or When Mildly Inconvenient Things Happen To Shallow People.

Those cunts. Those absolute cunts. Those fucktard cuntbucket jizz stinking cunts who rejected you. How dare they look into the wonder that you are, and say “No thanks, I’d rather watch football in my pants”? How dare they? On your behalf I am mortified. I am beyond mortified, I am mortally offended, I am disgusted by their lack of taste. Their utter indecency. The swine.

But where do we go from here? Where do we take those feelings, and this box of Quality Street? What do we do with all that fancy lingerie and that perfectly waxed vulva? Firstly, feel it. Feel the anger, feel that boiling rage. Get upset, cry maybe, pace around your workplace throwing photocopies in the air and screaming profanities. Whatever works for you. Don’t hold it in, because you don’t want to become a festering pustule of bitterness. Go for a really long walk, and then stuff a scarf in your mouth and scream till you might be sick. Punch a punchbag and then drink a lot of whiskey. Possibly even cry in a cab on the way home while bleating things like “Only old dudes love me now.” while your friends laugh at your pain.

Once this has happened, and you’ve cried your contact lenses out take a deep breath. You cannot live the rest of your life inside a whirlwind of fury. That man, if he such a spineless scrote can be called a man, deserved your brief anger. If you are to show him that if he had liked he ought to have put a ring on it, then you need to move on.

While some of us like to throw ourselves wildly at whoever is passing at the time of our moving on, may I suggest a better alternative is to evaluate where you went wrong with the scrote. Was it poor judgement? Did they hide their true personality? What could you do better next time? There are times when a douchebag blindsides you, and there are times that, upon further scrutiny, were not worth any of your effort.

A lot of people recommend revenge. Let me tell you now: there is no such thing as revenge. There are only borderline sociopaths who think that the way to make themselves feel better is to bring someone else down to their sad level. People are entitled to reject you as much as you are entitled to feel upset about it. Whether the rejection was being dumped by a cheating fiancé or being knocked back by that guy at work with the really nice coat, it is their prerogative. As cheesy as it may sound the best revenge is living a good life.

So drink that shot, punch that friend (gently), and trash that insignificant gee-gaw that they gave you, then move on, brush the debris out of your fringe, and wait for the offers to start rolling in again, as I am sure, they will.

One morning I was walking to the station with a one night stand from the night before, and as I turned to go through the barriers he asked for my phone number. “Do you really want my number?” He began to nod, “Or do you just want to ask for it now, so that you don’t have to feel awkward about the fact that we slept together, and then take it never to call me again?” The pause felt infinite. “I’m probably not going to call you.” He admitted. “Then don’t fucking take my number then, grow some balls.” And I stormed through the barrier as sassily as was possible.

In retrospect, I may have overracted. A one night stand number swap comes with certain rules: I can text you twice at most, you have the right not to reply to either of these, and if you don’t, I get it, you get it, we all get it. There is no nice way to say to someone “I had sex with you once and that was more than enough.” so don’t, just step back and let the penny drop. However, the rules change when you’ve gone beyond a drunken fumble. Once you’ve taken the time to get to know someone, or at least feigned an interest in something other than their genitals, you owe them a little more than radio silence.

Maybe I’m just an attention whore, but there is nothing that hurts me more than being ignored. If we sat, over dinner, and you asked me for my life story, and I gave it to you, the horrible bits and all, and you told me you were thinking about ‘us’ even when I wasn’t sure there was an ‘us’ to think about, you owe me more than silence. You owe me a sentence, just one, maybe two: I’m sorry, I don’t want to do this anymore. You don’t need to write an essay, you can even go George Costanza and say it’s not you, it’s me. Just acknowledge the fact that this is over, we are done, there is no hope, bail bail bail.

Hope is a terrible thing to give someone when there is none, be it for an hour or a minute. The second you see that carefully crafted message that conveys eagerness, coyness, and a hefty dose of ‘whatever yo I’m totally cool, I can take or leave you, but please text me back because I can’t stop thinking about you, even though this message implies I am terribly busy and chic’, you know what your feelings are. You know whether you want to see them or not. Now I can see what the allure of ignoring is. It means you don’t have to step into an awkward situation, and that you can possibly come back in six months time and attempt to booty call this person when you’re in need of a tug.

On an even more dramatic note silence is disrespectful. It implies that what you had, however brief, meant nothing. It hints that you are too embarrassing, awful, or revolting to converse with, even via text. It also shows that you are a coward, scared of having even the most basic of courtesies, which means you’re unlikely to get that tug in six months time.

What I’m trying to say here is: don’t ignore me fuckface.

Stills from Grease and Pulp Fiction culled from Tumblr, photo by Stanley Kubrick.

Dear Ms Brick,

For all Twitter professes to hate the Daily Mail, I would guess at least 60% of it’s daily hits come directly from left-wing do-gooders like me, who have read some ludicrous article or another, and become apoplectic with rage. When I saw your article being passed around I couldn’t resist the siren’s call: glamour, bitchiness, confusion; and I clicked. So now, after subjecting me to your insane ranting, I’d like to subject you to mine.

First of all, let’s get something out of the way here: you are an ok looking woman. You seem to know what clothes suit you, and you are adept at doing your own hair and make-up. Well done. These are skills some never muster, even with a Gok Wan intervention. However, I feel that your perception of your own beauty may be somewhat skewed. As far as I can make out, a lot of men will do a lot of things to get a tug. There are also, a lot of nice people in the world. You say you have had bottles of champagne bought for you, bar bills waived, and bunches of flowers given to you in the street. Well so have I. I’ve even had a woman (a woman!) pay my excess luggage bill when I couldn’t afford it, and refuse to let me even buy her a bottle of duty free booze. Do I chalk these wonderful coincidences up to be being a stunner? Of course not. I am simply grateful that there are enough nice, and horny, people in the world who want to do me a favour, and then I move on.

Now, let’s take a look at your career. I’m not going to go over the discrepancies between your website’s claims, and IMDb’s records, because it’s cool, I get it: we all bump our CVs up now and again. But what I would like to look at is this sentence: ‘I’m not smug and I’m no flirt’ and contrast it with this one, ‘I have written in the Mail on how I have flirted to get ahead at work’. Now either you do, or you don’t, or someone tweaked your article a little, but I suspect that flirting with your male bosses to get a promotion may be one of the reasons your female co-workers disliked you. Seeing another woman undo the hard work you have put in with a smile and a giggle is demoralising, it sets us back, as women, and again places us as nothing more than sexual beings who just happen to show up to work for the boys’ benefit. But hey, I’m just guessing here. Stop me if I’m wrong.

It seems that rather than other women en masse being jealous of your beauty, you seem to rub it in their faces, believing you are the centre of the universe. ‘Take last week, out walking the dogs a neighbour passed by in her car. I waved — she blatantly blanked me.’ As you are not 12 years old, may I suggest talking to your neighbour? Considering that she may have not noticed you, despite you being a blazing ball of infinite beauty? ‘She doesn’t like me, I discovered, because she views me as a threat. The friend pointed out she is shorter, heavier and older than me.’ Well, when you describe her like that, however could she fail to like you?

Samantha, Sam if I may? You seem to be upset that other women judge you for your looks, and that you profit by them, and yet spend a large portion of the article belittling other people for either not making an effort, and judging them for theirs. Has it never occurred to you that by titling yourself the ‘most attractive girl in a room’ you may be overestimating your impact on the others around you? Have you ever stopped to consider that the female bosses you have had may have disliked you for other reasons? That they just may not have been nice people? Or that you may not have always been the right person for the job? I once had a boss who congratulated me for losing two stone while ill. What I took from that experience was: she is a bad person, not ‘She’s a jealous cow, who wants me to be ill forever. Ergo women are bitches.’

It is rare that I find myself wanting to take someone’s body image down a notch or two, but I think you are one of those rare women who could do with it. If you want to be judged on more than your appearance then start by doing it yourself. Stop assuming that the reason people don’t like you is because you’re a megababe. The world does not revolve around your blow dry. We don’t care if you work out or not, and if we don’t, it’s probably because we don’t want to. Enjoy the treats your attractiveness brings you, for now, because once those flower givers and champagne bringers get to know you, the gifts will soon dry up.

Yours, sincerely,

Vanessa

YOU AREN’T FUCKING TRYING.

I probably should have saved this bombshell for later but seriously, seriously? You want to know why you don’t have one? Think about it. When was the last time you talked to an attractive man? When was the last time you logged into OkCupid? Have you ever given your number to a guy in a coffee shop? Told a friend you thought their friend’s friend could be your boyfriend? Are you out there in the world looking? Or are you at home, logging into twitter, talking about how you’ll be #ForeverAlone?

Look around you girl! The world is full of beautiful people just out there for the picking, and yes it is scary, yes it is stressful, but you want it as much as your Facebook updates suggest you do then you are going to have to work for it. Any man who finds you at home in your knickers plaiting your fringe and singing All By Myself is a rapist (how did he get in your flat uninvited?) And we don’t date rapists.

This isn’t to say you should be doing all the things above, at once, that’s insane. What are you? A Sex and the City character? But you have to put yourself out there to be found. Men are not waiting, in a patient line outside your front door, or by the edge of your desk. They are aware that you don’t have a boyfriend, but are they aware that you want one, or even that you might want them personally? Show a little interest, start a conversation, get knocked back, have a cry, watch Blade Runner weeping on loop for five hours, then go out, find someone else awesome, and do this all again, until it works out, because when it does, it’s worth it.

If you don’t, it is almost certain that you won’t find someone. Love is not like a film: you will not be so instantaneously alluring that you are chased through a city by a dashing hunk who begs to take you for dinner, based on a glimpse of your fringe alone. It is scary, it is hard, it is fucking demoralising when a guy you thought would be fun for a night or two tells you he’s too good for you, but it’s life. There is unfortunately no other choice than to just deal with it.

Now, before you flex your fingers and start to write out a tirade worthy of a YouTube commenter, there are other reasons. Of course there are other reasons! Why am I single when I do all that stuff? I don’t know! Sometimes, it’s just not your time. Sometimes you look amazing, smell delicious, your jokes are just hit after hit after hit, your clothes are fitting and flaring, and that guy just isn’t it it. No-one’s into it. Believe me, I know your pain. There is nothing worse than feeling like you’re at your prime and you can’t give this shit away.

But this post isn’t for us. It’s for the women who clog up dinner talk with how lonely they’ll be, how men are just so useless!!, and how they haven’t had a date, for like years, seriously ladies! So please, before you subject everyone to another ten point list about why it’s like totally depressing that you have to sit alone, with your cats, and like just watch TV all day, think twice: firstly, you don’t; secondly, no-one gives a shit because we know you. We know you.

Photo by Joseph Jasgur and illustration by Riikka Sormunen

I was going to write a really interesting, witty, provocative, blog post about all the things I’ve learnt while doing this Lent challenge, when I realised there was only one thing I wanted to talk about. Now, how do I put this? Shall I be coy? Dive straight in? I don’t know. Ever since I gave up sex for Lent I’ve had one thing on my mind: going downtown. Eating out. Tipping the velvet. A breakfast of champions. Are you catching my drift?

Prior to the last 23 days I’d never thought that much about it. More often than not it was something a guy did to me, and I kinda sorta enjoyed a bit, before we moved onto other things. In fact there were occasional moments when it was utterly awful, terrible, one of the worst things ever to happen. A tiring charade where I tried to get into it, they flailed about, and I said “Let’s do something else” but in the sexiest way I could.

Now, after what feels like an interminable amount of time in the wilderness, I can’t stop thinking about it. My rules stated I could do ‘everything but’ and now when I am near a man, any man who is at least half attractive, the idea pops up in my head. It’s the same process every time I look at them: my eyes feel sort of fuzzy and I slide sideways into an alternate universe where we are making out and then suddenly, inexplicably, we are naked and they are moving gradually southwards.

Needless to say this is becoming slightly hazardous. At the lights I was near a man so hot his bicycle may have been melting underneath him. We happened to be going the same route home and I may have drifted slightly as I cycled and imagined just lying back and doing nothing but enjoying myself for forty or so minutes. How I reached my own house without being hit by a car or falling off my bike I will never understand.

Whether this is a product of a sexless lent, or a fevered imagination, I don’t know. All I know is that I wish there was a switch in my head I could flick and turn off this slideshow of crude images, because I’m starting to feel like a teenage boy.

Photo of Paz de la Huerta by Frances Tulk Hart