I do not accept low self esteem in anyone least of all myself.
But the person who said this was when I was explaining what my blog is. I joke a lot that its 'Strident Feminism and Handbags' but I prefer to think of it as tricking people into reading about feminism and why your opinion of your body is the only one that matters by also writing about dresses and Chanel nail polish. I could go on and on about much I love my body (and I truly do) and why you should love yours no matter what but that can be fucking dull.
This is Tina Fey. She writes about being an adult virgin and why you shouldn't have to get married just because its 'what people do'. She talks about marriage equality and how having a powerful father figure made her a better person but also once in a while she tells the story about climbing a mountain so she could have sex that didn't end up happening or nearly dieing on a cruise liner. You have to spice things up a bit. FOR EXAMPLE here is a story only a few people know but now all of you will. It has nothing to do with feminism or handbags and I'm sure that its hilarious for everyone but me.
So when I was at University in Cheltenham I started working the odd day a week for this club called Boogie Lounge. Now I have many stories about this club 'The time my friend Hannah and I had 20 skittles shots each and spent the night collecting glow sticks from the floor of the club and then went back to mine and carefully put all the glowsticks around the neck of a toy mouse' or 'The time I got so drunk that I gave a boy a hand job in the basement stairway of Cheltenham Town Hall' but this story is different. It has layers of ridiculousness that no-one, especially not me, could have seen coming. So one night I was working at the club and I wasn't at all in any way drunk. I'd had diet coke all night and was just about to leave when a boy who we will call Harry (because that is his name and there is no way he will ever see this) started talking to me. I don't remember anything of our conversation except that he started talking about Sylvia Plath. Any conversation where someone else starts talking about Plath before I do is a rare one, so it caught my attention. I'm pretty rue the moment we mumbled her name I was naked in my bedroom. Thats how it happens in my head. So we're in my room in a house I shared with 5 lesbians (another story for another time) naked under my covers, I think there was four play but I can't remember it because and I'm not exaggerating this boy was HUNG. Not in a brilliant way, or even in a morbid curiosity way but in a scary way. A really scary way. Now we got down to the main business and to my eternal amazement everything fits, but he's bored. I am gallantly faking it but he is ACTUALLY FUCKING SIGHING. Like he's in a shitting Austen novel.
'Is this doing anything for you?' He said at one point.
This is when I dismount (there is no lady like way of saying that) put my pants on and chuck him out of my house, at two in the morning. He complains that he's going to feel embarrassed.
'Believe me this humiliation is going to stay with me for a while.' Is what I say while pushing him in his pants with his jeans and T Shirt in to the november night.
Now it comes out in a long private Facebook message that he was on cocain and that is turgidity and lack of sensitivity both came from a large amount of the drug, which I'm entirely willing to believe as it makes me feel better about my own sexual prowess.
So there, something about neither beauty products, fashion or feminism. Something ridiculous and painfully true.
I'm going to regret posting this. So I think its best I do without editing it.