Everybody lies sometimes. Ed Sheeran, Omid Djalili, the guy who voices C-3PO, they’ve all lied. Even I, a perfect angel, have told a lie in my life. That being said, I’m a laughably bad liar. I can’t look someone in the eye and lie convincingly without getting flustered, or spinning a yarn about being late because a raccoon stole my shoes.
Once upon a time, a man turned to me after sex, looked deeply into my eyes and said, “Y’know Nikki, you should really get a boyfriend”. It was late, but I told him I’d see what I could forage from the dumpster in the morning. Prince Charming’s throwaway statement reveals so much about how we view sexually liberated, content, unattached women. I didn’t want to be this man’s girlfriend. I didn’t want to be any man’s girlfriend. I wanted to be single.
If I know memes (and believe me, I know memes), we’re supposed to hate our exes. Your ex-boyfriend is trash. Don’t pick up the phone; he’s just calling because he’s drunk and alone. Based on my extensive research, most people don’t actually loathe their exes. The majority of relationships fall apart in a slow, sad and confusing way. There are more shades of grey than a poorly written Twilight fan-fiction.
Content note: psychological abuse, gaslighting
I’ve been called a lot of things over the years. Somebody recently described me as “brazen, enchanting and doting”, which I would like to formally request as my epitaph, many thanks. The year is 2017 and I don’t need to tell you that ‘crazy’ is an inherently problematic term which minimises the reality of struggling with mental illness. It’s a lazy adjective and about as good-natured as Nigel Farage and Katie Hopkins’ imaginary lovechild.
Content note: self-harm, eating disorders
I experience severe pre-menstrual syndrome. Put your eyeballs back in their sockets lads, you’re reading a blog called GIRL (if you squint a bit). A few days before my period arrives, as well as the usual headaches and irritability, I no longer recognise myself. My self-esteem fluctuates as wildly as the pound post-Brexit. I look in the mirror and think “who replaced my body with dough” and “why has my face been crudely covered with a Halloween mask”. Days earlier, I was the figurative belle of the figurative ball.
Having sex outside of a relationship is tricky because the lines are as blurred as that Robin Thicke song about sexual harassment.
None of us can agree on the terms of engagement. I would like a tweet from Theresa May or Kanye West clarifying the official position on what “seeing each other” means. I have no idea what the phrases “dating” or “hooking up” mean either. It sounds like 50 Shades of Emotional Insecurity and I’ll have no part in it, thanks.