Welcome to “Another Important Piece of Writing” a monthly newsletter/life update/writing exercise/rant/potenially the next most important piece of literature from the 21st century but probably not.
I’ve just been through a break up (in this economy!?!) here’s a list of things I’ve learnt:
1. Love sucks! (Controversial! But am I wrong?)
2. Half of what it takes to get over somebody is just the habitual nature of it all. Good morning texts, good night texts, sending them things you think they’ll find funny, telling them about your day (the good stuff), telling them about your day (the bad stuff), asking them about their day, gossiping to them, confiding in them, daydreaming about them, daydreaming about a life together.
I’ve heard it only takes a month to break a habit so maybe I’ll feel better sooner than I realise? (Yes, evidently I’m treating a breakup like quitting cigarettes – I can’t see how this could go wrong!).
3. The time between catching up with acquaintances can be unintentionally brutal. Telling them I have a boyfriend the one time I and revealing I no longer have one the next. DE-PRESS-ING!
4. I am probably always going to be the person in the room (and relationship) who has done the most therapy. Doesn’t mean I’ll be the most well adjusted, but fuck if I don’t have a good analogy for how to deal with base level anxiety!
5. People aren’t as devastated or sad for you when they know it was long distance, as if I should have expected it. There’s a lot of “Ah well, that sucks…” that wreaks of “No shit, fuckhead?” as if it hurts less than a ~regular~ break up.
Oh I’m sorry, I’m failing to see why it wouldn’t turn out like I had methodically considered, planned and fantasied about? Why, in this modern world of unconventional relationships wouldn’t the one I decided to put my whole pussy into not work out? I don’t want, but ultimately deserve just as much pity as your convoluted 3 months situationship with an emotionally stunted DJ who would only fuck you after 5 drinks.
6. Long distance CAN work if you’re not a little bitch (and I’m not a little bitch).
7. Although it is an honour and a privilege to be the first person in the world to have their heart broken (thank you sooo much for thinking of me for this opportunity!) I simply do not recommend it.
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As I have alluded to before I am held together by thinly veiled and utterly basic self help tips masquerading as mental stability, which, is just a nice way of saying I’ve done a lot of therapy and work on myself to try and fix my broken ass brain. In saying that — I’ve tried so many techniques, so many tips and tricks, varying from modern to alternative to experimental that I think I’m finally at my wits end!
When I started started my ~mental health journey~ they said it would be CBT that would help reprogram my noggin’, later subbing that in for some DBT just to make things more interesting. They said to take medication to fix the chemical imbalances in my brain they now know don’t actually exist (Don’t worry though the medications still work — they just don’t know how!)
“Have you considered hypnosis?” They say, the human equivalent of playing tricks on your brain à la pretending to throw a tennis ball to your dog to see if they’ll run after it anyways.
“Actually they’re doing interesting things with psychedelics now and ketamine!?” They plead, as I watch as they dust off the banned studies of the 70’s and 80’s. Perhaps they actually healed a lot of people through MK Ultra program and that just didn’t make the news? Maybe vets noticed their horses had an easier time getting out of bed and connecting with others post spinal surgery?
“No wait!” They scream, “It’s your inner child, you have to heal your inner child! Talk to her, love her, reparent her!!!” They cry, like I don’t already have enough going on! (wildly gesturing to the above 4 paragraphs).
“How’s your gut health?” Have you had turmeric?? What about PREbiotics???” They howl, “You have neurons in there identical to the ones in your brain!” They glare at me, like I should’ve known but they just found out themselves.
“It’s in your body — the trauma is trapped in your body!” They scream, exasperated and sweaty as if they’ve been trying to chase me down. “You need to shake and stretch the body… the hips… somewhere in the hips, the psoas muscle!” They take a beat listening intently as somebody passes new information through a hidden ear piece as it comes to light.
“Actually, now we’re getting reports you can store the trauma in your shoulders… on the left side of your neck… yeah there’s a big muscle there too! Shake it out, release it! We swear, THIS is the one!”
At this point, I don’t actually know what’s going to help outside of putting my brain in a jar and letting it soak for a bit like I’m trying to remove some stubborn food stuck to a dinner plate (Although if you’ve got something crazy for me to try, evidently I’m done to try anything).
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, I think I would have no problems coming off my medication in the Maldives in one of those little huts on the water, eating fresh fruit and wearing flowing linen. However so far I’ve had no luck in securing any doctors or funding to take on this study just yet (I’ll keep you posted).
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I recently asked a handful of straight men in my life if they ever get sick of seeing boobs. Shockingly, they all said no. The consensus was it rules every time.
I stopped wearing a bra after the first lockdown. I’ve never really needed one considering I’ve had the same sized A cups since I was 12 years old. The only time I wear one now is a soft bralette to work because even though I was born in the generation of the famed “network nipple” nineties, peeping areola’s in the office have unfortunately never been synonymous with professionalism.
I mostly have a great time with this feeling light and carefree until I catch, almost any man, glaring at my (let’s call a spade and spade here) prepubescent chest as I walk down the street.
I asked the men in my life if they ever got sick of seeing tits because they’re everywhere, surely the excitement would fade eventually? Right?
Outside of the fact I’m constantly bombarded with boobs or the female form in various forms media and advertising and the fact I can’t even go online without seeing some hottie with a body flung in my general direction — people with breasts make up half the population, so they’re just around!
I wish I loved something as much as dudes love boobs. I think maybe snacks? I think I might love snacks as much as men love boobs. But then again, I don’t think I would go to the lengths to get my hands on snacks the way I’ve seen men go to get their hands on a good pair of tits.
When a man gawks at my gals it always feels like he thinks it’s the last pair he’ll ever see. They have to take it all in incase they’ll be hit by a bus moments later and want to make sure the last thing they see will be worthwhile.
I want to tell men that it’s ok, there will always be another pair not too far off. And if you’re lucky, if you pull it back on the intensity just a little, you might find somebody who will let you do all the insane things you’re picturing doing to them that we can see flashing before your eyes every time you cop a gander.
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