I never finish

A project. I never finish a project. I bet you all thought I meant orgasm. You can think it. The title was clickbait. I hope it worked. Don’t you worry your pretty little heads; I am very satisfied, sexually. Onto the projects.

I can half play about eight instruments; I can kinda use about five different specialist computer softwares; I have qualifications in random, completely non-related disciplines; I have one big ball (now now…) of very nice grey wool that once had a destiny of becoming a crocheted blanket; about four half read books (yes I fold over the corners and always write in the margins); one box of paint pens, un-used aside from the underside of one wine glass (pintrest, your fault); a tin of very expensive chalk paint, along with two packets of sanding paper, dust sheets and six paint brushes and a commitment to running any distance farther than 6k that is about as loyal as my commitment to dieting and flossing. I think that’s all. I even got Mr K to proof this paragraph in case I missed anything; he was proudly anxious that this might be the day I decide to restart everything.

I just don’t have any patience. I am the most impatient person I know. I can’t even wait for toast to toast; seriously, I will pop the toaster about four times before letting it do it’s sole purpose and toast my toast. (Side note: should it be toast my bread? Possibly).

Pasta is stressful. So are baths. You turn your back for one minute and there’s water everywhere. Kettles are pretty much my arch enemy. Why do things take so fucking long? Don’t even get me started on self service machines in supermarkets. IF YOU TELL ME TO REMOVE THE LAST ITEM FROM MY BASKET ONE MORE TIME.

I have so many grand ideas. Really, you should hear inside this redhead; it’s bloody wonderful. I’m going to cure inequality; climate change; the problem with self service machines; digitally inept companies; Britains urge to queue; cash machines asking if you want a receipt when you clearly selected cash no receipt.

Many of these (none of the above) come to fruition. I plough time, money and my poor friends attention spans into each and every one; buying the tools, learning the knowledge and making the connections that I need to. But I really don’t like being bad at things. It makes me so sad. I bought a 300 quid banjo and upon my first try realised it was going to be really hard. I picked it up two more times, then sold it on a Facebook buy, swap and sell group.

I don’t think I’m a bad loser. I just don’t like being bad at something. Learning to drive was fucking torture. My angel of a driving instructor had the patience of a saint; I told him the wrong date for my final test. He didn’t even swear at me when we turned up on the wrong day, at the wrong time, after he had cancelled three other pupils to hold my test…

My brother is the same. We’re not good at being ok. Ok; mediocre; average; moderate; regular. We were brought up by parents who thought we walked on water (I’m scared to tell them that might not be quite accurate) and by golly we believe it too. Anything less than perfect and it’s not good enough. Millennial they say; my feelings about the whole millennial movement and it’s angels could fill the pages of a book, so let’s not. My motto? If you’re not instantly good at something, move on. (It’s so shit, I know. It’s how I justify my flakey ass behaviour).

Ask my how my crochet blanket is going. I dare you.

I never finish

A gazelle

I did a very cool thing today. Cool by my standards.

I cycled to work. And then ran home from work.

Yes, you read it right. CYCLED to work, and RAN home. I’ll say it again, just in case you missed it. I cycled to work. And then ran home from work. Go fucking me. Hell yeah. I have found my perfect routine. A 13 minute cycle to work using the ever so fashionable Next Bikes (think Borris bikes in London), casual 9 hours in the office, then a 20 min run home.

Before a few weeks ago, I hadn’t been on a bike in about six years. That first time, with my super hot boyfriend in front of me in very tight shorts, I nearly fell over, crashed into a post, and narrowly avoided knocking over a small child. It was not good. I blame the shorts.

But now? Four attempts later, I am THE QUEEEN OF THE BIKE. I just glide. You know the way you glide when you have newly shaved every part of your body within an inch of your life? Glideeeeee. I glided to work. Sun in the sky, sunglasses slipping down my nose, bright red running trainers paired ever so effortlessly with my very smart office clothes, runny eyes (thanks wind), bright red freezing knuckles and a nervous twitch at every traffic light. Glided to work I did. Like a shiny smooth leg. Glided.

I had a running bag. Like a zippy, colourful, multi-pocketed (like who uses all of them anyway?) bag. A running bag. It held approximately one bra cup, a pair of leggings and a running top. But, it made me feel like a TOTAL BOSS. I felt like if someone was chasing after me, I could outrun them AND show off my fancy new bag at the same time. They would be dazzled by my running bag. BOSS GIRL.

It chaffed a bit. When I ran home. *Side note: I would like to point out that when I say I went for a run, I really mean a jog. A 10 min mile jog.* It bounced a lot and rubbed against my neck a bit. As I was running, like a glorious fucking gazelle might I add, I found myself wishing I had some vaseline for my neck. Just a wee tin, maybe the green one with Aloe. Next time, next time.

I got home and felt like the fittest person in the whole entire world. Like, I could run a marathon. I should have been at London Marathon. I should be on the Olympic running team. Seriously, you should have seen my gazelle like movement. Beautiful strides, barely out of breath (I think I wasn’t breathing, that was it), not a drop of sweat (it was highlighter I swear). I sat down to a big bowl of pasta, because you need to refuel after a tough workout (2 miles…),  and ate seven Oreos. I still haven’t moved and it’s been 3 hours. My legs hurt. My back hurts. My feet feel like I’ve walked over hot coals for years. BUT I WAS A FUCKING QUEEN TODAY.

Exercise done for the week? You betcha.

How’s your running? Do you even run bro?

Your redhead.

A gazelle

My tits and I

I think I’m going to take up karate. Or kick boxing. Or just boxing.

Listening to a podcast on my way home today got me thinking. What if I was ever in a position of compromise, and needed to defend myself? I don’t have any special skills, unless wiggling my nostrils counts?

My nunga nungas would only hinder my efforts, ultimately disproving the ‘you could knock someone out with those’ theory. Trust me, that would hurt me more than it would them.

Maybe I need to give you a bit of context. I have big jugs. Last time I got measured, they were a GG. Yes, two Gs. But they’re not nice, perky, porn star boobs. They’re sling ’em in your waistband, breast feeding without the baby, more stretch marks than a tubigrip, boobs. They get in my way, all day, every day. Do I hate them? Nah. Mr K certainly doesn’t seem to mind them either. They do cause me a problem though. Read further for the detailed insight.

I could run away. I can run; I’m a runner. I could gather myself, put my sprinting head on, and run. But boobs. I could not run without a sports bra. They’re like tennis balls in socks, and the top of the socks are attached to my body, and they bounce, and they swing, and they thud. They hurt when they are not warned about fast movement. I sometimes contemplate wearing a sports bra during sex… seriously, it’s crossed my mind.

Bralets? Those intricate, pretty, sexy, non-wired, non-supportive, sexy, pretty, lacey things? The ones you can see the models nipples through? The ones that Agent Provocateur sell? Yes, those super hot things. They might just cover my nipple and no more. No under wire = no, no, no go.

Picture this. It’s Wedding/Engagement/Ball/Party/Special Occasion season. You are looking for a new outfit. You go to ANY shop. There’s a pretty sleeveless dress. There’s a pretty off the shoulder dress. There’s a very edgy silk jumpsuit with spaghetti straps. Can you wear a bra with any of these items? Nope. So, can I wear them? Nope. Unless I tuck my tits into my granny pants and hope nobody asks where my extra muffin top came from… Don’t even get me started on sexy pyjamas. Lucky Mr K is regularly treated to lumpy leggings and an old band t-shirt. Hey baby, come get me 😉

They attract unwanted attention. ALL THE FUCKING TIME. On the tube, on the street, in the gym, when I run, when I go to the dentist and don’t wear a polo neck, when I have to tie my shoelaces; the list is endless.

My last moan. They make me hypocritical. They make me forgot all my feminist, strong, body positive views. I have said professed all of these in the past; don’t change your body permanently, don’t have plastic surgery, don’t conform, don’t hate yourself, don’t be jealous of other girls, be happy, be brave, be confident in your skin, be proud of what you have. But me? PLEASE GIVE ME TEN THOUSAND POUNDS SO I CAN CHOP THEM OFF NOW.

Let me know if you have the dolla and I’ll send you my bank details. Cheers chum.

How do you feel about your breasticles?

Your redhead.

My tits and I

The First

I wanted the first post to be something very clever, and funny; I wanted to make you question where I had been your whole life.

Instead, I decided to give you a quick synopsis of me.

In no particular order;

  • I’m 23
  • I live in Glasgow, although I’m not from Glasgow
  • I want to provoke; thoughts not violence (although some of my irritations induce rage)
  • I have a boyfriend; let’s call him Mr K
  • I want to write about everything; I used to write about music, but that felt restrictive
  • I dislike a lot of things including busses; waiting; pickles; the Daily Mail; when people agree just to keep peace; feeling guilty; Sambuca
  • I’m also quite funny when I want to be; await the first funny joke, it’s a goodun’
  • I want to recommend things; books, music; events; articles; opinions
  • I have a job; a good one; an enjoyable one
  • I overuse the semi colon; you’ll get used to it
  • I have dreams; ideas; magnificent plans; I want to tell you about them, and be shy about them
  • I sometimes have unpopular opinions; I will always want you to tell me what you think
  • I have an unhealthy obsession with lipstick; I always wear a lip liner
  • I have four dream jobs; I’m not going to tell you them all at once; oh the suspense
  • I love knowledge; knowledge is power; reading, listening and absorbing give you knowledge; more knowledge makes your cleverer; my blog will make you clevererer (see what I did there?)
  • I swear; a lot
  • I’m not sorry about it; it shows emotion
  • I hate Facebook; I still check it everyday; those dog videos
  • I adore podcasts; I wish I was funny enough to create one
  • I am a ‘curvy’ lady; I’m a bit chubby; this blog may or may not mention it; just an FYI
  • I try to be a runner; edit; I am a runner

I may update this later; I may not. But for now, I am happy to give you a slice of me, to allow you to create an image in your head of who I am, and what I’m going to do (please picture Emma Stone, he’s affa hot). I want this space to be for everything and anything, for my moans and groans, for triumphs and successes and the ins and outs of my daily life. Let’s see what happens.

Your redhead

The First