Eloquently Twisted

The Misery of Celebrity Crushes.

Fri, 26 Apr 2013 23:00:07 +0100

While I was moving apartment my boyfriend found a small framed picture of another man.
I had forgotten I still had it.
It was part of a teenage crush, which I’d no idea how to act upon.
The man was from a TV show, the picture was from a magazine.
It was Noah Wyle.
My boyfriend burst out laughing.

Celebrity crushes aren’t easy. I had never been one for typical heart throbs. Shuddering at the idea of being in a throng of girls screaming a name, louder and louder until only vowels remain pitched into a scream. The unlikelihood of him saying ‘You screamed hysterically the best, you shall be my bride!’ Most likely if the celebrity ventured out into that sea of teenage girls he would be swept under never to be seen again. Forever lost to a hundred weeping faces and two hundred pawing hands.

If I ever did meet the object of my affections teenage magazines were a practical goldmine for small talk subjects ‘So, I read that you love pizza? Me too!’
Then we could probably go for pizza and talk about his favorite color (blue) and most embarrassing moment (probably this date).
Highbrow magazine articles usually go into a deep philosophical discussion about tragic childhoods, failed relationships and artistic influence. These would make for terrible conversation openers ‘I read that your father died when you were quite young. Did that affect your love of pizza?’
When reading about relationships, I would compare myself to the slew of previous girlfriends. Were they famous actresses? Probably.
Were they pretty? Definitely.
The success of our relationship would stem from my being none of those things.

To further increase my chances with someone famous I would discover new crushes in such niche places as cult TV shows or small indie bands. Fame is relative. Dating someone famous would be a balance between how well known they are and at least having a few friends who could appreciate my good fortune (or be jealous of it).

My quiet moments, sitting in class, riding on the bus, doing my laundry were spent in fantasy. It wouldn’t be a typical hormone fueled visions, all grunting and grinding. My aim would be a single kiss, romantic and true, to make my young girl’s heart believe that love could overcome anything (even lack of fame). My mind would go over the scenario over and over, ironing out the details until logic prevailed to kiss I so wanted.
Logic dictated that in order to become appealing to a person who was famous and better looking than myself I had to demonstrate my best quality, which isn’t my crushingly low-self esteem.
I am a nice person and a nice girl is probably what some famous guy wants.
The best way that I could demonstrate what a nice person I am would be to be helpful to the person when they needed me most.
And when would they need me most?
After they’d been in some sort of accident.

The important detail to note is that the accidents were never serious. They might fall out of a tree or down a not-so-high cliff or be hit by a car which wasn’t going very fast.
As I said, nothing serious just enough that I could employ my meager first aid skills before phoning someone more capable. I’d be nice and look at them all concerned, (not desperately lustfully) and help them in their moment of need. I wouldn’t be some huge fan who wanted them to fall in love with me. I would be a wonderful human being who cared for their well being and not for their fame.
Then they’d be so impressed that we would go for pizza (once they had been released from hospital).
This fantasy played out quite happily in my head for years with various leading men, that’s until a realization struck me.
The whole thing, the famous person, the accident, the caring for them, that idea isn’t new.
It isn’t a new idea at all.
It is pretty much the plot of Misery by Stephen King.
And, spoiler alert, it didn’t work out there either.

This has made me realize that maybe I am too old to have a celebrity crush, too cynical to kiss a poster before I go to sleep and too jaded to have my heart skip a beat if they reply to a tweet.
And as my boyfriend continued to mock Noah Wyle’s framed face, I had a welcome realization that maybe real life is better and real love is the best.

But still, Noah, if you’re ever hit by a not-so-fast moving car.
Give me a call.

Emmaisms

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 11:47:27 +0000

Emma calls those ‘shake and bake’ pancakes, Wankakes. Brilliants.

Emma: ‘Your passport looks like it once got wet?’ Me: ‘Yea, it fell into a body of water’ ‘It fell into the toilet didn’t it?’ ‘Yup!’

Emma commenting on my cleavage laden top ‘What’s this? Bring your boobs to work Wednesday?’

Went into a posh shop earlier, I was wearing a backpack, the assistants gave me snobby looks. Emma says ‘Fuck them, they work in

a shop’.

Emma: ‘Rang mum there to moan about my thesis. Do you know what she did? She put the cat on the phone!’ (I’m laughing so much)

Emma: ‘My mother used to watch Rosemary’s Baby a lot while she was pregnant.’

Emma said to me: ‘Brrr It’s really cold here! Or is it just the draught from your cavernous vagina?’ Then she walked away

Last night a student said to Emma ‘My boyfriend is a Hollister model’ pointing to buff unspeaking man. Emma said ‘What’s a Hollister?’

Emma said she witnessed someone with a megaphone saying to a student in hot pants ‘Hello! You appear to have forgotten your trousers’.

‘Today I fired a rubber band at Emma’s face and she slapped me really hard on my arm!’ - Diary of Maria aged 30 and a half

Emma: ‘Take A Break has a Handy tips page, one Top Tip was if you run out of underwear on holiday, wear a Tesco’s bag, there was a picture.’

Me: ‘Is there a problem page in Take a Break magazine?’ Emma: ‘Every page is a problem page, I call it ‘Loser’s Digest’.

Emma was talking to me, mid sentence she stopped and said ‘Maria! Stop staring at your own breasts!’

I told Emma, I prefer typing on the Nokia more than the iPhone. She replied ‘That’s because you have fat fingers’. Then looked delighted.

Emma: ‘Look here’s photos of cats that look like Hilter.’ Orla: ‘Are they bred to look like that?’ Me: LOUD LAUGHTER.

Emma came up to me and was giving me grief so I loudly pretended that she’d hit me on the arm, then she hit me on the arm. Dammit!

‘Emma, have I made a mess of my life?’

‘No, you only do that when you shit yourself…. in public.’

Me: ‘Bad sex is still bad sex no matter where you do it.’

Emma: ‘What about in Space?!’

Told Emma that if I get engaged I don’t want an engagement ring, she asked was I going to get ‘Vajazzled’ instead. Don’t look that up.

Emma’s mother calls ugg boots ‘Slut Wellies’.

Emma said ‘Noone has honked by boob in ages’. Yeay I gotta honk a boob, she screamed!

Emma Overheard: ‘Like nowhere on the packet did it say I had to like, you know, actually cook the sausages. I was like, SO ill.’

This morning Emma saw the Gardaí outside Leinster House playing ‘Rock Paper Scissors’.

Emma: ‘Nigella Lawson puts the porn back in food porn’ Me: ‘What? She actually cooks with semen?’ ‘Ewwww’.

Emma, Brenda and I are all knackered from a day of giving talks. Emma just randomly said ‘Horny’. Then ‘I say random things when I’m tired’.

The blood board sent Emma a letter saying she’s ‘on call’ for blood donations. ‘If I’m found drained of blood it won’t due of be a vampire’.

Emma started taunting me with my dislike of the scum on the top of a ketchup bottle, I typed ‘Frog’ into google image and she ran away.

‘So Maria, you’re not afraid of spiders?’

‘Nope’

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Yes Emma, because me telling you my fears won’t be abused’

Emma: ‘Her arse was so big it looked like a Joke Bum’.

Emma’s tip for phone lines that give you ‘press 1 for….’ options: Mash the keypad and you’ll get put through to an operator.

I told Emma was stressed about something that happened. ‘No point getting stressed, it’s in the past, like your youth and moral compass’

Emma: ‘Would you not get Colm to shave off his beard? You’ve never seen him without it, he could be anyone under there’.

I made a card for Emma. Got the lab to sign it. I signed it for John saying ‘My name is John, I like turtles, well done’.

Anna signed the card ‘To Emma, What a fabulous day, pity it’s not about me, but

whatever’.

‘So Emma what are you doing this evening?’

‘Take a stab in the dark’

‘Stabbing people in the dark?’

‘No, writing’.

So…. Emma got maced at the weekend. In a way that was inevitable. It wasn’t directed at her, she says it isn’t nice.

Emma can flex one boob, she calls it a ‘boob wink’ or a ‘bink’. I cannot do this.

I said ‘Minge’, John said ‘Piss flaps’, Emma got very annoyed and said ‘The language in here is fucking unreal’.

I drew a face on my hand, I’ve called it ‘Hand Emma’ and am using it to Harass actual Emma. Hand Emma likes felating things.

Emma hates keyboard cat, she just threatened me with scissors for playing it. Play her off Keyboard cat.

Got antibiotics, Emma looked them up online and is reading out the side effects and laughing ‘Vaginal itching, unusual urination patterns’ Emma asked ‘Do you have history of diarrhoea?’ I choked on my water and started

coughing. Then the fire alarm went off.

I covered my lips in pink highlighter and asked Emma if now was a good time go to and see my boss. She said ‘No’.

There is a hair straightener under my desk from the previous occupant. Emma:

‘That’s massive. Looks like something you’d cook a panini with’

John and I are talking about silver fish. Emma has never heard of them so she’s very freaked out. Supposedly ‘carpet shark’ is another name.

I got a text from Emma, she’s bleaching her bathroom to kill silver fish that she probably doesn’t have.

Emma: ‘Keep your relationship fresh by constantly changing your personality and likes’

Emma *looking at my twitter stream*: ‘These aren’t real people…. they’re not your friends *whispered* I’m your only friend’

Just had to tell Emma what a Pearl Necklace meant. ‘Urgh but why? It would end up in your hair like a grey rinse’.

Emma says the moral of the ‘Boy who cried wolf’ story is ‘Never tell the same lie twice’.

Emma and I were exchanging double edged compliments she said ‘You have a ruddy complexion that really suits the outdoors look’ She won.

Trying to check my parents in online for their flight, it timed out. I started swearing. Emma said ‘What’s wrong you’ve gone all Exorcist?’

Emma’s complaint about her boyfriend ‘He keeps saying ‘There’s been a murder!’ in the style of Taggart….all the time!’

Emma: ‘He’s such an anal wanker!’ Brenda: ‘Wow. I’m never shaking hands with him again’

Emma: ‘I’m doing my references for this paper, so far my favourite reference is Wang and Bumgardener’

Emma: ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness but some people are very close to hell’

I commented ‘Orla and Brenda are sleepy today’ Emma asked ‘What am I?’ I said ‘Dopey’. She almost threw water over me. :D

‘Wow, Emma it’s almost 4 already, where has the day gone?’ ‘I generally find it goes into the past’ ‘I hate you’

‘Colm’s going away tomorrow Emma’ ‘Remember to give him his warnings’ ‘Don’t have sex with anything’ ‘Don’t you mean anyone?’ ‘Eh, right’

Emma bought me a pint and sang me a kinda creepy version of Happy Birthday. A bit like a horny clown.

Me: ‘Emma a lot of people on Twitter are Taurus, Summer makes people horny’ ‘I just thought it was from people drinking cider outside’

Brenda and Emma are watching the scary part of Paranormal Activity. I’ve not seen it but Emma is partially hidden behind a sheet of paper.

Me: ‘I’ve no idea what I was saying in that presentation’ Emma: ‘Yea you started talking about your secret abortion and it got awkward there’

John and I are discussing Biffy Clyro, Emma says ‘That just sounds like the name of a striking miner’s union rep’.

Emma: ‘Hey, you didn’t get freckles did you? oh…my god they’re on your face’ :(

Brenda sent a message to Emma’s boyfriend saying ‘Emma is crying with the want’. That’s my new favourite phrase.

Ha ha Emma got in trouble for writing ‘Slut’ on bottles, she actually was writing ‘Glut’ short for glutamine. :D

I get new lenses at 2pm, until then I’ve to wear my reactions lenses. Emma opened the door for me and said ‘Look it’s Roy Orbison’

Talking about asphxywanks, the lack of oxygen makes it better, Emma suggests that this is also why so many people die on Everest pantsless

The Logic of the 3 bears.

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 23:25:00 +0000

As Colm and I are walking, I frequently tell him about things that have been playing on my mind. Today it was this.

‘In Goldilocks and the three bears, Daddy bear’s porridge is too hot, Mummy’s is too cold and Baby bear’s is just right.
Based on bowl sizes and cooling times, that would mean that Mummy bear had less food than baby bear.’

Colm replied ‘Maybe Mummy Bear is a selfish bitch and served herself first..’

‘What? That doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t take that long to serve porridge.’

‘It does if you don’t have any thumbs.’

Birth control

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 01:45:52 +0000

As soon as I sit down my mother asks what’s wrong. I have purposefully worn an expression warranting such a question. My explanation is a tearful blurb about feeling hurt and anxious, my low self esteem rubbed against a ghost from my past and emotions welled.  Using hand motions she talks about shovelling things into the compost to let them decay out of sight, then to use them for something good later. Mostly this involves the words ‘shovelling’ ‘compost’ and ‘dung’. All the time vigorous hand motions, miming shovelling. She asks me to join in but I decline. I’m laughing crying, then just laughing. My face, a red mess basted in tears, a smile of confused gratitude. I shrug and blame my low self esteem.
‘Get yourself pregnant, with a few wanes [kids] and you won’t have time for self esteem.’
She says it to make me laugh, then more shovelling motions. After I wash my face, I feel better, she says great things will happen for me and it’s comforting to hear it and believe it could be true. If only for that warm moment.
My mother talks about being pregnant and our births. My sister’s was difficult, a number of complications possibly contributing to her being diagnosed with autism three years later.  My brother’s was easier, the only complaint being that his position next to a nerve on her spine caused her eyes to droop late in the pregnancy.  She said that maybe she found it difficult to have girls.  I was born two weeks premature, weighing 7lb 1oz. Born by c-section because the placenta hadn’t moved. It was going to come first, like it was the warm up act and I was the main event. She went in to theatre at 11 am, maybe a little before. That’s when I was born, around that time.
My mother didn’t leave the theatre. She’d started to bleed, they washed out her womb to try to stop the bleeding. It wouldn’t stop.  She said she remembers waking up a few times, feeling sick, the bright lights and voices, then darkness again.  The placenta wouldn’t come away and had become imbedded, and still the bleeding continued.  That day my mother received 14 units of blood, by the end none of the blood in her body was her own.
She left the theatre at 5:30 pm. As I was sent to the nursery, she was sent to ICU, where she stayed for three days. The time was a blur of breathing tubes and pain “My stomach felt like an elephant had sat on it, all of the muscle was gone and it was black and blue. It stayed that way for a year.” On the third day they told her that to stop the bleeding they’d performed a hysterectomy.
That’s why I’m the youngest. The mould had literally been broken after I was made.
In recent years read her medical notes from that day. My mother had told them before the operation that if the choice came to her or me, that they should save me.   The notes said between 11am and 5:30pm, in the aftermath of my birth, her heart stopped, twice. When I first heard that, I cried, the shock of the what if.
On the fifth day, she saw me. ‘I’ll always remember that you smelt of curry, I don’t know why.’
Although I have heard the story of my birth before, I happily declare ‘I used to be inside you!’
And as I hug her my 6ft frame envelops a wonderful woman 6 inches shorter.

When Tempest Toss'd, Embrace Chaos.: No, No more.

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 02:33:09 +0000

When Tempest Toss'd, Embrace Chaos.: No, No more.:

cripesonfriday:

Tonight, on the Late Late Show, the last guest was Fiona Doyle, whose name has become well known in Ireland, and worldwide, this week after her father was granted, then denied, bail after being convicted of the serial rape of his daughter over a ten year period.

I watched the interview on +1, as…

Forever21 put my art on a shirt without my knowledge. So sad.

Mon, 14 Jan 2013 01:17:32 +0000

Forever21 put my art on a shirt without my knowledge. So sad.:

moosekleenex:

I made this Valentine’s card. It’s for sale...

Sun, 13 Jan 2013 19:05:39 +0000

I made this Valentine’s card.
It’s for sale here!

http://www.redbubble.com/people/twisteddoodles/works/9847520-panda-love

Compliments can be difficult.

Sat, 12 Jan 2013 12:02:17 +0000

Compliments can be difficult.

Have had a chest infection for a few days. I am not really...

Sat, 12 Jan 2013 02:41:26 +0000

Have had a chest infection for a few days. I am not really sleeping because of it. So I drew this.

therealshequeen: Another Me This is a picture of me, open...

Sat, 12 Jan 2013 01:33:56 +0000

therealshequeen:

Another Me

This is a picture of me, open pores, wrinkles, sun spots and all. Sometimes I wish I were a different person. I don’t mean I want to be Scarlett Johansson, or Margaret Beckett or Florence Bloody Nightingale, or even Ryan Gosling. I do still want to be me, but different and better.

I wish I was reckless and devil-may-care and a risk taker instead of someone who frets that a stranger is about to trip over their laces. I wish I had a better work ethic and more drive and tenacity and that I wasn’t so bloody lazy.

I wish I had more passions and enthusiasms, so that whoever delivered my eulogy would speak in glowing terms of my commitment to the cause or the project or my art, and how I would never settle for second best, instead of seeing second best as something that happened to me once when the stars aligned and all the really good people were at home in bed with the norovirus.

I wish I had more self-discipline so that what talents I do have might be given a chance to shine, rather than consigned to playing second spear carrier to my love affair with procrastination.

I wish I took better care of myself and exercised more and ate healthily and well and had a cupboard full of exotic pastes in colourful tins, instead of Schwartz jars of dust that used to be spices. I wish I stuck at things, especially things I liked, instead of giving up because it is raining or I am tired or because for some unknown reason I cannot resist fanning the smouldering embers of self-destruction into a roaring flame and crapping out of Zumba as a result. EVEN THOUGH I LIKE IT.

I wish I could reinvent myself and change my name to Vicky Romanoff and move to LA where I would tell people that I had been a ringmaster in the circus and the warden of Edinburgh Castle. But I couldn’t because that would be reckless and would involve self-discipline and many other qualities that I don’t posses and also because I couldn’t quieten the small Scottish voice in my brain telling me I was a pretentious arsehole.

Part of me wishes I were more like Madonna, breaking balls and eating popcorn from my cleavage. But then, I once read an interview with Madonna where she was asked if she ever thought “How did this happen? Why me?” and she said, “No. I can’t let myself think like that.” Which is pretty revealing. It makes me feel a bit better to know that a lot of driven, succesful people are probably on the run from themselves. Which isn’t very nice of me, is it?

And that’s another thing. I wish I were nicer and more thoughtful, and took better care of my friendships. I wish I were the kind of person who volunteered for stuff and took in waifs and strays and organised street parties and didn’t think awful things about other people’s children.

I don’t like the fact that I think these things about myself. I know I’m not so bad, I know I’m not chopped liver. I also know it’s horribly self indulgent and self obsessed. Get over yourself as they say in the US of A. “Who do you think will be looking at you anyway?” as my mother and grandmother would cry. I don’t think it every day. Some days when the sun is shining and my hair is behaving and I’ve had a glass of wine at lunchtime, I feel like Jemima Bloody Khan.

But some days I want to be a different person. I know it’s pointless and wrong, but I do.

twistedlildoodles: I made this Valentine’s day card. It would...

Fri, 11 Jan 2013 02:30:35 +0000

twistedlildoodles:

I made this Valentine’s day card.
It would be awesome if people bought it.
It is here!

http://www.redbubble.com/people/twisteddoodles/works/9836726-valentines-day-is-awkward

Christmas is over.

Wed, 26 Dec 2012 06:28:08 +0000

The static dies on a Christmas jumper. Thrown into a wardrobe, it will sink to the bottom over the bottom.
Where it drowns, unironed, in forgotten festive irony.

A Christmas cracker joke, discarded. The closest it will come to laughter being the arch cackling of seagulls at the dump.
They love bad jokes but they cannot read.

Custard, uneaten, thickens its skin for its inevitable trip into the bin.

A mince pie, a single bite removed by someone suddenly flushed by the memory that they hate mince pies.

Christmas stocking, empty, and unpaired, lies at the bottom of the stairs near some shoes it will never get into.

Wrapping paper, ripped and torn, sticky tape, the fading memory of shape. Multiple snowmen’s faces crumple in sadness.

The sofa, worn from nursing lazy bodies, silently worries that it will be replaced, by tomorrow’s sales, interest free.
The cushions cool in the dark.

In the dark, Noddy Holder cries, a note scrawled saying ‘IT’S EASTER!!’ wet with tears.

As he remains silent for another year.

Happy Christmas Tumblr folks! Thanks for following and enjoying...

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 01:17:36 +0000

Happy Christmas Tumblr folks!
Thanks for following and enjoying my doodles! :-D

Christmas Adventures [part two]

Mon, 24 Dec 2012 19:34:28 +0000

I was buying a candle to put on the table during dinner, it’s a tradition.
Shop assistant: ‘That’s a nice candle.’
Me: ‘I find a candle really adds mood to family arguments over Christmas dinner. You can really see the rage in someone’s eyes.’
*Laughing, she moves to wrap it in bubble wrap .*
Me: ‘Don’t bother, it’s only going to end up smashed against the wall.
Though the bubble wrap might help with the stress.’

Christmas Adventures [part one]

Mon, 24 Dec 2012 19:33:46 +0000

Dad: ‘Did you go to the pharmacy and buy that thing?’
Mum: ‘No, I forgot, I didn’t even think about it.’
Dad gives a frustrated sigh.
Mum: ‘I can put olive oil inside it!’
Dad: [to me] ‘My ear is giving me awful trouble.
Me: ‘Oh thank God! I thought you guys were talking about something else!’
Dad: ‘What?’
Mum: ‘She thought we meant lube.’

The awkward self esteem post.

Wed, 19 Dec 2012 21:55:00 +0000

I am 31 years old, I survived cancer as a teenager, I went on to get a science degree, then a PhD, have written a number of scientific publications, have appeared on stage as a stand up comedian and have a following as both on Twitter and as a cartoonist.

I am listing out these achievements not out of pride but to illustrate that despite how many things I seem to have going for me I have terrible self esteem.

My self esteem affects my life, I am unable to accept compliments or criticism, my ego feels like an egg-shell under which I berate myself for not being better. Over the years, I have learned to say ‘thank you’ when given a compliment. Sometimes I say ‘Really?’ because I would like to hear the compliment again.
There is a rush in the approval of others, a validation where I cannot validate myself.
And for that brief moment I get to see myself though the eyes of another but like a firework it fades rapidly and I’m left looking at myself.
My self image has been shaped though years of bullying into my private perception of myself and a public one. I don’t see myself as being likeable, though I make efforts to be nice, I feel that ultimately I am doomed to be alone. Forever.

Sometimes, compliments upset me, where someone says something heartfelt and I know they want me to feel it about myself, but I can’t, so I cry. I cry because I can’t see it about myself and I want to be able to.
I seek approval, likes on Facebook, retweets on Twitter, the internet is set up for instant approval and in it, the small spark of fireworks and I can avoid my own voice, telling me I’m no good. For me, the addiction is in the avoidance, if other people like me, if only on some superficial level then that’s ok.

I don’t like myself a lot. Well, sometimes I do, sometimes I stand in the bathroom transfixed on the person in the mirror, studying her and thinking that things didn’t turn out so bad. Or if I draw something, or write a joke that amuses myself, sometimes it feels like enough. I am my own greatest audience. Because I use humour and I use art to help with the gnawing existential loneliness that creeps inside me, that I could be enough for myself.

It’s when I show that to people I get afraid. Afraid they’ll reject me for who I am. If they don’t like something that I like that translates in my head as ‘They don’t like me.’

I’m afraid of criticism, because I’m such a self critic that it’s hard to hear the voice already inside my head be amplified and because I seek approval so rabidly at times. Small criticisms sting, like someone pointing out a typo or a misplaced word in a tweet and I know it’s probably innocent but I just think ‘Why is that worth pointing out!?’ because the criticism rings louder than any praise.
I used to wonder if the reason I cried when someone said something mean about me because it was a relief to hear someone agree with my own thoughts.

I am a 6 ft tall red head with blue eyes and pretty good boobs. My most significant relationships are due to the internet. Mostly because 6ft red head looks great written down, the actual me is less impressive. For a while I saw my body as merely something to transport my brain because of a wavering belief that I am a nice person, who is fun and can be funny. The internet is a great showboat for that, it’s all about what you type, how quick you are and less about looks.
Whenever a guy actually approaches me in real life, it’s pretty rare, the feeling is so novel that I am convinced there must be something wrong with him to find me attractive based on looks alone.
But the internet is fine, most of the time on the internet I’m just a drawing, the upside is that it’s based on me, the downside is that it’s a drawing.

At the weekend, a guy who was drunk and with friends shouted something mean about my looks. My immediate reaction used to be ‘hold onto the feeling, get upset when I get home’. But I’m trying to not do that any more. If someone says something about how I look my immediate thought isn’t ‘Oh wow I bet that guy is super hot! I’m probably missing out!’
Because it’s likely that if he’s shouting stuff at people, he’s not hot. He not secure in who he is and he needs to take from the self esteem of others to add to his own.
That said, I’m not one to judge solely on looks so the next time I feel I should shout after them
‘What’s your favourite album of this year?!’
‘Do you like art house cinema?’
‘Have you listened to any podcasts recently!?’
‘CAN I FOLLOW YOU ON TWITTER?!’
That said, I’d like to think that other people get random stuff shouted at them. Women who are very good looking get stuff shouted at them I’m sure about how they are good looking and about how it’s made them a stuck up bitch. Probably. As I said, I don’t fall into this category.
Though I’d like to think there is a middle ground of people who look ordinary after which people shout
‘YOU LOOK NORMAL! I AM TOTALLY AMBIVALENT ABOUT YOUR APPEARANCE!’

The self esteem thing, it’s something I’m working on. The things that I do, art, science or comedy, I want to do better and I want to do better for myself. If I was instantly great at everything, then nothing would be worth doing.

Right now, I would like to be able to self validate to the point that praise doesn’t make me and criticism doesn’t break me.
Or at least to trust myself enough to see the truth in either.

‘People spend so much time worrying about what other people think of them that they’re not thinking about other people’.
- My brother.

I made this for my secret Santa person in work, based on one of...

Tue, 18 Dec 2012 13:37:52 +0000

I made this for my secret Santa person in work, based on one of my cartoons.
He really likes it.

twistedlildoodles: Conversations I had with men while drawing...

Fri, 14 Dec 2012 00:24:56 +0000

twistedlildoodles:

Conversations I had with men while drawing in the men’s bathroom.

Phone calls.

Fri, 30 Nov 2012 11:57:00 +0000

The sun shone into the hallway through our open front door, it was early May.
I was seven years old.
My mother had just finished doing all the ironing for once, when the phone rang. She answered and my uncle told her that her mother had died from a massive heart attack. She was 59.
This was the first time I’d seen my mother cry, sobbing, sitting on the chair in the kitchen, beside piles of folded clothing.
My mother never did all of the ironing again, she always leaves some as if to ward away the memory.

The bonfire is burning low, I haven’t slept. It is the first day of the new year.
Colm and I have spent our first new years together with his friends at their house.
We made a bonfire, I’m good with fire, our stove at home runs on it. Handled with care
and understanding, it blazed under my touch. But, it’s dying now, fading and embers appear.
It has just gone past half seven when the phone rings. My mother’s voice.
My uncle had phoned her again, his seventeen year old son became the first death on the Irish roads that year. He was a passenger, he was a drummer, at the funeral I’ll express a regret that I didn’t know him better. But at that moment I go and tell Colm that we have to leave.

This morning, I am drinking coffee, not really listening to the conversation, staring at my phone. My father calls, I answer and wonder why he is calling, wondering what he wants. My uncle had called him, told him that his wife had died from a massive heart attack. She was 53. My mother’s younger sister. My father breaks the news to my mother. He is crying on the phone. I do not cry, I quietly acknowledge the information, after the call, I pick up my coffee and finish it.
I call Colm and tell him. I call my mother, I tell her that I am sorry.
I don’t know what else to say.

I hang up the phone. I wait for the next call.

Wasps

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 16:44:25 +0000

One of the guys in work has never been stung by a wasp.
I was stung by a wasp when I was 2, I was in a pushchair and eating jelly tots. It may be my earliest memory.
When I was 7 I was stung by a wasp after it went into one of my wellies, I was on the toilet at the time and had at that stage developed an incredibly unhealthy phobia of wasps.
Hilarity ensued.
I’ve been stung by the bastards so many times that the idea that someone could get to their twenties and never have been stung by a wasp is baffling.
But then again, I also had cancer.
(I really have to stop using that as a punchline)