My lone cry for help

Being lonely does very strange and discombobulating things to your mind.

As one of the last to leave for University, I’m starting not to like being alone. No one is there to hug you, to make you laugh, to remind you to eat; that kind of thing.  And I am in tatters after less than a week.

Now, around three of my friends have actually left me so far, but I still can’t help but feel like I’ve been abandoned on a lone island where two of my so called “pals” have taken the last two jetpacks and the other made a makeshift boat for himself.

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And as if to cause insult to injury, he sneaked not only the last of the rum on board but ran away with Wilson. This leaves me in a tricky position, create new friends out of coconuts and continue to live in denial until Thursday or create a way out. And not being a lover of coconut I choose the latter.

It’s not that I’m jealous (I say crying into my fifth cup of tea, curled up in bed with chocolate boxes and Oreo crumbs surrounding me,) I just really want to leave. I want to leave more than Greece wants money. More than Obama wants Michelle. More than Miley Cyrus wants sex. Ok, maybe not that far, but you have to understand, I need people. Or rather, people who will automatically love me.

I hate people on a basic level, not dissimilar to one saying they dislike their tea going cold; but not with quite as much forceful passion as when your biscuit crumbles and breaks off into the newly formed cuppa. I can smile and make awkward conversation about both my life and the weather, much as any slightly more than average British civilian can muster but then I give up caring and end up walking away. Image

I feel my severe deficiency in attention span should be mentioned here but I just spotted a moth on my ceiling and it seems to have been sitting there, unsuspecting for quite a while no-

The moth is me. I am the moth. We are one. Alone and floating in this world, with a general lack of direction just sitting in someone else’s house quietly wondering how to get out.

I would like to specify at this point, I do not in any way talk to Moths. This is an approximate estimate of his thought process, only determined on what I myself may be thinking if I were in his/her position. Under no circumstances may anyone call me the following: Moth Whisperer, Moth Charmer, Moth Girl, Moth Woman, Mothy, Charlotte “Moth” Rhodes, Mothlotte, RMOTH, C-Moth or Moth Dog.

I hope you now understand what my seclusion has done to me.

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Bad Decisions make Good Stories

Being young, youthful and frankly naïve, I regret a few things in my life. It’s ridiculous really. I’m eighteen, I should be going out drinking, having flings; eating whatever I want. But alas, I’ve turned into a 50 year old woman, lying in bed at 10 O’ clock with my glasses on and my eyes glued to whatever documentary happened to take my fancy, falling asleep before the end of the hour long program is up.

You will make mistakes in your life. It’s inevitable really, but what makes a mistake is you regretting it. Many of my ‘mistakes’ involve alcohol and intoxication of some type.

At age 16, I was slightly smaller, somewhat idiotic and a lot more reckless and that’s really saying something as I am still spontaneous or as some say, crazy and hope to continue to be for the remainder of my life. But 16 year old me liked to drink Vodka. Cheap old Vodka. Image

One particular night, although I don’t remember it well, many of my friends seem to recall it as October 7th 2011, a group of girls and I were going out to celebrate one of my best friend’s birthday, 17th in fact. We were all grown up now and had our ways of finding alcohol and if it’s there, why not drink it! Oh how little I knew. If only in hindsight I could retake my steps, really find out where it went wrong; stop myself from being quite so insanely stupid.

In a matter of thirty minutes I had managed to drink a litre of Vodka straight. An hour later, once at the venue of the party, crying in a bathroom to a woman I had never met, I was presented a huge three litre bottle containing, yet again more Vodka. I managed to drink half of this bottle and even now I’m shuddering at the thought. After this fantastic act, showing of my gag reflex threshold (cheeky) it would be a godlike achievement to say I remembered the rest of the night but I, being a mere mortal did not. I have been told the following.

I was at some point locked in the toilet. I pulled down the skirt of  a best friend in the middle of a crowded room. I was pushed over on the floor and unable to get up alone. I was escorted outside and drank a questionable liquid. I was then kicked out of the venue. After all this I was then dragged out of the birthday party, given different shoes and taken into town. At one point I whispered nakedness. The nightmare ended up with myself being horrifically ill down by an alley, given a stranger’s coat and my parents being called at two in the morning to pick me up.

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Now, with such consequences as not being allowed out till New year and gaging every 

time I smelt strong cleaner,I can safely say I regret drinking so much so young. But with that in mind, the stranger who gave me his coat, he is a huge part of this story for me.

This was the first time I met Adam, my current boyfriend of nine months. They always do say first impressions are the most important, so I really must have stuck out in his mind. I think it also proves his kind of character when he sees a paralytic sixteen year old girl, vomiting constantly on herself, saying nakedness every so often not to mention how indecent clothing wise I looked and thought “Yeah, I want to hit that up”.

Almost two years on, it’s still a laughing point for my friends and embarrasses me to the inner abyss of my soul, but in order to make up for this terribly degrading black spot on my almost squeaky clean alcohol record, I have helped my friends in their time of need. And god, have to paid my dues.

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Be it walking/dragging an intoxicated girl home, holding someone’s sick in a taxi in order not to be charged or sitting on a pavement for two hours trying to sober someone up, my debts are paid.

Bad decisions make good stories, whether the outcome is good or regrettable is questionable. So whether you’re covered in vomit or holding other people’s, just remember you’ll be telling the story one day to a load of people and someone will laugh.

You might even embarrass yourself and do something stupid like write it on a blog or something.

Inspired by Mike Falzone:

Love is funny

Many question what love is, if you can love and whether there is such a thing. I find that ridiculous and frankly stupid. The only soul I know to never have had love is Tom Riddle and a fantasy character is nothing to go by. 

I hear my sister say “Oh I love it! Oh, I love it so much, I’ve never loved anything more!” Now being the 16 year old self involved child she is still stuck in her pre-teen drama queen phase, I should let her off for such blasphemy whilst talking about a pair of shoes or her new set of gel nails. But of course, the snobby, constantly wanting to be right side of me just can’t resist the bait.  Image

“You’ve never loved anything more than that lot of leather and wood that you’re just going to wear out and leave in a wardrobe of years?” My retort receives rolling eyes and a look of ‘death’ as I begin to enter her room, ending up hovering around the doorframe. “Not really the way you should treat something you love Emily, is it? Other wise I’d wear Adam and yourself on my feet until I needed a new pair of loved ones.”

You should know at this point, Adam, by label, is my boyfriend of nine months and a perfectly handsome, loving butt face; couldn’t find better as things come. 

“No Charlotte, but you can love things in different ways. Don’t be a poo. You love books. Get out of my room, close the door too. 

She turns back to her friend on Skype.

“Not in your room, I suppose I love you more than any John Green book,” She looks up at me with a face of ingratitude at my remark and turning back to her computer I say “and you really must know I will always love you more than the bible. Or the Twilight Series in that matter.”

After sitting back down in my pre-smartie pants Charlotte pose, I still couldn’t get the idea of love out of my mind. The word is thrown around so casually, “I love it, I love you, I’ll never love anyone or anything quite like the way I love you/it,” and it made me wonder when you really like something and when do you begin to treasure it, cherish it.

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My mum said she loved me when I was born, as did my dad. I was dependent on that love. I need boobs and nappies; I had no choice but to love them. When Emily and Jack came along, I hated them at first, poking them, prodding them. Who did they think they were? Emily cried all the time and woke me up from precious sleep after days running around pretending I was an explorer and Jack bite me every time I cuddled him.

And then I had an array of primary school romances, where we giggled if you “snogged” them or laughed hysterically if you held hands. We all thought we loved each other but it was just silliness.

Friends love you, you say you do and close friends share a bond. I have a few friends I will never forget and a few, from the past that I want to. But with that in mind love is fleeting sometimes and a love for a friend can leave just as quickly as it goes.

Then we get a dog, Thistle. I love her, I know I do, but god she smells. And not just a little bit, believe you me. But I don’t love her any less. Now she’s older and slower I know she depends on us to look after her and we do because it’s a mutual love of a pet and an owner.

We have a few boys here and there whom I said I loved and one I genuinely thought I did around a year and a half ago but you realize that’s not love. Infatuation in a whole other thing.

And then we have Adam. I know I love him. But then I have an easily falling heart, I love someone very quickly. But I remember very clearly the first time we said I love you to each other. Very surreal, we were in the dark on Valentines day, I was wearing my bike safety gear as was he and it was sweet.Image

With that in mind, I think love is like a chocolate mousse. Sometime you regret investing into it because it’s just not what you expected and there are certain times you find that the brand of mousse you like isn’t there anymore so you have to go searching again. but sometimes you find the best, most more-ish and wonderful little mouse cartons and you enjoy indulging in them. Who cares if they’re value or finest range, they’re yours and you love them.

C what I mean?

So you’re walking down the street, it’s nighttime, raining. You’ve not had the best of days, one may even go to the hyperbolic lengths of saying it was “The worst day ever”. We get it, it’s been a bad day.

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Water is splashing around in your welly boots and your collar on that coat of yours is hardly keeping the rain out, is it. Due to the insane amount of rain bucketing down from the heavens, next to no one is around. You’re alone, completely alone.

This is a metaphor for me. Or rather the ‘Charlotte’ of the past. Of course I’ve had people around me that I love and care for: My family, friends, partners. And to be honest with there hasn’t been a cloud following me as I walk through my life, rain persisting down wherever I was. But that’s the point of metaphors, get over it.

I reached that point I was so terrified about before, there’s no turning back. My A Level results came through. I had needed two A’s and one B. A motley bunch they were, two A’s standing out in the crowd (one I deserved and one a little more liberally given) and the remaining one C. One C? How did I.. What? How is a C possible? My self doubt was confirmed and although my place at University had been confirmed, the slight sense of doubt began spiralling out of control pulling me further and further into the depths of self belief. I felt weak at the knees, food as in order.

A cooked breakfast later, the doubt beast was tamed, satisfied with sausages and bacon.

Standing there with my results I couldn’t help but feel as if someone had upgraded me despite the self-doubt slipping in. From a penny piece to a ten pence, from brick to android, from mp3 to vinyl and I had levelled up in the game of Charlotte Rhodes vs. The World. And then I saw it, a darker corner in the world, because as I stood there feeling inflated, as if all the happiness had been drained, a friend of mine hadn’t been so successful.

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It made me realise how much we depend on one piece of paper, how hard some try and purely how much it means to a successful teenager boy or girl. Many are please, some don’t care and some cared so much and didn’t quite make it for whatever reason. It ruined our day. How could I get in, the girl who could fit 30 grapes in her mouth, that licks her boyfriend in public to annoy him and the girl who spends Friday nights working or eating a burger in bed, get better results that the smartest girl in college? To see our friend be crushed by her own results because some anonymous person had marked her work and designated her to the fail pile effectively, only for her to be devastated in herself, is ridiculous. Exams don’t make you smart, they make you nervous, scared, “decreasing your performance.”*

My friend was lucky enough to go through the clearing process and get into the university she wanted attend in the first case, only reading in a different course.  But the whole situation carried so much guilt and depression is still surgically attached to results day because of this. For a good 12 hours, a young adults self doubt was at an all time high and for what? She managed to get into what she wanted to do in the first place. The results didn’t matter.

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So, that’s that. I’m off to Uni. I bought an iron yesterday. Do I need an iron? I don’t know but it seemed an adult thing to buy. I also bought non-iron bed sheets. Mother said they were both useful. Personally I think it’s a never ending cycle of pointlessness in which I’ll either use the iron on the sheets and they will become unhealthily attached to the iron, realising what they’ve been missing out on for so long or both the iron and sheets will continue to be arch enemies for the entirety of this year, gaining strength by numbers in other inanimate household items. But you could also argue that this is one of the reasons I’m moving so far away. Norwich, be prepared.

* Sexual reference –giggles-

First time for Everything

Babies are purely terrified of the destruction of the world via a meteor or nuclear bomb; they just don’t know it. And the only reason they’re scared of the destruction of the world via a meteor or nuclear bomb is because the amount of boob that will survive due to this attack will be reduced significantly, meaning less boobs to claim as their own. They don’t care about money, clothes, presidents, politics or medical advances; all they need is the warmth of a boob, the love of a woman with a boob and ‘boob food’, which is handy to survive.

Babies have it all sussed out.

babyFear is something that the majority of the world has encountered. There are several laborious factors that create this amount of anxiety and panic in your mind, whether you’re scared about your first day at school or you’re about to sign up for the Naval Air Service – Navy, not signing your midriff to orbit into space or the like. But these factors are something we are brought up to realise. Without the fear of things, we live a mundane and boring life and with new and exciting prospects comes this underlying feeling of wonder.

This all popped into my head like the epiphany I was wanting, no yearning to have. For weeks, months even I’ve been stuck in a rut of wanting and un-wanting, nervous unbalance and uncertainty. The cause, University. And everyone becomes a shell of fear before going off into the world of fresher’s, but there’s too much uncertainty in my mind to call it fear. I’m not nervous about moving through life, it’s more of a deep onset panic that I don’t want to become stuck in something I don’t love. Babies love boobs so they are scared of them being taken away by something but I’m scared of new and unknown things bigger than a set of F cup knockers.

Many will say, it’s fine, it happens to everyone, you’re just getting cold feet, but am I? I have many fears; being alone, feet touching mine, staying in the dark for too long, but for me Uni is bigger than this. It’s similar to being left alone in a room when suddenly every source of light is turned out. You hear the footsteps slowly approaching you and then all you can feel is feet touching your face, your hands, YOUR FEET and your screams are heard by no one. So why must I put myself through it? Why should I walk into that room when I know what’s going to happen. Well, I don’t have to, but what else would I do? 

I’d have no money, no prospects. I could save my tuppence wage over summer and buy a flat somewhere or stay with my family a little longer and continue my dead-end job, neither exciting prospects. So all that seems left now in the game is University and a part of me is excited to be leaving but the rest of me is doubtful about the future and I just want to know there is a certainty of success.

My dad told me the other day this could be down to a lack of confidence and therefore he told me a little mantra to say repeatedly if I ever feel like this again. It’s old, ancient and works every time; so I shall tell you these secret words in complete confidence that you will follow them entirely. Whenever you hear a voice doubting your ability this, “Shut the fuck up” because that’s not you, that’s your fear speaking out and stopping you.

Now I don’t know what’s next in my life and although it’s near and ever looming I don’t need to worry because you don’t need to know as long as your happy. Try things. So I shall try this Uni thing, attempt to enrich my mind and poison my liver with vodka and words. This is me, Charlotte Rhodes, coming off breast milk and attempting solid baby food.

Two months time, I’ll be walking, just you watch.