Anxiety is a trickster. It makes you feel and believe things that aren’t true, makes you think you’re guilty for things you’re not, and separates you from those around you. This isn’t a lesson in how to beat it, but recognizing when it might beat you.
Talking about AccessxHelenAnderz, Metis Women in Business, Blogging, and why I’m obsessed with it all.
If you’re one of those magical people who can wake up and just ‘be awake’ I’d ask which demon you sold your soul too and how can I get in touch?
A storytime blog about my first and one true love – James Bond.
I’m taking part in a readathon.
Did I know readathon’s existed before last year? No. Was that because I didn’t watch enough Booktubers? Probably.
Confession. I went into this book already obsessed with Matt Haig. I’ve read snippets of his writing before, I’ve followed him on Twitter, I narrowly missed the chance to see him read in Bath and all my friends from uni rate his writing. So – I went in with big expectations.
I was not disappointed.
‘Welcome to the beautiful Sinclair family. No one is a criminal. No one is an addict. No one is a failure.’
Why does that strike me as insincere?
I’m going to review the following novel on three chapters – and no more.
The Flatshare has a really fresh premise for a love story.
A dating service where matching is based on people’s search history exists. You’re a serial killer. You go on a date with a writer.
Posh, adjective. Meaning to do something in an ‘upper-class’ way, showing the qualities of elegance or smarts. Fleabag is none of these things. I’d end my argument here, but I’ve got a few more points to make.
I try to get myself in bed before half ten So I don’t hate myself In the morning. I make sure I brush my teeth. I shake out my pony tale and then Put it back. Sometimes I wash my face. The ginger Tom Cat spreads across my White cotton sheets, Like he fucking owns […]
An epic poem about Medusa, the ultimate feminist icon.
You walk into your bedroom and discover someone going through your drawers.