Why I'm not interesting enough, and other thoughts.

As I'm determined to keep this blog running, at least for a little while, I decided to search out some other blogs for inspiration (or, to steal their ideas). It's astonishing these people you come across, their lives full of sex, drugs, parties, music, skinny indie boys, photography, words, magazines, fashion, guerilla peeing. People who make a living out of sharing every sordid detail of their fucked up but impossibly glamourous lives. Orgies and Anna Wintour, how can I possibly compete? My life consists of the following: wake, food, work, food, work, home, food, MacBook, sleep (with the odd deviation for a film or a gig). It must be so easy for these people to write their blogs, every utterance and every unexpected encounter is perfect fodder for another effortlessly cool anecdote. How else to get noticed, than be so unrelentingly controversial and ante-upping.

It gets a little tiresome though, the constant one-upmanship and need to make every post more shocking and OMG!-worthy than the last. It must be nice to get a regular gig on an edgy magazine or website, but at what sacrifice? I wouldn't like to be overly judgemental, if that's your thing then stick to it, but there must come a point when alienating family and friends overtakes the desire to be a media darling at any cost. If you've stumbled on this post looking for more of the same (and let's face it, the above few paragraphs are a Google keywords wet dream), I'm afraid you will be disappointed. Alas, there is no prostitute living in my kitchen, and I spent London Fashion Week working in a decidedly unglamorous office building next door to Cardiff prison. Although I won't be sharing any group-sex stories anytime soon (hey, don't rule it out though, right?), I think that I can do a pretty decent job of holding people's attention just by having a little flair with words. So expect some film reviews, some discussion on feminist and other political issues, and possibly some more stream-of-consciousness personal crap, if anything interesting actually happens to me.

I realise that I've now written two posts about my writing of blogs. I apologise, but I've been in a particularly narcissistic mood. The next one will be something different, I promise.

On a completely unrelated subject, it is Halloween on Saturday. I would usually moan about the sexualisation of the 'holiday', but this year I am embracing Slutoween and going to a party full of strangers as a slutty bat. Yes, a bat. Feminist credentials be damned, I want to show off some cleavage, and wear giant bat wings in the process. These ones, to be precise:



Awesome