And I don’t want to hear about him either. I don’t care if he bought you flowers, or took you to see a cute rabbit at the farm, I don’t even care if he’s really nice and likes all the same crap you like. I JUST DON’T CARE. If this sounds a bit extreme, let me break it down into exactly why I don’t give a toss.

1. They’re your boyfriend not mine.
No matter how sweet, caring, hot, amazing in bed, this person is, they aren’t doing any of this stuff to me. I don’t want them to do it to me, and I’m glad they’re doing all this supposedly great stuff to you, no, really I am, but it impacts so marginally on my life that to have to hear about, read about it, and get twittered at about it, all the freaking time is about as useful to me as you telling me about how relieved you after your first piss of the day.

2.  All this talking about them is eating into my valuable time.
And your valuable time, and dare I say it? our valuable time. We could be talking about how shitty Lady Gaga’s dancing is when compared with that of Beysus or why everything on the internet comes from 4chan. We could be having an intelligent discussion on the link between yamambas and Essex girls. We could teaching me to burp the alphabet. We could NOT be talking about how psyched you were when Tarquin ran you a bath after work.

3. I don’t know them.
When a friend goes out with a mutual friend there is a slightly more vested interest, I liked both of you enough to be friends with you in the first place evidently. But if I’ve only ever met him with you then I don’t have a clue what he’s like. Maybe in time we’ll get to be best buds, sharing a cup of cocoa in the kitchen before bed. It’s unlikely, he wants to stick his dick in you, I don’t: we are very different people.

4.  Are they really that amazing?
Really? Really really? If you wrote down their qualities objectively on paper would they be more amazing than Cory Doctorow? I mean seriously, think about it, he gave you a chocolate bar cos he called you a mean name when he was angry, really, it’s kind of douchey.

5. Unless it’s exciting, funny, or gross, I just don’t care.
Boyfriend fell over and farted on you? Great! You both dodged a speeding motorbike that nearly mowed you down? Amazing! He fell over while naked and arguing with you? Jackpot! Just think of the rule “Tits or GTFO” and you’ll see my conversation criteria.

Please don’t go away thinking I hate your other halves, or you, I really don’t. Your relationship is probably super exciting… to you and them. I’m sure that they make you see stars and fireworks when you kiss not pencils or empty ketchup bottles because, yeah, I get it, you’re in love. But don’t blame me if when I ask you how your weekend was and you reply with “Well, Rory Boring and I…” I high-tail it out of your presence.

Pictures from these three brilliant tumblrs: Vogue Weekend, Living Loving Maid, and Super Woodbinda.

Recently I was googling how to get rid of lovebites (aka hickeys) and came across a mine of confusing, contradictory advice. Some people swore by ice-packs and tea bags. Others by  toothpaste, arnica cream, or hot compresses. Some people even recommended making them worse so you could pretend that you had a real injury (these people are obviously mad).

Scrolling through page after page of crackpot advice soon brought out the smarmy answers too: “Next time tell your sweetie not to bite so hard.”, “…don’t get one in the first place.” “Remember how unsightly they are.” and on and on. Some bloggers, writing for teenagers I imagine, advised talking to the hickey giver about it first. Not that I’m advocating forcing hickeys on teenage girls, but if someone starts to give you one and you don’t like it, whether you’re an adult or not, just tell them to stop. Sitting down, with a notepad and pen and saying to each other: “Do you like lovebites?” “Yup.” “Cool, what about blindfolds?” “Nope, sorry. How do you feel about oral sex?” etc etc would be one of the biggest passion killers I could ever imagine. However it is something I could imagine Topher and Bennett getting pretty into. That aside, what the heck is so wrong with a lovebite? Having one, getting one, or giving one, can all be fun, and it’s the douchey reactions from other people that make them less than worthwhile. Also, mate, telling them not to bite so hard? I think we’re all missing the point here…

I, for one, hope that with the sudden surge of interest in vampires (and to a lesser extent zombies) that lovebites, hickeys, blooms, strawberries, passion marks, tramp stamps, WHATEVERS will enter the mainstream and stop ignorant people making comments like this on urban dictionary:

After all if lovebites remain ‘a sign of sluttiness’ then whatever are we going to do when True Blood comes back later this year and everyone starts role-playing Eric and Sookeh at night?

Picture from a Google search on Pup’N'Taco… no I don’t know why I was doing that either.

Shameless self promotion time! I have a Tumblr and am sorely lacking people to tumbl with! Is that what you call it? Anyway, come join me! Don’t forget you can always find me on twitter and I mean always!

For the last week and a half I have been looking for a lipstick. Not any old lipstick, I found 100s of those, but the lipstick. One that will make me look like a lady, and that will not rub off all over cups, cigarettes, and boys’ faces.

Back in this post I mentioned a party so terrible that I forgot sleeping with someone at it. While I erased most of it from my mind I have never forgotten a lipstick related mishap that nearly stopped that entire sorry blog post unfolding (why didn’t it?? why??).

At the start of the evening I bumped into someone I thought was my ONE TRUE LOVE. We’ll call him Chet. My primary reason for thinking this was because I’d met Chet while blissed out on some Es. The moment I met him was amazing: I looked up from my scrabbling hands and in a split second the world slipped away. For a few hours I followed him around, hands in his pockets staring at him like there was no-one else in the room. It was probably pretty creepy. A few days later Chet invited me to this now apocryphal party and most of the sheen had worn off him I was still fairly smitten. When I arrived he’d necked half a bottle of Ritalin and was gabbling at me about everything under the sun. I was horrible disappointed but followed him into an empty room anyway to put my coat down. Inside Chet grabbed me by the arm: “Nadia just kissed me.” My heart sank as he was smiling broadly. “She kissed so badly; let me show you.” and before I could say anything he was lapping at my face like a St Bernard. I seized the opportunity as he broke away: “How would you prefer it was?” and so we kissed. We kissed for some time stood in the dingy light of Nadia’s bedroom surrounded by coats and shoes and someone sleeping under a curtain. In my head I was going “Yes! Yes! Yes!” because I am an idiot and do things like that.

Then someone stepped in to drop a bag off and we stood about awkardly talking about how this was a terrible idea and that we should just be friends. Well Chet said that and I said “Oh yes I suppose so.” Mortified that I could have misread a situation so badly I had been staring at the floor, and when I finally had the courage to look up I realised my lurid red lipstick was all over his face. He was telling me, all serious like, that this was just something that we’d done in the moment, and that it would be best if we didn’t think about it again, blah blah blah. I gave him a tissue, told him to clean himself and left the room. It wasn’t until days later that I realised I too must have looked like Robert Smith when I walked back into the party. Subtle.

And so to avoid this ever happening again I have been looking for a matte lipstick that doesn’t smell like crayons, isn’t neon red, won’t dry my lips, and yet won’t leave a trail of smears everywhere I go. Any ideas? It’s rather important you know.

Photo from Le Smoking.

Although at one point 2009 seemed like the year that would never end, the last month especially, the finish line is finally in sight so I thought I would make a list of some pertinent things I learned this year. When I say pertinent I mean, ‘really obvious things that most people have probably figured out by now, but that surprised me, and which I still frequently forget’.

1. If the thought of going out with a particular person makes you have a panic attack, then don’t do it.
In January I rang Alex hyperventilating and crying because I was “going to have to be Conor’s girlfriend even though he’s mad and twitchy and has horrible teeth that look like the Berlin Wall”. He patiently explained that I didn’t have to be anyone’s girlfriend if I didn’t want to, and then hung up to watch Hollyoaks.

2. You are (probably) not going to die alone with cats.
And even if you did cats are pretty cool and can do awesome stuff like eat with a fork or chase a laser for hours, so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

3. Don’t exchange numbers with someone the morning after if you have no intention of contacting them again.
This is less something I learned, and more something I wish everyone else would learn: If you do give your number over then prepare to be contacted, and either have the balls to say “I’m a prick who gave you my number because I thought it was ‘what you do’ and didn’t want to upset you because I can’t handle emotions.” or arrange a date and see if the other person is any cop.

4. Pretending to like things that you actually hate is pointless.
See: politics, Belgian cinema, thrash metal, Nietzsche, and kale.

5. Although drinking can help you talk to new people, being trashed only helps you pull douchebags.
Because once you’re so wasted you want to dance on a pool table the only man who’s in any state to cope with you is one who’s been drinking since yesterday afternoon.

I learned some other things too obviously (like where Minehead is, the best way to cook salmon, and how to network a printer) but they’re less relevant to this blog… anyway, I hope you all have a wonderful New Year’s Eve, and that whoever you snog at midnight is a keeper, or at least a good kisser.

Ace photo of Takashi Murakami and Kirsten Dunst taken from their video Akihabara Majokko Princess for Pop Life: Art in a Material World

1. Call an ex.
Speaking to your ex will only make your current singledom all the more unbearable, and if you’re foolish enough to meet up bad things could happen. Worse than sex things. Like telling him how lonely you are, how much you miss him, or that you think you’re (still) in love with him. Or you could do all that WHILE having sex with him! Eek!

2. Go to the cinema.
While a good film can pull most people out of even the darkest moods, going when you are feeling like Bubbles without Michael is a terrible idea. Almost every film has a romantic subplot, and crying over Couples Retreat or Crank 3 is only going to make you feel more pathetic than you need to.

3. Tell a friend who has a boyfriend that you’re lonely.
While this person will, at first, be all ears and you’ll feel like your black little heart is about to be unburdened, you will eventually feel obliged to ask how their boyfriend is, and then that crashing feeling will smother you again.

4. Clear out your room.
It might seem like a good idea, out with the old, in with the new, that crap, but once you start uncovering all the books and t-shirts he lent you you’ll be sat, a gibbering wreck on the floor wailing about dying alone with cats.

5. Log onto Facebook.
Why let an endlessly updated stream of other people’s happy lives mock yours? Oh look! It’s Clara and her boyfriend snuggling in Devon on a long weekend. Isn’t that lovely?

Look, just light a fag, crack open a beer, and scream along to Live Through This till you think you might puke. You can thank me later.

Photo by Dash Snow.

5. Thieves Like Us – Your Heart Feels
This song is best listened to mid-way through the broken heart process: you’ve moved on long enough not to sniff things they gave you and weep, but not enough to talk to them without wanting to pee. It’s a bit like a 2000s The Rat, but about feeling shitty about seeing your ex-boyfriend everywhere instead of getting bored of ‘the scene’ after breaking up with your girlfriend. There’s a difference, ok?

4. Patsy Cline – Three Cigarettes In An Ashtray
Obivously this song is only applicable when you’ve been cheated on, but shit, Patsy Cline knows exactly what’s going on in your heart and if you smoke it’s even better because you can look at all the gnarled butts in your ashtray and sigh. Even better if some are still his. If you smoke his left overs, you are officially disgusting fyi.

3. Amy Winehouse – Tears Dry On Their Own
Let’s just pretend for one second that after writing this Ames dumped Blakey and got on with her life, because this song is pretty much a distillation of everything heartbreak is: your whole life is grey and horrible, you love him so much but he’s a giant douche and doesn’t care about you, and you keep telling yourself you’re going to be an independent woman, but all you do is sit and cry. But hey! There are topless men in the video! Bonus!

2. Blur – To The End
Although you are nowhere near as cool as Justine Frischmann it’s nice to think that you could be sitting there, louche, drinking whiskey, listening to your ex wonder why you broke up, in classy way. This will probably make you cry if you’ve been heartbroken for less than a week though. (Another bonus from the video: Graham Coxon in a suit. Grunt.)

1. Chet Baker – But Not For Me
Bright Eyes – Landlocked Blues
Listening to these two songs got me so emotional it felt unfair to pick one over the other so it’s a joint top spot. And yes I know this is a cop-out but if these two songs don’t move you then you have no soul.

If you really want to wallow in misery then there’s always my self-compiled Saddest Playlist In The World on Spotify which contains all these, and more! And which always reduces me to a jibbering weepy wreck.

When looking for books to review I realised that The Rules, a seminal moment in dating book history, had passed me by. Initially I was reluctant to spend my hard earned cash on what I guessed (rightly) was a misogynistic piece of crap and then I discovered Book Mooch. Now, due to the generosity of some wonderful women, my bedside table holds Women Who Love Too Much, He’s Just Not That Into You, and, of course, The Rules. Oh and Real Life Crime Scene Investigation which is nowhere near as good as its title suggests.

The Rules’ premise is that if you act stuck up and too busy to hang out you’ll seem mysterious which will mean that the excitement of getting to know you will drive men crazy. Though there is precisely no concrete evidence, not even good old malleable statistics, or even a half-cooked pseudo-scientific study, to back up that this passive aggressive behaviour works, the authors get creative: “No-one knows seems to remember exactly how The Rules got started, but we think they began circa 1917 with Melanie’s grandmother who made men wait nervously in her parent’s parlour in a small suburb of Michigan.” It’s hard to believe that they have the gall to fob us off with the old ‘my friend told me that her grandmother told her’ line as I believe that’s how holocaust deniers got started.

Annoyingly after reading this stupid book I’ve become plagued by the feeling that I’ve been doing everything wrong. When I told Alexander J. Fury this he decided we needed to come up with our own set of rules, which I am now attempting to follow.

Teh Rulez

1. Do not get wasted on a first date/meeting.
Since I cut back on my drinking I have been wasted twice. Admittedly each of these times resulted in pulling but neither was dignified or merited a second ‘date’ (FYI I’m interpreting the word ‘date’ loosely). However getting tipsy is requisite unless it’s Monday afternoon or something.

2. No sleeping together on a first date.
Kissing is fine though, obviously. Alex says: “You should sit down, and kiss, and talk about life and stuff. If you sit down blood will rush to your brains and he’ll remember you more.”  While this is obviously the ranting of a madman, and I do not believe that sex on a first date is wrong, I was given the caveat that “Sex on a second date is ok.” so I caved.

3. Get his number, suggest hanging out, then go home.
These rules get squished together because they should happen in quick succession. I have a terrible habit of meeting people and not getting their numbers, or doing so then texting things like “I just saw [insert celeb we talked about] on the bus!” which can garner no response other than “Cool!”. As for going home first this is a slightly Rules-esque thing, which will apparently stop me hanging around like a bad smell.

4. You must exchange a minimum of 5 texts before the second date.
How you arrange a date in less than 5 texts is beyond me, however if you manage it this apparently means he is not bothered about you. Alex also thinks that waiting more than four hours to reply to a message implies I am not interested. As it took me two days to reply to the last text message I got from an eligible boy I will keep this in mind (he didn’t text back, surprisingly).

5. Don’t try and be ‘normal’.
Every boy I crush out on gets treated to ‘normal Vanessa’. The Vanessa who doesn’t blather about boys and supermarkets and cars and that guy in Deptford town centre who wears a wedding dress and has a shopping trolley full of paper apples and pears. Instead they get a strange semi-mute person who pretends to like D.A.F and shopping for shoes until I crack and scream “As your maker I command you!” and they think I’m crazy and don’t call again. It seems that the boys I mess around with, not caring whether I look funny or cool, are the ones who either crush out on me or become my best friends.

So there we have them: the most moronic dating rules I have ever clapped eyes on. Does anyone else want to join me in this restrictive and possibly futile rules based adventure? Didn’t think so. Sigh. Maybe I’ll just follow Alexyss K Tylor’s advice instead. She seems to know what she’s talking about, right?

Collage by Dash Snow.

1. Always wear a condom.
Like duh. Duh duh and OHMYGOD DUH. There are so many freaking things that can infect, inhabit, and eat away at your genitals that it’s just not worth taking a chance. Also, if you get a scary sore on your genitals go get it checked! Alexi Wasser’s awesome blog reminded me of this recently and it is so so true. Who cares if it turns out to be an ingrown hair? Better that than ignore it till your lymph nodes start exploding out of your skin.

2. Don’t take a rock-a-billy guy home. Ever.*
Pomade is really hard to get off bed linen.

3. You are better than that shit.
Sometimes ‘that shit’ is the douchebag you’re with, the insane behaviour you’re exhibiting, or the shitty job you’re in; whichever it is you’re better than that! Think about it! Putting up with a ‘alright’ or downright cruddy life, or partner, means that you are saying that you’re not worth any more. Don’t you deserve to live your best life now? (I love you Oprah!) Aren’t you the most amazing person you know? Why not? Everyone has ugly bits of their body, have you ever seen Megan Fox’s thumb? Everyone is an annoying, nagging shrew sometimes, it’s ok! Flaws are what make us adorable! I hate to go all summer of 69 on you all but seriously you are amazing. Maybe you’re not all amazing all the time but it’s like Dr Manhattan says: “Millions upon millions of cells compete to create life for generation after generation until… against unfathomable odds it’s you, only you, that emerged to distil so specific a form from all that chaos. It’s like turning air into gold.”

4. Revenge is neither satisfying nor dignified.
One of the all time lows in my life was having a friend wrestle me to the floor to take my phone away while I screamed profanities into it. This was after an ex made the mistake of leaving me an abusive voicemail then not picking up when I called him back. The message I left him? I don’t even want to think about what it said but it definitely involved the words ‘fuck you you fucking motherfucker I will cut your head off and spit down your neck if you ever call me again’. It didn’t make me feel any better by the way, I just felt depressed that I’d let him get to me, and annoyed I’d recorded something so utterly mortifying.

5. When times get bad sing Jennifer Juniper to yourself.
It’s better than valium I swear.

Photo by Matthew Feyld. *Advice by Money For Jam