Thursday, 17 November 2011

"I read your blog..."

These are the four words that can fill me with unimaginable joy... Or absolute dread.
Obviously, I love it when people read my blog; when they comment on some of the things I wrote, say they can personally relate to a particular post, or if they just like to stay updated on what's happening in my life... Saying something positive about my blog will always be one of the best compliments you can give me (second only to saying something nice about my skin).
Some of my most loyal Twitter followers are constantly giving me good feedback and saying some really sweet things about my bi-weekly posts; this is one of the many reasons I love Twitter. Then I occasionally get random messages from old friends saying they've been reading it, as well as people on my course at university. One of my best friends from college told me recently that reading my blog has made her realise what a "gifted writer" I am. Okay, actually "gifted writer" is definitely the best compliment you can give me.

Things like this inspire me to keep writing, and maybe even pursue a career in professional rambling. My new dream is to one day get paid to write a blog. "Whoa, dream big!" (Juno, 2007).

However, sometimes I am genuinely frightened by hearing the words: "I read your blog..."
It never occurs to me that certain people might find and read my blog; I always assume that my blog is in some secret hidden location where only a select few can find and read it... When in actuality, it's on the internet for the whole world to see. The whole world... As well as my little sister, my parents, my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, all my friends at uni, my former best friends and my soulmate. Yes, none of this ever occurred to me. So when any of the above mention it, reference it or directly quote it to me, I am shocked and horrified ("how did you find it?!!" "It's on the internet, dummy."). I'm also instantly paranoid. I frantically go through all my latest posts in my head, trying to remember if I "mentioned" (aka, bitched about or slagged off) that particular person recently. I immediately apologise to them, chastise myself for being such a horrible person, then I go home and write a post and do it all over again. It's a vicious circle.

I've had some of my closest friends worry about me because of things they've read on my blog, and one friend told me off for posting certain photos and is now saying she's going to buy me a diary for Christmas to prevent me from getting too personal on here...

I think I've managed to keep things at least semi-professional on the blog, and I never refer to anyone explicitly (if you notice, I'm always very careful not to use names - and if I do, it's a big deal). So luckily I don't get a lot of awkward "I read your blog" moments nowadays.
The worst thing anyone has ever said to me about one of my blog posts, is when I wrote a particular post about a guy telling him how I feel, and he said to me in person "yeah I read it. I wasn't affected by it whatsoever." Ouch.

So, generally the blog doesn't get me into trouble. Twitter, however... That's a whole different matter. I've argued with people, fallen out with friends and even lost a best friend because of the things I choose to tweet. I've had so many people questioning me relentlessly about whether or not a tweet I've recently posted is about them. I can honestly say that 9/10 times, people are wrong and my tweets are not about them. I never use names (again, unless it's a big deal), and I always try to keep it vague. I just happen to have this really nasty habit of tweeting whatever stupid thought pops into my head. Those of you who know me well will also know that I have a tendency to exaggerate and distort things if I'm feeling especially emotional. And as you can imagine, this habit and this tendency do not go together well.

So to all of you whom I have offended via blog or Twitter, I'm truly sorry.
To those of you who read my blog and my Twitter, thank you, I love you, keep reading. x

Thursday, 10 November 2011

My first first.

Life is full of firsts. Some of them are obvious: first baby tooth, first word, first day at school, first love, first kiss... The list goes on and on. Then there are also the firsts that we all fail to mention in that list, but are equally important in life: first sleepover at a friend's house, first holiday without your parents, first "time" (I may write a post about that sometime in the future, it's a good story), first heartbreak, first life decision... Again, the list could go on forever.

Anyway, I'm actually referring to a different kind of first. The kind you get as a grade on a university assignment, or on your degree overall: First Class Honours. I got my first ever essay assignment back today, marked and annotated by my lecturer, and I genuinely thought they'd given me the wrong paper. Because according to the one they gave me, I got a First. I even double-checked with my seminar leader; I probably looked like a complete dick in front of all the students gathered in the office receiving their 2:1 and 2:2 papers, loudly announcing that I wasn't sure if 75% was a First or not. I felt the need to apologize to them all on my way out, and I even said sorry to my friend who was accompanying me.
I'm still in shock. I wrote this essay at 3am the night before it was due, fueled only by fizzy sweets and a burning desire to get this bastard of an assignment done and out of my life forever. If I managed to get such a high grade out of that, imagine what I could achieve if I started an essay two weeks ahead of the deadline date... Having said that, I have another essay due in two weeks, and I haven't even started. I'll just have to hope for another miracle!

I'm really intrigued by the theme of firsts (I've now written the word "first" so many times that it doesn't even look like a word to me any more), and I think I might write another post sometime soon on the subject.
If any of you follow me on Twitter, I might get a few others involved to share some stories. Look at me, talking like a professional celebrity blogger... Not quite there yet! x

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

My worst fear.

It's not spiders, the dark, being attacked on my way home at night, escaped mental patients or house fires... I live in fear of being left out, excluded, replaced or forgotten.
If you were a psychiatrist analysing me, you might say that this fear of exclusion can be traced back to when I was five years old and my little sister was born. I was so upset at no longer being the centre of attention that I convinced myself I was being forgotten/replaced, and as a result I began to loathe my baby sister. Obviously this was a completely ridiculous way to react, and back then I had the perfect excuse of being just five years old.
Now, however, at the age of eighteen, I am still living in fear of being forgotten. I go out at night with my friends partly because I want to have fun, but more often than not it's purely so I won't feel left out of all the action. I hate seeing photos appearing online from the night before and me not being in them. I hate watching everyone having the time of their lives without me. I hate the feeling that I am slowly being pushed out of a group that I once felt so included in.

Maybe I need to stop being so paranoid. Maybe I need to have a serious talk with the people in question and let them know how I'm feeling. Maybe I need to find better friends.

Today, I woke up with the flu. I instantly felt sad and lost, because this is the very first time I've been properly ill away from home. I didn't have my mum coming into my room bright and early, feeling my forehead for a temperature, calling up my school/college and letting them know I wouldn't be coming in that day, setting up a bed for me on the sofa downstairs, staying at home with me all day watching daytime TV and making me meals of crackers and lemonade. Instead, today I could only Skype my mum, have a little cry and let her cheer me up.
Isn't it always the way, that when one thing goes wrong, everything goes wrong? Like today, I happened to be feeling really unwell, and then somehow I ended up seriously considering dropping out of university, going home, getting a job and starting a whole new life. Where did that come from?! I shouldn't be allowed to think for myself when I'm feeling down. One of these days it will get me in trouble. x

Tuesday, 8 November 2011


I've done the "going out and getting messy" thing. I've done it to death. I've downed drinks, danced madly, drunk-dialed and staggered home a million times. Right now, I am perfectly happy to stay in, snuggle down in bed in my PJs and slipper socks, and watch How I Met Your Mother.
I know this is basically unacceptable and ineffable behaviour as a university student, and I'll probably be indebted to my more socially-orientated friends for the rest of the week if not the whole semester, but right now I couldn't care less. I've had a rough couple of days, and every part of my body is screaming for comfort and rest. After weeks of pushing myself to limit, I feel I deserve this. x

PS: There is currently a vacancy for a person to accompany me on these particular nights. Must be cuddly, funny and have a decent taste in movies. Apply within.


Hi, my name's Gracie. I could happily live the rest of my life eating nothing but cream crackers, I love it when my mum calls me Rory, May 2010 was the best time of my life, I am paranoid that my hands are abnormally large, my dream is to one day get paid to write a blog, an Irish accent makes my clothes fall off, I can stay up until 2am doing absolutely nothing, if you take something away from me I will want it more, I never want my "magic number" to go into double digits, Ed Sheeran sings me to sleep, I've given up on becoming an actress, I believe in fate, I am the queen of the silent treatment, I have a love-hate relationship with alcohol, I always pull the same facial expression in photos, I really really want to be a feminist, I hate being left out, and I think we're more alike than you realise.

I do one of these posts every month. x

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

Option: Time.

The way I see it, when you go through a break-up, regardless of whether it is amicable or vicious, you then have three options when it comes to dealing with it and moving on. You can: a) rush straight into another full-on relationship (better known as a "rebound", which sometimes can be taken too seriously and too far), or b) sleep around and get into all kinds of trouble (to prove some kind of point to yourself while also making the most of being "free"), or finally c) give it time, let yourself grieve, wait for someone better and in the meantime find out who you really are.

I hate the expression people spoonfeed you when you're going through a rough patch in your life: "give it time." It seems like the most useless piece of advice one could ever give or receive. I always thought: "Well, how is that supposed to help?" But over the past few months, I've realised that there is some truth in this hideous cliche. I went through my very first break-up, and chose Option C. My ex chose Option A. Well, each to their own.

It took me six months to completely move on and even then I was genuinely surprised to find myself developing feelings for someone else. I hadn't expected to feel "okay" after such a short amount of time. I don't know how some people can move on so quickly. I was crying and wallowing for every moment of those six months, wondering when it would end and if I'd ever be truly happy with anyone else. My dear old Dad said to me: "it's good that you feel this way. Because it shows that he meant something to you." Then when I eventually brought a boy home for the first time since the break-up, my parents were absolutely thrilled.

What heals a broken heart... Chocolate? Romantic comedies? Sellotape? Alcohol?
All of the above? Actually, the only thing you really need is time. Well, time, and the latest Adele album. x

PS: I'm not religious, but please #prayforAdele.
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