Slán agaibh

As my actual course ends tomorrow and the work placement aspect begins, I would like to say how much I’ve enjoyed being a student again this year especially here in Ireland.

Class Kane for life.

All the love,


A Rare But Brief Happy Post

Today, two of my Brighton squad members arrive in Cork to visit me for the next 3 days.

My heart is so full. I have missed them so much. But seriously. Full heart already.

It’s the little things, these little pieces of home that make me so incredibly freaking happy and make me feel in touch with where I belong.

M xxx

Losing and Finding Del Rey

Although I do fancy myself as quite indie, I have my moments where I can be classified as very, very basic. The sorority in college. The addiction to Starbucks. The massive crush on Harry Styles. The way I sometimes scream and run onto the dance floor when a song I love comes on at the club. The five flower crowns I own. And with this basic betchiness comes an obsession with Lana Del Rey, the throaty modern callback to a lounge singer era steeped in ethereal woodland fairy goodness.

After reading an article on Buzzfeed called ‘Don’t Let Men Steal Your Favourite Songs,’ I felt compelled to write this because I did just that. I let a boy who didn’t deserve me steal not only one of my favourite songs, but also one of my favourite artists. And he kept her without even really wanting her for nearly a year.

I met this significant boything right before I was accepted into a study abroad programme for the following term, so the timing was less than ideal. It was October 2012, Born to Die was incredibly popular and we bonded over a shared love of the album in a dark, smoky car. First, ‘Diet Mountain Dew’ was our song. Then it became ‘National Anthem’ and then ‘Radio.’ He would tuck my hair behind my ear, run his hand down the glittery sorority letters on the leg of my sweatpants, and whisper ‘You had me at Lana Del Rey.’ And I loved it.

When I went overseas, we decided to remain an item regardless of our short time knowing one another and it was hard. But we did it despite the ups and downs, and I loved that I could listen to Lana’s ethereal crooning just to feel closer to him from an ocean away. In May, one month before I was due to return stateside, I finally saw The Great Gatsby with my flatmate. That was it. ‘Young and Beautiful’ became our song. I envisioned myself standing on a beach as the song played, wearing a large sunhat, oversized Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses, bright red lipstick and a floral bikini as a gossamer white sheet blew in the breeze behind me while he took photos of the sea . I imagined the song spinning lazily on his record player as we sat in front of a fire drinking whiskey sours in the home we would definitely own someday. I pictured using that song as our first dance at our wedding, when even in my highest heels, my face would be pressed in his chest – he was a good foot taller than I am. Because in my 21 year old heart I knew – I had seen the world (I left our tiny campus and lived alone in another country), done it all and was ready to be with him, he would still love me when I was no longer younger and beautiful, and there was no way I would ever fall out of love with his dark sapphire eyes and voice like thunder. We had just survived one of the hardest things that couples have to face – distance – and we had done it with the help of Lana Del Rey.

I’ve learned that it is very easy to let people see what you want them to see about you when you are separated while trying to grow a relationship. I’ve also learned that sometimes, distance gives us a way of keeping things alive when close proximity would have killed it. Our relationship was the canary and the cat – as long as we were separated, things were great. And, as with any cat that knows it will never swipe the canary from its cage, his interest waned. His interest waned enough that he moved on completely without even thinking to alert me. After a full 8 months of dreams and plans for a future together, he didn’t even have the courtesy to let me know this was no longer something he wanted. He waited until we were both on the same campus, in the same building on different floors, and then ended our 10 and a half month thing that had withstood an ocean with a text message. And I was destroyed.

Lana Del Rey, but especially ‘Young and Beautiful,’ became a punch in the stomach. It took the introductory notes and Lana’s breathy exhale to knock me to my feet, sobbing so hard it was silent. There is a photoset taken of me at a party roughly two months post-ending. I am standing with my friend who I haven’t seen since I left to study abroad. In the first one, she is grinning and I am in the throes of proceeding to sob. In the second photo, my grin matches hers. The reason? ‘Young and Beautiful’ started to play over the speakers at the party we were both at, and my friend Jen had to yell for the hostess to turn it off before I cried off all of my mascara. Slowly, songs from Born to Die were purged from my Recently Played and Top 25 Most Played iPod playlists. And I slowly let all the fantasies I had of him leaving his new girlfriend and reclaiming me fade away. I leaned on Best Coast’s then-brand new EP, Fade Away, which seemed to give a outer voice to my inner thoughts. I became the girl who blasted A$AP Rocky as loud as possible driving to and from class, because I was going to be damned if I let him take that artist from me. But I let him have the crowning gem in my musical coping crown. I let him have Lana Del Rey when it was clear that he and his new girlfriend preferred hard rap to anything remotely indie and sweet.

The months went on. I slowly found the wistful longing and utter desolation I felt for him turn into utter disdain. And I found myself listening to Lana Del Rey again – everything, except for one song. ‘Once Upon a Dream’ from the upcoming Maleficent? Done. ‘Damn You’ from her earliest demos? Done. But I couldn’t face ‘Young and Beautiful’ without thinking about how I had been thrown aside and left to rot by someone who was clearly subpar to me.

But then, it happened. One gorgeous morning in July, I was walking down Westbourne Park Grove. It had rained that night but the summer sky was a brilliant blue with perfect white-cotton clouds.  I had my iPod on shuffle as I walked towards Portobello Road. ‘Young and Beautiful’ started to play. I looked up at the London sky, thought of the night I saw The Great Gatsby at the Odeon the year before with my flatmate (who I actually love more than life itself), and I smiled, reclaiming my song.




Picture this: a petite brunette wearing a long-sleeved black t-shirt, a blue and grey plaid kilt, black tights and boots. She takes a look around her new bedroom the size of a cell and attempts to scrub the mascara tracks off of her cheeks. There is a threat of snow in the air as she stares out of her darkened window to a view she cannot see. She walks through the unfamiliar kitchen, taking in the absolute mess and inhaling the scent of sautéing vegetables. She stops, suddenly shy.

Picture this: a tall, redheaded male wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, sautéing vegetables in a tiny kitchen. He takes her in with those unblinking eyes of his, reading her soul with a simple gaze. And they talk. They make polite conversation, neither of them knowing that within 24 hours, she’ll find herself with him and a bass guitar at three in the morning, shivering from cold but also anticipation. And he doesn’t know, as he stares at her lips, that these lips will be the ones that he cannot stop thinking about kissing.

Picture this: the universe letting out an inaudible sigh of relief, as it has finally placed these two individuals into each other’s paths. It squares its shoulders, ready to take on their journey of ebb and flow, of running and chasing, of separation and togetherness. But it is ready, even if they aren’t. It is ready to help make them ready. But they don’t know this yet. They won’t know this for awhile. It smirks as it waits for them to realise their inevitability, that they cannot fight each other, that they were created together with the other one in mind.

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.