Winter Is Coming But My Feet Already Knew That.

My feet are cold. No, I’m not anxious or rethinking something major. My feet are literally cold. They’re currently white and although I keep tucking them up to touch the warmer parts of my leg, they’re still frozen. I wear thick socks but somehow the cold still seeps through. Even in the summertime, the air-con slowly sucks all heat from my feet and requires me to wear hiking socks indoors. I know this is dumb – a post about how cold my feet are. But I think we all know what this is about to turn into.

I remember the very first night I found myself in someone’s bed, nearly four years ago. We were going to attempt to steam things up by relocating to the shower, however, I got cold. As usual. Two years later, whenever he used to slide into bed next to me, my feet would brush up against him and he’d shriek. As I tossed and turned all night, he would always make sure that all of me was covered by the duvet. He would tuck my frozen toes in between his calves, even though I could feel the cold radiating off of them. When we were separated, he would always promise to catch up on warming me and my feet.

But now, it’s winter. Winter is coming and my feet are cold.Sure, there have been other foot warmers, thicker socks, boots, my own legs. But it’s not the same. The loss of him, the hiatus of his presence in my life, has left me feeling emptier and colder than ever. And I don’t know how to keep warm. I may just freeze.


Chemical Wedding.

“Question. Would you die for me?”

That is a simple answer and one I can answer quickly. Yes. Yes I would. One hundred times over. If I had to choose between the blood in my veins and you, I would gladly bleed myself dry. Put me at gunpoint, cut open my chest, if it’s for you, I’m dead and gone. Isn’t that what I am doing right now? I am dying slowly for your benefit, slowly at your hands. I am cradling the things you cannot handle and it is killing me. But I welcome it. I welcome every anxiety attack and uncontrolled crying jag. Because I’d rather feel these little pieces of you than nothing at all. That would make me completely dead inside.

“That’s too easy. Would you – would you live for me? Hmmm?”

This is where it gets hard. Would I live for you? Can it be with you? I’d do anything as long as I can be with you on every possible plane. But in order to achieve this, do I have to show you I would do it before you would follow?

“Careful. Do not say this oath thoughtlessly. Desire becomes surrender, surrender becomes power.”

I desire you, in every sense of the word. If I surrender to that desire, does that give me power or does it place me squarely in your hand for you to crush in your fist? You said to me a year ago that maybe you’re worth the wait. I’ve always thought you were worth more than you think you are, but am I okay completely giving myself over to you when I don’t know what you will give me in return?

“Do you want this?”

If by “this” you mean you, that answer is easy. You are inked on my skin, you are the first thing I think of in the morning and last thing I think about before I fall asleep. I see the blue of your eyes in the clearest skies. I see the freckles on your skin in the constellations. I can see so clearly a life with you, where we are separate but equal, giving and taking, existing as our best possible selves. But this is where I struggle. I don’t want to beg you but I know that we can’t exist separately for much longer and I just want you home with me.

“Say it. Say it. Saaaaay it. Prettyprettyprettyprettyprettypretty…”


“Mmm. God, you’re so…good.”

I’m only good when I’m with you.

I take the plunge and I am reborn. One hundred percent yours. We are both equal and opposite. I was created for you, to better you, to complete you. And I think you’re starting to realise that. I just need to wait for you to jump in after me.

And I know you will. Take your plunge. I’ll be in the boiling acid, choosing you every time.

When Did America Stop Being Great? 9 November 2016

Okay here we go, the ONLY political post you will ever get off of me so be excited.

It’s no secret that I love anything British, French, Australian or Irish (I’m charmed by accents and my second language, okay?). But that doesn’t mean I hate my country. Today, I do. A lot. I have never been more ashamed or embarrassed to be an American.

For someone who has never voted before, this election was a big deal for me. I registered to vote to help keep Trump out of office. I clearly failed but this just means I now have the right to complain about it.  With every lewd comment he made, I kept thinking that there was no way that he could win. As he slagged on and made slurs towards every minority, I assumed the Great American Melting Pot would hinder him from getting the presidency. When he appointed a homophobic creationist as his vice (that’s right – Pence doesn’t believe in evolution), I knew we had enough sane people who wouldn’t stand for that in office. As he bragged about sexual conquests and as more and more women stepped forward, accusing him of assault, I thought that the number of female voters in the US who have been affected by something similar would be enough to stop him.

Oh, I was wrong.

My biggest problem with Trump is not just his blatant hatred and discrimination for blacks, Latinos, Muslims and the LGBTQ community. It is his problem with women. It is the fact that he has allegedly sexually assaulted over ten women and he has just been given one of the most powerful positions in the world. It is the fact that he is threatening my reproductive rights as a female.

I am so pro-choice it’s not even funny. While I don’t think abortion should be used as birth control, I feel very assured knowing that if anything, god forbid, were to happen and I had to make that decision, there are capable, qualified, well-trained people in fully-equipped facilities to take care of me. If Trump tries to eliminate this, we’re going to regress to back-alley, coat hanger abortions which PEOPLE ACTUALLY DIED FROM GETTING. Getting rid of abortion doesn’t eliminate the need for it and there will always be people who have to make that decision.

But the positive side to this, while there are few, is that I voted. I voted for a female presidential candidate – the first of hopefully many. I voted for a female candidate when, less than 100 years ago, women didn’t even have the right to vote. She might not have won last night but the bar has been set and hopefully, this spawns a generation of #NastyWomen who will enter the White House. I am proud to be a Nasty Woman who voted and was part of that 48%.

But if you’re looking for me now, I’ll be sleeping until the racist, rapist cheese puff in a wig is impeached.

With Your Feet In the Air and Your Leg…In the States

You are my left leg.

You are a part of me, a part of my being that I know I’ve taken for granted. You keep me balanced and whole and make going through the daily motions of life simple, easy, bearable. You hold me firmly rooted to the ground, you make putting one foot in front of the other (which is the original title of your song for me, oh by the way) an unconscious decision. You are my left leg.

But here’s the thing – I can live without my left leg. You aren’t my heart, or my lungs, so please don’t flatter yourself and think that you are. Yes, the separation was excruciating, hard to deal with and messy. I’ve had to adjust to life without you. And I’ve done a decent job of it, I think. I’ve tried the wheelchair but having people have to push me through each day is hard on me and unfair to them. I’ve tried the crutch but it just made me weaker and almost unable to stand at all. I’m trying out prosthetic after prosthetic and here’s the thing – they almost fit.  Almost but not quite. There are still those moments where I’m very aware of the fact that they aren’t you. Something feels off, my feet can’t touch the ground, there’s an ache that I can’t deny anymore. And there is no replacement that can change the fact that you are my left leg.

I’ve made adjustments and I suppose you have too. I can’t expect things to be rehabilitated overnight and I can’t expect instant gratification. But here’s what I’ve learned. Life without my left leg is doable. It’s not pleasant, but it’s doable. I just liked my life a lot better with my left leg in it and I would like it back. And this thing that you’re doing? Trying to stand alone as someone else’s foundation? It’s not going to work for long. After all, you are my left leg.


I don’t know why I expected anything else. Lesson learned: you can’t just drop out of someone’s life and think that they won’t move on with it. Spoiler alert: boy’s been trying to get in touch with me for months, and so I finally called him only to have him be weird on the phone. Confirmed the following day by a mutual friend – I have been substituted. I Can’t Believe It’s Not Mere, but you can because it tastes, smells and looks nothing like the real thing. But it’s okay. I can cope with a little help from some iconic TV couples who have dealt with the same bullshit I now have to face. Ross and Rachel. Adam and Hannah. They are my role models now.

I watched The One With Ross’s New Girlfriend because that’s how I felt on Saturday. You know, when Rachel finally realises that Ross has been in love with her for years and that she loves him too? So she drives to the airport and stands at the gate, because in a pre-9/11 world this was allowed, waiting for him to get off the plane from China. And he does, with the adorable, perky, oh-so-unlike Rachel, Julie tucked under his arm. Rachel calls it kick-you-in-the-crotch, spit-on-your-neck fantastic. The minute she gathers herself enough to realise she does love Ross, he moves on whilst she was blissfully unaware of it. But did he really move on? Julie is everything Rachel isn’t. It looks like Julie is just the convenient thing in front of him, the distraction from how much he loves Rachel and how she isn’t ready for him. Is Ross with Julie simply because she was there and he was sad? Well, obviously, yes, given that epic kiss between Ross and Rachel in Central Perk. And what Ross says is true – he was fine, he was happy, then Rachel came back to him and she is the ultimate choice for him.

I’ve compared my relationship with boy to Adam and Hannah from Girls a million times. It’s only fitting that upon hearing this recent development, I am in the process of re-watching the series from the beginning. In series two, we have Adam and Natalia. Hannah has made it abundantly clear to Adam that she does not want to be with him, she thinks he’s a psychopath, but by the end of the series, we see she’s feeling differently. When she needs him, he drops everything he’s doing and runs to her, even though he’s been dating the lovely Natalia, who doesn’t seem to fulfil him the way that Hannah does. “You’re here,” she gasps. “Well, I was always here, kid.” And that’s the part I struggle with – that reach out. I didn’t know how to admit that I needed him, so of course, I’ve lost him. Flash forward to series four, where Adam starts dating Mimi-Rose whilst Hannah is away. Marine tells Hannah, “You have to give him space to see where this goes, or he will hate you forever.” And that’s what I have to do. Again. Or, not again, but actually confirmed, for sure, I know this is happening this time. I know I’ve been replaced. The series ends with Adam telling Hannah he wants to be with her and Hannah telling him no. Series five gives us the oh-so-fucked dynamic of Adam and Jessa, but stills from series six show that there’s a chance that Adam and Hannah are back together. With a baby on the way. It’s been six series of back and forth, of growth and development, before realising that they are meant to be.

Just because we aren’t together right now doesn’t mean he’s gone forever. And it is very evident we can’t stay away from each other, no matter how hard we try. The door’s open, babe. Your move.

Having the Same Name as a TV Character Does Not Make Me a Doctor

As a kid, I remember being asked this question constantly: what do you want to be when you grow up?

If you had asked me before the age of 9, I would have told you I wanted to be a nurse. My mother is a nurse, her mother was a nurse and if you’re lucky enough to have me like you, I have killer bedside manner. One Valentine’s Day, I blew off the guy I was seeing in order to bring my ill friend DVDs, DayQuil and tea. When I studied abroad, I would frequently provide my flatmate with tea or juice or toast as he sat in our kitchen, nursing a hangover (Sidenote: if anyone should be a nurse, it’s my friend Megan. One time I was dying of a hangover and she came to my room with plain pasta and tea. To this day every time I visit her she will bring me tea in bed after a night out. Megs is the real MVP).

If you had asked me my sophomore year of high school, I would have said surgeon, because I started watching Grey’s Anatomy. Being a surgical intern looked like fun – especially if your attending is Patrick Dempsey. I would sit in my Honours Biology class, waiting to move on from the reproduction of cells to the actual human body. Spoiler alert – we never did which made me hate the class. Also, I took Honours Bio specifically because we didn’t have to dissect foetal pigs, which probably should have been a huge indicator to me that I was not meant to slice and dice actual living people. I would watch Grey’s every Thursday night, fascinated by the different extreme cases and like my first name twin, Meredith Grey, I wanted to be in an OR. I stopped watching around season five (Shonda – you can’t bring back a dead character, it just doesn’t work) and when I stopped watching Grey’s, my desire to be a surgeon totally waned.

Now, I know I’m not meant to have a profession in the medical world. Why?

Because I think 99% of medical stuff is gross.

I restarted watching Grey’s Anatomy after my best friend from high school and I impulse bought $10 scrubs from Walmart (and then when we were walking home, there was a car accident and we kept hiding from the EMTs because we didn’t want people to ask us for help when neither one of us are medically trained). Pulling on a pair of scrubs seriously made me reconsider my English degree because they are the most comfortable pieces of fabric ever. Rocking the light blue á la Meredith Grey had me wanting to check pulses, take temperatures and show off for my resident during rounds.

But then the reality of it hits me. I have to watch all the crucial surgery parts through my fingers and they aren’t even real. I am a sympathy puker. I get nauseated so easily and I dry heave excessively. I don’t handle bad smells. I can’t stand needles. I don’t do bodily fluids or, um, excrement, very well at all. If I don’t get at least 7 hours of sleep, I get migraines and excessively grumpy. And that excessive irritability would kill the kick ass bedside manner I am so proud of.

Long story short, I was not cut out to be a doctor or a nurse. I am incredibly grateful for those who can handle that profession (I just went under two weeks ago with zero complications, I did not wake up in the OR like this one little girl on Grey’s Anatomy). My best friend is in her second year of med school and I know she’ll make a fantastic doctor (pretty sure she’s looking into the OB-GYN field and more props to her). And I am glad that there will be people there in their scrubs making sure that I am healthy.

I’ll just keep the scrubs without actually having to stick my hands inside of a person, thanks.

With Fire and Blood

I started watching Game of Thrones about two and a half months ago and needless to say I am addicted (R+L MOST DEFINITELY EQUALS J and also I hate Bran the end).

It amazed me how much I liked Daenerys Targaryen after the first episode. Before she was the badass mother of dragons, taking what is hers with fire and blood, she was Dany, marrying Khal Drogo against her will, raped by her husband in his people’s brutal wedding ritual and answering to decisions made for her by her brother Lucius Malfoy Viserys. At first glance, she is a character that will slip into the background or be used as a pawn in someone else’s quest for the Iron Throne. It becomes rapidly evident that this is not the case.

I think I related to Daenerys so much initially because we both have this ability to absorb languages like a sponge and view learning the language of a culture as the best way to adapt to and experience it. But as I finished off series one, something else clicked with me.

Daenerys lost everything. She lost her sun and stars. She lost her unborn son. She lost her home. She is forced to lead a group of people who will make her obsolete because she isn’t a male warrior. She is responsible for three creatures that no one has seen or experienced in years. She is far from where she started and so far from where she is supposed to end up. She stops a lot on her way. And I relate to that. I miss my sun and stars because he’s gone right now. I’m so far from where I am supposed to end up and I don’t know when I’ll make it back there. But much like Dany stopping and staying in Meeren to grow as a ruler, I am changing my course. Yes, one day I will set sail for Westeros but I need that growth and support elsewhere first.

Ultimately though, what makes me different from Daenerys is that I can’t cope with my loss. Daenerys’s loss made her stronger, fiercer and more determined. I don’t think that mine has done that for me. I am not the Mother of Dragons, I am more like the Mother of Empty Whisky Bottles. I need to take a page from her book and channel this loss into starting a new chapter. Because, at least for my sun and stars, the sun doesn’t yet rise in the west and set in the east. There’s still hope. And I need to take what is mine with fire and blood instead of passivity and budding alcoholism. I might not be a Khaleesi but I know that I am stronger than what I have been behaving as for the past six months. There’s a chance I could have the blood of the dragon in my veins after all.