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

Someone once told me they were glad to be called shallow because it meant they were attractive enough to have that luxury. While this was, on their behalf, an utter fallacy, it’s an interesting idea. Shallowness is one of those things that we all fall prey to, and when we do, we tell ourselves it’s a one off, an exception, and that normally we wouldn’t behave like this, whereas to beautiful people who are used to getting by on the virtue of their looks alone it is every day sort of thing.

That’s not to say that beautiful people are also shallow, more that they benefit from it frequently, and rarely make a fuss. After all if you weren’t terribly bright, but had wonderful opportunities falling in your lap all the time, you’d take advantage of them too! It seems so unfair to those of us who are neither stunning nor infectiously charismatic, watching those who are less intelligent or driven than us suceed, but I like to think, like Earl, that karma has a funny way of sorting things out.

Let’s take for example, the time I attempted to put my brain on hold and date someone who wasn’t very bright. I’m not saying he was as stupid as my old flatmate who had anal sex ‘by accident’, or the intern who I watched stand outside our building for half an hour staring at the bell without pressing it, or even the girl who I convinced that ‘Smoksumgras’ was a nearby shopping centre, but just plain old not that sharp. My motivations weren’t entirely wholesome though, obviously. He was pretty, and sort of funny, and we’d had a drunken fumble and it had been quite enjoyable, so I thought that in the absence of a better candidate I would just hang out with him for a bit. Men, intelligent, funny, successful men, did this all the time I told myself. In retrospect this sounds really cruel, but he wasn’t picking out the flower arrangements yet either so it all seemed fine.

We went for exactly one date. One. In fact if we’re specific about this we went for half a date. In which time he had checked his hair behind my head so often that I had shouted at him, he had refused to eat any chips and marvelled at my capacity to pack them away, and told me I was being all fancy with my reference to Chairman Mao. The minute I finished my first drink I looked at my watch and asked if he wanted to hop it back to mine and watch a DVD. Although I thought we were both under no pretensions we did end up having to actually watch the DVD before making out, which seeing as I’d seen Vixen at least fifty times was slightly tiresome.

After he left I told myself it could be ok, we’d just talk about Hollyoaks (yay!) and people we knew. We’d eat separately and I’d just tell him to be quiet and look pretty if he started asking questions. Or start making out. Either way it was all going to be grand. After a while we’d almost definately have enough of a shared history for it not to matter anymore. Or we’d have moved on.

The latter occurred soon than I thought it would when, the next morning, I logged on to send him a message on Facebook to find him in a relationship with someone 7 years my junior. And that’s when I realised that he was way smarter than me any day.

Photo of Rock Hudson by unknown. (Please note I do not think Rock Hudson was stupid, in fact I am sure he was really really smart, as well as being smoking hot. Sigh.)

Reading Platform’s piece on one guy’s distinctly unsavoury experiences with threesomes got me thinking about how shitty threesomes are. Logistically they’re a total nightmare: who has the time and resources to arrange one with three sane flexible people? And once you’re in the swing of it who’s going to be the facilitator making sure everyone’s having fun? Despite my total disinterest in these sordid situations being someone who is fairly obvious about wanting to have sex, and lots of it, I’ve come close way too often. I won’t go through them all because most attempts were just pathetic and boring, (touching my knee, then my boyfriend’s knee and then grinning like a maniac and saying you’re too drunk to take yourself home is NOT sexy thanks) but here are my worst moments:

• Candy and I had spent most of the night getting totally trashed at The Dolphin when an incredibly good looking bloke came over, flirted ineptly for a bit, then he invited her back to his. For some reason she invited me and soon we were watching the sun rise from his amazing flat. Smoking weed, drinking ice-cold pear schnapps: everything was brilliant. Then he started massaging my foot. Being a fucking idiot I thought I’d let it go as I was so mashed it felt pretty good. He lent over my lap and started talking to Candy then suddenly they were snogging. I watched them while his hand travelled slowly up my leg, totally paralysed with awkwardness. I blinked and saw him looming towards me lips puckered. The next few minutes are hazy,  I remember shrieking “No!” in his face, and Candy shouting at him before running off to vomit. She was adamant that she didn’t want to go back to “the Marquis De fucking Sade’s brothel” and so we snuck out while he looked for my jacket. Annoyingly we ended up trapped in his apartment complex for so long that we resorted to lying on the tarmac in the car park crying until someone came and unlocked the gates an hour later.

• It was my first year at uni and my roommate Brigid had a totally hot boyfriend Gerard. Brigid and I got drunk, made out a bit, and she asked me if I fancied Gerard, which I did. So we walked over to his and tried to get something going. I learned a few things that night: the threeway kiss from Laurel Canyon is totally rubbish, no matter what they say it is never ok to crush on a friend’s boyfriend, and that when your friend walks out saying “I’m not cool with this.” that’s your queue to follow. Thankfully/sadly it all finished rather early on while we were all mostly clothed, I mean I definitely still had my tights on. In fact I think this is my least sexy moment ever: sitting in my undies, ringing Brigid’s phone, and smoking a roll-up as she’d taken all my clothes, my coat, and my bag with her when she stormed out, while Gerard made a cup of tea.

It’s funny isn’t it how in your head the whole thing seems to move so seamlessly from ‘oh look me and my friends are by the pool and it’s far too warm’ to ‘hello!’ whereas in real life things seem, well, so horribly real and much less pretty. Everyone’s hairier and pastier, and boobs didn’t feel like I thought they would. Having said that to counter these two rubbish moments is that time when Sigrid crawled into bed with Evan and I that morning and… ahem. Yeah, maybe I’m not that disinterested in them after all.

Photo of the amazing Lara Stone from French Vogue.

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

When I was younger and had only just started dating boys the time spent waiting for a phone call or text message was almost unbearable. In fact I can remember vividly, aged 14, before teenagers had mobiles (!) spending a weekend sitting by the my house phone. When he finally called and my mum handed me the phone I was so terrified I could barely talk. Our one date at Finchley cinema was such a let down.

For years I subscribed to the ‘he has to call you first’ mantra and handed my number over with gravitas then pretty much stapled my mobile to my head to make sure I didn’t miss the call. Everything I’d ever watched, read, or heard, said that if he didn’t call me within 3 days then he was obviously not interested. Or just wanted a shag. Boys who were interested in me were supposed to try and get in contact the minute the left my prescence. If they lost their phone, or the paper I’d written my number on, they’d find my facebook, or ask a friend to ask a friend until they got to me again. After all, those five minutes they’d spent in my company were so damn amazing they’d be crazy to let me go. What a dick I was.

Forgetting that other people have lives or other things on their mind besides calling me meant that when someone took a week or more to get in touch I would ride a rollercoaster of emotion ranging from being elated someone liked me, to crushed that they had obviously led me on, to pissed off that they had listlessly texted now they were horny and desperate. Worse was when boys volleyed messages back and forth for a day or two then fizzled away. They were just being polite. Oh the shame. This idea had been drummed into my head: if he liked me he’d do anything to get in touch with me. Anything. Even if it involved calling my work place to find me. ANYTHING.

These days I can’t say that I’m some girl who throws her phone number around like confetti but when I do I try and be zen about it. If someone wants to get in touch with me, they will, but they also have a job, a life, a family, and friends. Sometimes these things will stand in the way of sending me sugary text messages no matter how excited he is about all my charms. Of course people can lose their phones, or pieces of paper, but I believe that if something is meant to be, then God, the universe, or whatever, will make it happen, loss not withstanding. Sure sometimes when you’ve met someone who you want to spoon with for hours then it sucks if they don’t call you, and you can find yourself wanting to bombard them with “Why don’t you love me?” style text messages, but it never works out. Patience is not my forte but I just try and erase them from my mind and get on with my life as if they had never existed. Does that sound heartless? It’s just easier to let it go and expect nothing at all sometimes, so that if something wonderful happens then you are pleasantly surprised. When you expect the moon on a stick from everyone you’re only going to be let down.

This isn’t to say that you have to sit at home waiting for someone to contact you, not all! Text them if you want or if you’re brave call them! Just let it go if they don’t reply after two calls or texts. You don’t want to be that crazy bitch who kept calling just to ‘hang out’ for months. And we’ve all been that person at least once.

Photos by Natasha Kaser and Matthew Genitempo.

P.S If you are the boy I met who liked Acme Novelty Library and helped me take my bike to get fixed, then didn’t text me for 2 weeks, who’s phone number I consequently deleted because you ‘obviously were just bored and thought I might sleep with’ you I’d like to say that I’m sorry.

Recently I gave up drinking. At first I stopped drinking at all, just to see if I could. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, so since then I have been allowing myself a maximum of one slightly drunk night a month, no more than 3 drinks at other times, and both of these things only on weekends. If this system sounds complicated you have to remember that a) I am obsessed with patterns and structures. I don’t believe in chance or random luck: everything follows a course and consequently I think rules are great. Oh and b) I’m English. This is practically a 12 step programme over here.

Two days into my new found sobriety I came down with H1N1 aka swine flu. However with a house guest from Amerikey over, and feeling totally fine, I broke my NHS imposed curfew after 5 solid days of sitting in my room alone eating Ritz crackers. That evening, after foolishly standing all afternoon in a rainy park watching hipster bands play 10 minute long sets, my friend (Joanna) and I went to the pub, met up with some friends, and hunkered down in a corner giddy on fresh air and diet cola. Next to me was a boy who was quite obviously a lot younger than me, but insanely beautiful. Like a deer with cheekbones that could cut butter. God that sounds horrible. Whatever, he was BEAUTIFUL. Beautiful I tell you! Ahem. Half way through the evening most of our friends had trickled away leaving myself, Joanna, and this boy, who we’ll call Justin Bobby, his friend, and a group of insanely loud Italians clad entirely in metallic spandex. Justin Bobby and friend were drunk, the Italians were drunk, Joanna and I were not.

The evening wore on and towards closing time Joanna and I decided it was time to walk home. As we got up to leave Justin Bobby mentioned he had missed the last train and wasn’t sure where he was staying. Being a shmuck I said he could sleep on my sofa if he wanted. Justin Bobby looked unsure, he said he needed five minutes to think about it. Joanna and I sat down with the crazy Italians. FYI I’m not being xenophobic they were mental. One, the most shiny spandex covered of them, kept doing yoga moves like putting her leg behind her head while sitting on a rickety chair and making gooey eyes. Justin Bobby’s friend was entranced. Ten minutes slid by and Justin Bobby was cracking onto another of the Italians. Joanna and I reasoned that we were no longer needed. We took him aside and said that though we were leaving the offer of a sofa still stood.

Justin Bobby thought long and hard. He ushered me outside to have a cigarette and thought about it. He then dragged me back inside, still thinking. “It’s really nice of you to say I can stay on your sofa.” He said eventually. “But the thing is, if I came to your house I don’t think I would be able to sleep on the sofa.” I reassured him it was really comfy. “No, that’s not the thing. If I came to your house I might not,” He paused and took my hands in his. “I might not want to sleep on the sofa.” In case the point was totally lost he looked into my eyes. “Do you understand?”

My face turned scarlet: I understood. He squeezed my hands and his eyes turned wide as saucers. It was like being seduced by a puppy. A really hot puppy. I took a deep breath and told him that he might not have to sleep on the sofa, but I couldn’t guarantee it, and that he was very nice and I did like him rather a lot. His unflinching honesty was making me flustered and I had no idea how I would normally answer this sort of thing.

I kept thinking that if he came back he would probably not end up on the sofa either way as it was where Joanna was sleeping. Then I thought about how drunk he was and felt horribly guilty. Then I thought about how pretty he was. Then about H1N1. And finally how if I was drunk I would probably not even be here thinking about this at all. Thankfully Justin Bobby was also thinking hard. “No, I don’t think I will come with you after all.” He walked us outside and lit my cigarette. Suddenly he seemed sad and I hugged him. “It’s not cos you’re not pretty, because you are, and you’re really cool.” He bleated into my hair. All I could say was “You’re really really pretty too!” in a high and tight voice.

When I woke up the next morning I looked at the ceiling, “I love not drinking. I love not drinking. I love not drinking.” I told myself. At one point I almost started to believe it.

Photos by Annabel Mehran and Erin Jane Nelson.

A few years ago I was living at my parent’s house in Massachusetts and feeling a tad lonely.  So, like the productive, go-getting gal I am I joined OkCupid (for the first time). Within minutes of finishing my profile I was shopping for boys with gay abandon, and found a pretty hipster who liked all the same sad things as me.  He had a handful of arty black and white pictures, a beard, and a really cute puppy. I was in internet love in seconds.

I pinged him a message, he replied, and soon we were messaging each other twee missives like there was no tomorrow, and arranged to meet up that weekend. Having never gone on an internet (dun dun dunnnn!) date before I told my parents that I was going, and a couple of friends, and crossed my heart that he wasn’t going to kill and eat me. If only he had, as I really think it would have topped off an evening of complete and utter doom.

We met on Boston Common and bought ice-creams to eat under the shade of a tree. The romance was killing me and I began to sweat. The boy pretended not to notice and asked me some innocuous question.  I was so nervous that I started babbling and could not stop. For an hour I talked complete and utter nonsense about trees, and kittens, glitter getting stuck in your hair, and cotton wool tasting bad, while he ate his Klondike and stared at me. Suddenly it was dark so he suggested we go to another part of town and get a drink. I shut up for a second to nod and we dashed off.

On the T we had sat awkwardly in the neon light and I had tried really discretely to tell if I was smelly due to my nervous sweating. It was hard to know. As we exited at street level, and walked over a busy flyover I noticed a 4 car pile up on the road below. Being giddy on adrenaline, and also a total blood junkie, I bellowed “Oh my GOD! We have to look!” and battled my way through the crowd to get a good peering spot. The boy listlessly followed me and frowned, “It’s really gross, and callous, to look.” He turned away and lit a cigarette. I realised we would never bond over a Jack The Ripper book, and turned away from the carnage. My dreams of twee kissing to a backdrop of blood and flames melted. I realised I was totally screwed in the head and he probably thought I was a psychopath. I wondered if I was a psychopath. We walked to the bar in silence.

As we arrived he held out an arm, “Wait, you do have your ID, right?”. Of course I didn’t, as in England once you look over 12 you’re fair game. With a sigh the boy told me to wait outside on a nearby smoker’s bench and he’d sort it out. I gave him $20 to make it a bit better. After he snuck the second drink out in his jacket pocket the bartender came over to tell us that we were not allowed back in. Ever. I suggested the boy escort me back to my train station and he agreed.

However once we got to North Station I realised that I’d missed the last train home and there was no way my parents would drive 2 hours to pick me up. I called them and said I would stay with a friend, and then looked at the boy. He sighed so long and so hard that I swear my hair ruffled. Then he looked at the floor, I looked at it too and wondered what it would be like to sleep on for the next nine hours. “I guess you can stay at mine.” He mumbled and we got back on the T wordlessly.

That night, while I attempted to sleep in all my stinky, sweaty clothes, I wondered if maybe his puppy would pee on me, or whether his fan would explode and cut my head open. I mean it had to get worse somehow, right? As I drifted off and rolled onto my side I felt something solid but soft next to my face. I opened my eyes slowly and saw that he had been noiselessly creating a wall of duvets and comforters for the last hour or so. It was higher than my head and stretched the full length of the bed. I looked at it hard in the dark and promised myself I would never ever EVER date anyone with only arty pictures on their dating profile again. Ever.

Photo by Laura Appleyard

Ah syphilis! Catch this and you’ll be in the company of Baudelaire, Wilde, Hitler, Nietzsche, and my number one historical hunk Beau Brummell. Easily treated, but difficult to spot, syphilis is often mistaken for dozens of other ailments, and incorrectly treated due to its relative current obscurity.

It starts with one, or more, small painless sores (chancres) on or around your genitals. Now before this feature becomes regular I want to make one thing clear, sores on your genitals are never good. Ever ever ever. If you see any, even a tiny eeny weeny one, go and get it checked out immediately. Do not wait to pass go and collect £200, get to a clinic stat!

Of course, there’s a difference between an ingrowing hair and a sore, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, and you can always pick up free condoms while you’re there so it won’t be a wasted trip.

Back to the sores. So it starts out with a sore, and stupid here doesn’t notice it, or fails to get it checked. The next thing you’ll be suffering from is either a skin rash, a sore throat, and possibly tiredness and a headache. Aka what most people feel like every damn day. After this your symptoms will dissappear and you will feel well for anything up to years, however the syphilis could return, causing your face to become deformed, open sores to form on your body, and your genitals to look, well, there are pictures out there, google them if you dare.

Ironically syphilis is extremely easy to cure in the early stages, a simple shot of penicillin, and it’s gone. Avoiding it is even easier: use a condom, properly, and every time.

So remember if you see a sore on your vagina you may well be about to die from syphilis so get it checked out! Or die. It’s your choice.

Picture from Wikipedia

It seems that with some friendships, no matter how platonic they start out, sex lingers in the background. After all you get on so well that taking it a step further is only natural, right? Asking a friend out on a date would be strange so testing the waters by engineering a ‘not date’ is totally understandable, right? Right?

Wrong.

Everyone gets lonely and loneliness can make you crazy, wistful, horny, weepy, or all of the above: what’s important is how you act on your feelings. Real friends are happy to give you a hug and sympathetic ear without turning it into a sloppy grope-fest. It might feel like they know so much about you and how you feel deep inside the sad cave that is your soul, but only because you’re telling them every two fucking seconds. Of course they’re sympathetic: they’re your friend! That doesn’t mean they’re game to have a poke on. Go on OkCupid, take a friend to a bar and have a pulling competition, whatever. Just don’t destroy a great thing for a few hours pashing.

Forgetting this key point is when the not date occurs and it can happen two ways: by mistake or on purpose.

I really want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and say that most of the time it’s a mistake. A few drinks, a bit of dancing, and what started out innocuous is now a raging ball of hormones and vodka. However, thinking with your desperate genitals is never the answer.

As your beer boner rages, take the opportunity to have a time out: smoke a cigarette, go for a wee, do your hair, buy another drink, fuck it - anything to get away. Think about how valuable this friendship is to you. This could be the start of a love story or the end of a friendship: it’s your call.

If you choose to take the plunge then own it! Go back in and say, “I am so lucky to have an amazing friend like you and I’m glad we hung out like this. This might sound strange but I really want to kiss you right now.” Or, you know, something less cheesy. Whatevs, it’d probably work on me. If they’re freaked out laugh it off. You can always cry later.

Now if you planned this hoax of an evening then shame on you. Shame. On. You. No-one wants to feel like they’ve been strung along, so have some balls and admit what you’re up to. Use that cheesy line or blurt it all out stream of consciousness style until they start snogging you to make it stop. Again, the worst that will happen is they tell you they’re not interested.

The friend on the receiving end of unrequited love might feel awkward. They might stop hanging out. These things happen. It can hurt hard and you might wish you’d never taken that chance. The only thing to do is think how you would have felt with that secret burning away and be grateful that you know they are not interested so you can stop wasting all your energy loving them. It may sound callous but there is nothing to be gained from pining after someone if they have made it clear they do not feel the same way. Packing all those feelings away neatly never to be opened again is hard, really fucking hard, but in the long run it’ll be worth it because one day you’ll find someone who makes you want to set the world on fire and you won’t find them while standing outside your old crush’s window blasting Peter Gabriel.

Basically what I’m trying to say is if you value that friendship more than anything then leave it alone. If you two are meant to be then it’ll happen, just give it time! You need your friends more than you need bumming, so respect the fact that they don’t try to put their hands down your pants every three seconds for the wonder that it is and stop humping their leg!

Beatles Badge Photo by Leo Reynolds, painting by Yoshitomo Nara.