big." And the only thing I found out was that this application was going to provide me with a healthy dose of nature's best medicine. And I don't mean Cod Liver Oil.

"Wow! You have an uncanny resemblance to Reese Witherspoon."

Next I tried to go dark:

Amy Winehouse: before she turned to drugs.

This hairstyle belonged to Snooki from Jersey Shore!! I suppose if you squint and use your imagination you can see a likeness. Maybe fiddle with your monitor's brightness a little so that my skin takes on a nice tangerine hue if the imagination thing doesn't work.

After trying out a few crazy hairstyles:

Nicki Minaj reveals her less ostentatious taste in clothes. 

Lady Gaga gained a few pounds after quitting all
the elaborate dance routines.

I settled for the hairstyle that I am definitely going to ask my hairdresser to recreate next time I go to get my tresses snipped. It was Samantha's, from Sex and the City 2, 80s coiffure that took my fancy and I'm sure you can see why:

Bonnie Tyler returned to Swansea for some relaxation
 following her flawless face lift. 

Oh Liver, Please Forgive Me.

If my liver could scream, I think I would be wearing my bedside earplugs all day long at the moment. I keep wondering; if I hadn't started drinking alcohol at the age of 16 (OK 15 and a half) would my liver be putting up this fight with the devil's juice at the tender age of 22?

Almost two weeks ago I threw myself a birthday party with every intention of acting responsible, classy and sophisticated. This foolish notion of mine culminated with a pretty accurate depiction of the following picture:

The night started off well enough, with everyone arriving so fashionably late that me and my best friend had already drunk a copious amount of the delicious punch we had prepared earlier in the evening.

I wish I could say I left the rollers in all night!

 I was wrong to think that because it didn't taste very alcoholic I would be capable of following the punch with some sparkling Rosé wine. Needless to say, the moment we finally left the flat to stumble onto the first bar, the fresh air got straight to work helping to make the night a memorable one. Unfortunately for me the only memories I have are of the flashback variety whenever someone mentions my antics or shows me a photograph. 

The next morning I awoke to find myself in my pyjamas, not knowing how I got in them, with my friend next to me instead of my boyfriend. Apparently I had told him to F*** Off quite a few times while I was vomiting and he decided to follow my friendly advice.

The main reason I am going into all this elaborate detail is to make a point. I was really lucky to be surrounded by my friends that night, who I know would never have let me come to any serious harm. But what scares me the most is what could have happened if they were not there to look after me. I was in no position to fight off any sort of attacker, and consequently Devon and Cornwall Police have warned women that alcohol is in fact the most common date rape drug, while the drugs GHB and Rohypnol no longer need to be used, as women are effectively "spiking" themselves by drinking too much.

Of course being attacked seems like the worst scenario to come out of a few too many drinks, but people always seem to forget what they are actually doing to their bodies. Liver disease, breast cancer, heart disease, osteoporosis, pancreatitis and even death, are cited by the BBC as some of the possible effects that can result from young women binge drinking. 

I don't want to lecture anyone about their drinking habits. As you can all read, I've certainly had some adventures involving alcohol. I simply think that it's about time I started to cut down on the units. If I'm [attempting to] count calories to better my health, maybe I should start counting my alcohol units too.