Monthly Archives: November 2014

Starbucks Date with Myself.

Hello everyone 🙂

So I’m having one of those weeks where nothing has out-rightly struck me as blog-worthy or better yet, many wonderful things have happened but I’m not readily allowed to blog about them (I don’t want any trouble) so I turned to The Daily Post. They post these things called Daily Prompts which literally do what they claim: they prompt. This is the one I chose. Et voila.

Good Tidings

Present-day you meets 10-years-ago you for coffee. Share with your younger self the most challenging thing, the most rewarding thing, and the most fun thing they have to look forward to. (For the sake of simplicity, I’m talking to 10-year old me. 8 year old me wouldn’t be up to this, I’m sure.)

*I couldn’t find a picture of myself at 10, no joke. So, here is 6/7/8 year old me. Not entirely sure.

Hey, don’t you look tragically cute. I look a lot different, right? Not nearly what you expected to look like at 18. You thought you’d be skinny by now and well, so did I.

Next year, you’re definitely going to boarding school. Mummy and Daddy may be making you do all these exams for all these other schools over here but trust me, you’re ending up in Nigeria. For that exam, just remember BODMAS. It may seem like the stupidest acronym ever but it is a life-saver. Boarding school is nothing like what you’re thinking it could be. Every night is not one sleepover. You will cry every night for the first week. You will bathe with freezing cold water at 6 o’clock in the morning. You will eat things you never thought existed. You will be the victim of puberty. You will be on the receiving end of a collapsing bunk-bed. You will meet people who find your diary, read it and chase you, threatening to club you with a metal T-square because they couldn’t handle the truth. You will make a public fool of yourself (I know you will but don’t send a lovenote to the cute guy in your class. He’s kind of an ass, he’s only 11, he doesn’t know any better). You will become very thin and it doesn’t look good on you but it happens. You will get what the school doctor claims to be malaria almost every month but you know it’s worse than that. You will convince the parents to let you out of that school after the first year.

Somehow, you end up in a proper Nigerian school. Yes, those schools. Where they have even more canes and the teachers aren’t afraid to slap you for not greeting them properly. Sticking out like a sore thumb is the least of your problems. You will get typhoid, it is very unpleasant. On the plus-ish side, you will actually meet someone who you fall in love with years later and he loves you right back. I’m not even making this up, I couldn’t. I won’t give away too much but it’s a disastrous mess to begin with. You will sometimes regret knowing him but despite all of that, both of you find a way to function dysfunctionally. Hang in there, okay? I mean it, really hang in there. Think about it like this: he’s like a stray cat that won’t leave you alone but you feel almost anxious when he’s not wondering around.

Finally, you make it to the Promised Land of schools. This is where all the magic happens. You make friends for life. You will meet your soul sister but she’s Indian, that’s the only difference. The number of amazing memories that you’ll make will astound you. There’s a particular teacher who does library with you. He turns out to be pretty awesome and makes you read stuff you wouldn’t normally touch with a pole. He’s very cool. You will love that place, that’s all I can say.

You will come back here when you’re 16 and you are going to be chucked right into the deep end. People will find your accent – yes, it happens – a little funny but you’ll learn to do you. You’ll meet some people who you’ll wonder how you managed without them and others who you’ll totally regret looking upon. You do a lot of adaptive maturing in those 2 years of college.

Only thing left is university. You get in, that’s for sure. I’m still figuring out the rest.

Your life really begins the second you’re left to fend for yourself in boarding school. You become who you’re looking at right now. I know how bittersweet you feel about it. You’re scared about not making friends and all the friends you’re leaving behind. All the important things and people will stay put, that’s not an issue. Don’t worry about a lot of things, it’s all pretty trivial. Just stay focused and stay happy. Keep smiling. Keep writing. 8 years may not seem like that much but it is and it goes by quick so just go with it. Put your heart into it all, that’s what you do and always will do.

Coffee tastes pretty grim at 10 but just wait until you come back to Starbucks to buy things besides their cookies. Coffee is life-enhancing.

Do you still love Beyoncé? Love is an understatement.

No rant this week, I’m in a happy place.

Songs of the Week: Beyoncé – 7/11 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4YRWT_Aldo) & Sebastian – Embody (https://soundcloud.com/edbangerrecords/sebastian-embody)

Quote of the Week: “One thing I’ve learnt in uni, you’ve got to go and get it yourself. Whatever you want, probably won’t come to you.” – Laveen M

Georgina x

I am Me, Not My Chesticles.

I’ve wanted to talk about this for a really long time but I felt it was too soon to be thrust upon you. However, we’re 8 weeks in, I think I’m allowed to discuss this.

Disclaimer: this has nothing (okay, maybe a little bit) to do with recent events (yes, point at yourself, I’m referring to you) so don’t think this is one my shadeful, judging lollipops to you. This is just an outcry for help of understanding the immense interest, or more like, the obsession with breasts. If you can’t handle the word ‘breasts’, you shouldn’t be on the internet, let alone this blog, okay?

When God made me, He decided that when I grew older, my breasts would also grow with me. He also decided to make boys completely fascinated with breasts right around the time that I (and a lot of other endowed girls out there) were beginning to accept and deal with their assets. I don’t go around shoving my breasts under everyone’s nose, I don’t confine myself to the wonders of turtle/bottle necks either. I wear what I want but I am decent. I wear tank tops under certain items of clothing, I wear camisoles, I am continuously tugging my tops up to prevent epic disasters. I even invested in a pair of minimiser bras from Marks and Spencer’s recently. I can’t help it if I lean over and you see Paris from inside my shirt. Leaning is a fundamental exertion. Let me live. There are times when I myself am awed by my own cleavage but I keep those moments to myself, mostly. I’m no Kim Kardashian, as you can probably tell.

I refer to my breasts in many varying ways such as boobs (even though I use this the most, it’s one of my most hated words. it’s just so… irritating), jugs (only to my nearest and dearest), breasts and my all-time favourite, chesticles. I call them chesticles because there is power in this word. If a man stood before me right now and we were trying to engage in a somewhat meaningful conversation about the controversy over the reception of Ebola in the diaspora, for example, and my eyes continuously fleeted between his own eyes and his testicles, wouldn’t he be itching to grab me by the chin and tell me through gritted teeth, “Hey, eyes here. Eyes no go there.” Well, that’s exactly how I feel when I attempt to converse with many a member of the opposite sex. My eyes are on my face, right above my nose. They are not dangling from my chest. I don’t know, am I missing something here? Am I unaware of how my own breasts appear? Are my breasts the first to have ever existed? I’m starting to think that if one day, I had a mastectomy, I wouldn’t have nearly half as many boys attempting to speak to me. I really think my breasts are like a beacon for some of these aforementioned boys. It’s sad. I am a human being, you know. My bra size doesn’t determine how much of a person I am. I like to think I’m a good person, I’m intelligent (ish), I’m friendly, I can cook (ish), I like to read, I like sleep, I like buying things on Amazon compulsively, I like listening to music, I like blogging. All these things have no effect or are not affected by my breasts. So what is the problem?

I get it: there’s something arousing about them. There’s something sexual about them. There’s something there that makes the boys go loco. It offsets this burning sensation to mention my breast size, just to make sure I am aware of the power I possess on my chest. Hey, I do it too. I ogle at fellow ladies every now and again, I comment on their breasts. Even my friends do it too. They tell me how mahoosive my chest is. I can deal with people telling me or commenting on my chest size, it’s the very loose equivalent of commenting on how large someone’s eyes/nose/mouth is. It’s just another body part. But, sex is associated with breasts. And because of this, a lot of boys make it their mission to acquire information and visual data on as many heavily endowed girls out there as they can possibly get their hands on, no pun intended. And I’m done with that sh*t. No one should expect something like that from me or any other girl out there who isn’t parading their chesticles like a pay-per-view channel. Things like that equate to vulnerability, intimacy. I’m not just about to throw things like that to anyone. I don’t care how big a deal it is or isn’t to you. Even if I did want to share such moments, it would only be with my lover. My absolute lover. Or my mother when she walks in on me in the shower but you get the idea.

So, to my male readers and even some female readers (yes, I see you), think before you ask for that picture or before you comment on her chesticles in a way that you know will immediately eject her from her comfort zone with you. Think about the effects, short and long-term, on both her and yourself. Do you really want to wreck a friendship/budding romance/whatever because you couldn’t control what’s in that mind of yours or those boxers/briefs/whatever? Think about it. Think long and hard.

Remember ladies, you choose what defines you. If you want to be known for your chesticles, here’s a fist pump in agreement. If you don’t, here’s a fist pump in agreement. Don’t let someone call you prudish or uptight or even outlandish because of what you want for yourself.

Do you, honey boo-boo.

Mini Rant of the Week: Please look after our planet. I’ve watched enough films to know the people who write these things probably know more about the fate of Earth than I do. Recycle, turn your lights off when you’re not in the room, turn the switches on your plugs off, don’t throw food away if you can’t finish it. Save it for later or give it to someone who will happily eat it for you. Walk, ride a bike, take public transport more often. Interstellar (the movie) not only confused the hell out of my mind but it’s scared me sh*tless as well. I don’t know about you but I don’t want to meet an untimely death and I would like my children and at least my children’s children to live in a fairly decent world. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the generations to come. And if you really couldn’t give 2 sh*ts about humans in general, do it for the polar bears because who doesn’t love a polar bear?

Song of the Week: Miss Amor – Azealia Banks (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6SgqYMl5R8)

Quote of the Week: “My feelings don’t disappear but I’ve learnt, with age, to use them for the greater good.” – Unknown.

Georgina x

Do You Even Blog, Bro?

I was watching a vlog in the presence of someone who lives under a rock last week and this was the conversation that sparked up:

“What are you watching?”
“A vlog.”
“A what? A v-log?”
“It’s a video blog. Wow.”
“I don’t even understand how people blog let alone vlog or whatever you call it.”
“I blog.”
“Right.”

But that last comment wasn’t made with a straight face, it was made with the dirtiest side eye I have ever been on the receiving end of. It felt like a big stomp on my blogger’s glow. I’ve gotten this response a lot of times before. There’s always that semi-gasp and hand on chest/cheek/any other appropriate body part accompanied by “YOU BLOG? WHAT DO YOU BLOG ABOUT?” I mean, damn, is it because I don’t emit blogger pheromones? I’m guessing a lot of bloggers get this frequently. I’m also guessing this is why a lot of bloggers don’t openly say they are actually bloggers. People just don’t expect you to be a blogger. You yourself don’t feel the need to wear your blogger crown so proudly. There has to be some uniform or code of blogging conduct that I’m not aware of because I just don’t get it. I mean, what is a blogger supposed to look like? Is that even a politically correct statement? Will I ever stop asking so many rhetorical questions? The list goes on…

Despite how much I am against stereotyping people into specific archetypes based on what they do or how they appear (exhale), I do it all the time. I am such a hypocrite, I’m sure you are aware of this by now but hey, someone’s got to not practice what they preach. So, if not me, who else?

I am an epic self-proclaimed judger. Let that sink in. Whether I’ve known you for 2 seconds or 2 years, I am judging you on every little thing you do. I do it unconsciously. I do it anywhere, anytime. You name it, I’m judging. I know, “Only God can judge” but I seriously cannot help it. It is a genetic disorder found on my 22nd chromosome called judgetitis.

If I see that a person likes posting pictures of their God-given assets – also known as thirst traps  –  and they’ve got a lot of followers on social media platforms and they don’t have any meaningful reason to have such a large following, I’m thinking they’re a hoe, straight up. I don’t care if they are male or female (or even both, or even neither), no one is exempt from my watchful, judging gaze. Seconds later, I may come to the conclusion that they’re actually not a hoe but that is my automatic instinct. If I see someone on a train, frantically but delicately rolling out a cigarette, I’m thinking they’re an addict of some sorts. If I see someone with an eccentric fashion sense, nose piercing and considerably intriguing hairstyle, I’m assuming they are some sort of blogger or creative entity. If someone cannot tell the difference between their, there and they’re, I’m assuming there’s a problem. But, you get the idea.

If anyone saw me, I don’t even think I’d make a slight impact on their peripheral vision let alone their instinct to judge or their she must be a blogger impulse. “I don’t look like a blogger, I don’t behave like a blogger.” I’m half expected to have a hoop halfway through my nose, a bush full of natural hair and be constantly decked out in something made by a high street brand in conjunction with a high end fashion designer (no shade to the Alexander Wang x H&M collaboration. I just wouldn’t want to walk around with the word “Wang” emblazoned on my ass, you feel me?)

Well, I’ve come to say f*ck that. F*ck the boundaries and the so-called expectations of what many people in your certain skillset are doing. Come to conclusions on anyone and anything you see, assume as you wish, throw your shadeful judges out of your judging basket like you’re giving out free lollipops but don’t let that initial opinionated thought of yours indicate how you treat others (note to self) or how you perceive anything they do. Don’t care if anyone’s initial perception of you has any true indication of who you really are. Do you, honey boo-boo.

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P.S. The picture doesn’t have anything to do with the post, I just wanted to show off my new glasses. I apologise for the lack of creative integrity. It was the best I could do at the time. I tried taking a pretty decent selfie today but I had so many layers on, headphones, the weather wasn’t attractive so it just didn’t happen. K, bye x

Mini Rant of the Week: I cannot stand people who are rude to customer assistants. No one is entitled to be an asshole just because they are paying for a service. Yes, there can be some employees who seriously deserve a backhand slap but if they are genuinely just doing their job and trying to help you out, why would anyone repay that with utter rudeness? Carry your bad mood and your foul mouth and bang it out against a brick wall or something. That store assistant’s job description doesn’t say “Put up with some grumpy goat’s bad attitude”. They are not paid to cope with your crap. Shout out to all the trainees and floor workers of every McDonald’s, KFC, 99p Store and every other store out there who are faced with abuse on a daily basis. You’re not paid enough. You guys are the real MVPs.

Quote of the Week: “We might not change the world but we’re gonna manipulate it, I hope you’re participating.” – Ab-Soul

Song(s) of the Week: If you follow me on Twitter, I think you would have noticed my incessant tweeting about Broke With Expensive Taste, Azealia Banks’ debut album. It is audio crack cocaine. I have a rather different taste in music, let’s just say, so this won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. But try something new. Listen to the previews on iTunes here – https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/broke-with-expensive-taste/id935819478
You can thank me later.

Also, this remix is life-enhancing and I don’t even like remixes. Make sure you either listen to it with good headphones or very loudly, you really need to hear this. You just have to: Bill$ Bill$ Bill$ (ARVFZ Remix)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71mqTDfeJQg

Georgina x

A Series of (Un)Fortunate Events

Fun fact: did you know it takes 6 weeks for a habit to form (my brother told me this so it must be true)? I’m bringing this up because this is the 6th post = 6th week of posting therefore you and I should have developed a habit: me posting every Monday and you coming back every Monday to read! But… come to think of it, I think you have to carry out the almost-habit every day for 6 weeks in order for the habit to form… never mind.

Just to clarify, I don’t write the actual posts on blog day. I write them as the week goes by and somehow, there always seems to be a general theme that crops up in almost every single one of those seven days. This week, the theme was really prominent but I wanted you guys to see how my “emotions” about said theme changed. It’s pretty magical. Here we go:

Tuesday: 6 weeks in and I’m already feeling suicidal. By suicidal, I mean in terms of my university life but in the academic aspect of it all. Not my life life, if you catch my drift. I truly felt like I was going to hurl myself off the nearest cliff today because nothing made sense. Lectures are one thing but actually applying that stuff is another thing. Has a lecturer ever stood over you and asked you to think of the biggest number you could think of and the first thing that came to mind was the number 10? I mean, what? The biggest number isn’t even a number, it’s a word (or a symbol if you’re fancy), it is infinity. I felt so inadequate, so small. The weight of that lecturer’s PhD was literally weighing down my soul, I swear. I felt like £27,000 was being flushed down the metaphorical toilet of wasted opportunities because there was no way I was going to make anything above a pass (which is 40%) and there was no way I was going to get a job with this noose of a degree around my neck and there was no way in hell that I could survive another day on this course. There is something about your lecturer looking you in the eye that completely disarms you. It doesn’t help if the know-it-alls surrounding you are spewing the answers out like they are simply expelling carbon dioxide from their lungs. I am just in above my head. And since we’re on the topic of life, in a way, I want to talk about the personal bit of life too. I wish I had a little more freedom. Now, I don’t want to be that girl going out every other night, shouting “squad” on Snapchat with a bunch of people I barely even know, waking up with a hangover from hell next to someone I don’t even know. No. But damn, can I live a little? I want to live alone, I want to be independent and all that jazz. But, in all honesty, I like knowing that when I come home from a crippling day at the office (haha), my mum has made dinner, I don’t have any flatmates who will piss me off even more than I already am and I’ll be surrounded by people who actually care about how my day went and who won’t ostracise me if I don’t want to partake in any of their gang-banging activities for the evening. It’s a big catch-22 (I don’t think that is the right contextual use of the phrase but I’ve been dying to use it so just act like it makes perfect sense).

Wednesday-Thursday: laying low, sleeping late, waking up early, as you do.

Friday Afternoon: So, I think I’ve found the answer to all my questions. The answer lies in Pharmacology. It is basically my course but a whole less chemistry and maths with a lot more biology. Where has this course been all my life? I am actually stoked about this, I feel like this will help me out and make my life a lot easier. Nothing is actually straightforward, so it seems. Everything is changing.

Friday Night: I ran the idea by my parents. Rather enthusiastically, they told me to really really really think about sticking with the course I am studying now. My dad gave me a nugget of wisdom that I will carry in my mind forever: “nothing in life is easy. If anything is actually easy, there’s a problem.” And boy, does that make me reconsider my whole existence. I want to have a bright future and I want to succeed and I just realised that I don’t want to be a cop-out. I don’t want to be a giver-upper. I need to realise that the tools for me to overcome the obstacles I face are within me. The only thing I need to do is continue to thank God for putting all these people in my life who keep tapping me on my shoulder saying “yoo-hoo, you’re going this way, girlfriend.”

And that, my friends, is how my problem was solved. Told you it was cool.

Mini Rant of the Week: I’ve been an iPhone user and Apple worshipper for like, ever, but I finally jumped off that train and got myself a Samsung. The phone is pretty amazing but it’s so big and because it’s so big, I’m losing my grammatical accuracy. I’m one of those annoying people who text with full words (with the occasional use of WTF, WTH, LOL, LMAO, TTYL and LMFAO) and proper punctuation including actual full stops at the end of each sentence. People know me for this. I was texting an old friend on the day I got my phone and they actually said “The only Georgina I know remembers to put full stops at the end of every sentence so this can’t be her.” It’s practically my trademark. So it makes my blood boil knowing that I physically cannot get my fingers to press that full stop button without feeling like I’m going to fracture a ligament in my thumb or something. Stress.

Song of the Week: I couldn’t bring myself to choose one song for this week because I’ve (re)discovered some good music in the oddest places (thanks, Shazam) so here’s a List of Mismatched Songs for the Week:

Lividup – Disclosure (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRYQ9lecKi8)

All I Need – Mediate (https://soundcloud.com/mediatemusic/all-i-need-1)

Resonance Feat. Talay Riley – Luvbug (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEfYMcmIils)

U KNOW – Prince (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeHDFWKWjAE)

Ordinary People – John Legend (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PIh07c_P4hc)

This Head I Hold – Electric Guest (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVSiwMVaKe4)

Quote of the Week: My dad’s nugget of wisdom (see main post)

Georgina x