Twitter (and Trump)

I wrote a post about Twitter not long ago explaining what I use it for. Well, perfect example: today, as I am confined to my bed, I have been hugely entertained by the trending hashtag: #TrumpBookReport – all about imagining what any chosen book report would be like coming from Trump’s narcissistic & diseased brain.

This was my feverish contribution from my bed. If you don’t at all follow politics and didn’t watch the Debates, then this is going to be of no interest to you, even if you are a bookworm.


No shadow

Even at that very last moment, I couldn’t help but be lenient. I guess it was just the habit, deeply ingrained, to spare you. I said most of the things I needed to, but each harsh word was enveloped in something soft to minimise its impact. I had meant to mention the money, the shame I feel on your behalf that you should haven taken and never repaid all that you obtained under false pretences.

Yet I abstained from referring to it, why? Honesty must apply to one as well as others – I am weak. And while delivering blows, I was still seeking to protect the criminal from the worst of the consequences of his own actions.
Is it any wonder you should have taken so much and left me in the lurch? That you were ungrateful, pushed me to the edge and precipitated my fall? That you showed no remorse for the trust you broke? That you lied to my face, lied to the very end, as you’d done so many times before?

Obviously, to some degree, I must be responsible. There can be no abuse without a victim, who is on some deep unconscious level, willing.
There is a fracture in me, childhood wounds never healed which enabled your toxicity.
We are both broken in different ways: you selfishly take everything while I selflessly give all – different cuts, different behaviour and very different results. While I seek to bring light to others, you unload your dark onto them — I try to heal, you poison.
It stands to reason that ours was a deadly attraction.

You are the vampire who almost bled me dry, but not quite, as I pulled back just in time.
You went off to find a fresh victim, having learnt nothing, as you never will, and I accepted there are people you just cannot fix.

I lay in bed, shivering with cold, all those thoughts twirling in my head, half delirious with fever brought on by a flu strain and I think:
you will eventually be consumed by that gaping hole at your core. You’ve lost too much weight, maybe? I don’t know, but you looked drawn, and old, when I saw you a week ago. New lines were showing on your face, bags under your eyes with a febrile light dancing inside them. You’ve been wearing the mask for a few weeks now, pretty much on a constant basis, it is definitely taking its toll – convincing the new victim, and therefore yourself, that you’re perfect is exhausting.
How long until the mask slips? Until cracks appear in the facade? Not much longer by the look of you: replicating, imitating feelings you know nothing about is taxing — adoration needed by those incapable of real love comes at such a heavy price.

Soon, the mirror is going to shatter and when the sun reappears you’ll be casting no shadow. None at all. While mine will be standing tall. Honestly? I take no comfort in that thought.

*I have been struck down by a flu virus thingy. I haven’t been ill since last December so I should really count myself lucky, but I’ve been shivering in bed all day with an awful headache, feeling utterly miserable.*

To the very end

When they sit there and lie to your face.
Even though there is nothing to gain because it’s already been agreed that this is IT, that the end has been well and truly reached.
Yet, they lie. They have a very last chance to be as honest as you are being right now, to change the habit of a lifetime, to finally do things right.
But instead they listen to you speak the truth, and they lie.
I cannot comprehend such a level of dishonesty, how anyone could be so weak and cowardly, how they can have so little respect for others (and even themselves) that they would lie. To the very end.
I. Just. Can’t.



You soothed this scarred warrior and removed my suit of armour.
The air full of static, in a state of unrest, I took off what was left: my dress –
wearing nothing underneath, revealing all ever so slowly, I found it hard to breathe – all the while, your eyes hypnotised, you stood and stared, paralysed.

The anticipation, exquisite. The waiting, excruciating.

You, winter moth mesmerised by my icy flame, broke the spell and we both fell — rough display morphed into a graceful ballet before switching back again.

We burnt, we slurred our words, drunk to the hilt on our chemistry, while around us all was dark, as the stars had gone into hiding, wishing to throw a veil over the unchaste proceedings.
Just in time, the rain came down, saving us and our surroundings from burning to the ground.

Image credit: Amarelle07



Life has been crazy busy, there seriously aren’t enough hours in the day.

Master’s degree update: we had to choose a primary genre out of: Fiction, Poetry, Creative Non-Fiction and Script. I chose Poetry, going against my instinct, and sure enough it quickly turned out to be a mistake. I locked horns with my tutor pretty much straight away: I think “conflicting personalities” is the best way to put it. I felt very uncomfortable within my tutor group and decided after a week that my initial feelings had been right – poetry isn’t where my strength lies as a writer and it’s not what I want to concentrate on.

Cue a lot of back and forth while I asked to be switched to a different writing genre: I was told it was too late, etc…so I had to make a pretty good case that it was in everybody’s interest for this to happen. Fortunately, they saw sense and I’m now happily settled in the Creative Non Fiction group – my new tutor is fantastic, very inspiring, as are the new students I’m working with.

Creative Non Fiction is something that really suits me, blending my background in journalism with my thirst for writing as eloquently as I can. I’m well aware that my better-written posts on this blog are the ones depicting real events and actual moments of my life. I’m not sure how I feel about the fact I’m at my best as a writer when talking about my own life – I’m an introvert and like to keep things private so it’s galling to think that my best writing is done while revealing much about myself.
My secondary genre is Fiction which is something I’m keen to work on because, as I’ve just said, I’m not at all a natural when it comes to “making up stories.”

Meanwhile, some people are still coming on my blog to try to unsettle me. It seems those people are the narcissist’s friends, and they apparently have nothing better to do with their lives than come on here every couple of days to rate my posts down. Last Friday, one of them went through about 18 posts to give them a one star rating. Whoever is doing it (apparently there’s more than one person) has been rating down the same posts over and over again till I ended up close to a one star rating overall out of I don’t know how many votes.

I let it happen for weeks now, thinking they’d get tired of it (they didn’t) but last Friday I suddenly remembered (duh!) that I don’t have to keep ratings on the blog, so I got rid of them. Obviously that upset the freaks so they decided to rate down the comments instead – thumb down for everyone who commented on “Wearing Your Words” – how very sad!

I don’t mean to be funny but those people don’t know me, and I don’t know them. That they should get upset at some of my posts written about the narcissist is fair enough, but why keep rating down everything else which has nothing to do with him?
It just makes no sense. How much of a nonentity can you be that you would choose to do battle for somebody else? Especially in such a petty, pathetic way. It’s text-book narcissism, of course: narcissists always have an adoring crowd which will stupidly attack and do the dirty work for them.

So I’m talking to you now, whoever you are: get a life! Don’t fight somebody else’s battle for them, but if you do, do it properly! Go big! Try harder than just thumbing down comments or rating posts down. If you really are intent on annoying me through this blog, do it IN YOUR NAME! Don’t hide behind the computer or phone screen, anonymously, like cowards. By all means, come on my blog: you will most probably learn a few things, educate yourself, expand your vocabulary…etc…but ask yourself why you should feel the need to act in such a petty way when you have NO idea of what happened between me and the narcissist, when you don’t even know me. Just GET A LIFE! Live for yourself: if you’re going to act like cowards, do it for yourself, not for him – you’re just admitting you’re nobodies here, do you not realise that?! How can you not?!

I personally wouldn’t dream of fighting somebody else’s battles for them, but if I did, if it was WORTH IT, I would do it properly, going down in flames for them, and I would do it in my own name, loud and proud!
You guys are just a bunch of whipped pussies – grow some balls!

Phew, I feel better now. I’ve had so little sleep for the last week that I just don’t have the patience for losers, not that I have much patience for them at any given time!

Talking of no sleep, I stayed up to watch the Debate on Sunday and I, along with the rest of the world, was witness to the absolute joke that American politics have become.
Hillary, as corrupt, dishonest and unconvincing as she is, was made to look half-way acceptable by psychopath Trump — quite a feat.
He stood on that stage, not answering a single question, rambling on and on, sniffing constantly, acting like a petulant child: “why don’t you interrupt her? Not fair, not fair.”
HOW has this man made it that far? I. Cannot. Understand. It.
I am terrified that this so easily enraged (and deranged) narcissist should ever get anywhere near nuclear buttons – TERRIFIED.

I shall now make myself a cup of green tea, dip into my stash of dark chocolate and take a look around WordPress. Then it’s back to work and more studying later. Friday I’m in London all day on a photo shoot acting as agent for a very special someone who is as gifted brain-wise as he is in the looks department – high fashion for an exclusive magazine, I’m going to love investigating behind the scenes. And I might just have a date Saturday night (#RoseGold)
Life is incredibly busy but it’s also really grand right now.


I’m not the biggest Facebook fan, but it’s usually harmless enough… yet there are days when it seems to want to torture you. Facebook memories can be nice, not so much when they are rubbing in your face the fact that somebody who used to mean a hell of a lot to you is now gone from your life.

Facebook should fix this. Somebody you have unfriended and blocked should not appear in the memories.  I am made of flesh and blood and feelings: no matter what has happened, certain things popping up in your feed without warning, like this just now, is a painful reminder of what used to be & what has gone wrong since.

I’m trying to protect my heart, Facebook… why don’t you give me a helping hand?

Rose Gold

“Maybe one day I’ll take you to New York, blondie.”

That’s what he calls me because when we met, I was all eyeliner and leather – very Debbie Harry he said: cool and aloof. It’s not what I was going for that day, in fact I wasn’t going for anything but, hey, I’ll take it. Although I imagine the “blondie” tag will grate eventually… but not yet, nothing really does in the glorious beginnings. 

Still, I liked that he said “maybe” to the Big Apple…unassuming, you know? Not taking anything for granted, because that way lies irritation, disappointment and a sad faded rainbow.

“A lawyer and a writer, it’s a great fit” he added. Hmmm… I play with words and marvel at their magical power, while he works out how best to put them together to win over the doubters.

We both tell stories: mine are about purplish skies and broken hearts and his regard dicey trials and slippery sharks.

“That über analytical mind you’ve got means you could easily do my job” — when he said that, I resisted the urge to hop with joy, suppressed my inner demented frog…but that’s when I knew we were going somewhere, and that there’d be adventures along the way. Recognising my smarts is the path leading to my heart – how sharp you are, identifying the exact precise spark.

Yet, it wasn’t until he took my hand, his fingers – gentle but strong – linking with mine, that I realised how much I’d missed having a real man by my side.

Yeah, I can navigate treacherous waters on my own, but pride is ludicrous & misplaced when the right one comes along.

Your hand was my undoing: confident, but with no hint of possession – or worse, obsession – while your eyes showed clear signs of barely veiled passion.
Also: your wild shock of chestnut hair, how I love raking my fingers through it on your formerly monastic mattress.
Wasn’t it nice, the first time, to do (hardly) anything and just talk for hours, to savour the moment, desire cupped, bottled up till later, until we knew for sure this was more than a fleeting fire.
understand & like the fact I favour wild flowers, because shop-bought is so unoriginal, and a bore,
don’t mind my swearing like a sailor,
laugh at my offbeat humour, sarcastic jokes,
respect the fact I’m an addict & recently quit, so gallantly leave the room to smoke
make me laugh, chase away the dark, even when we’re apart

The way you let me go Dutch even though you think my insistence is faintly ridiculous – I’ll relax later – in the future, I’ll let you buy me chocolate fudge.

There aren’t many men who can make me bend, twist out of shape, even for an instant – while they trace the contours of my face with such tenderness.

You are starting to take up a lot of my thoughts, so we’re going to take this slow – stoking the fire, gathering up precious embers, watching it grow, as rose gold comes to the fore because
I think it might just be the real thing.

In my defence


Her skirt was so short, I – everyone – could see her lace panties
Her nipples were showing underneath the filmy blouse she was wearing
She repeatedly winked at me throughout the evening
She kept licking her slutty-red lips, suggestively
Her tongue poked out between her teeth,
before wrapping itself around the tip of the beer bottle
she was drinking – 
Afterwards, she grinned salaciously
stroked my thigh, my arm continuously
We danced, she rubbed her arse against me
She let me buy her
not one,
but five drinks – 30 quid’s worth – there’s gotta be some perks
I’m telling you, she was well up for it

So, you see, it wasn’t rape,
even though her eyes were glazed
her arms and legs spread every which way
I didn’t hit her or force my way in
she was just unresponsive, not unwilling
I didn’t get upset
when she puked, half-way through
vomit splattering all over my shoes
I never even got head
in the end, for God’s sake!
I didn’t leave her in the alley
I made sure to put her in a taxi
So, you see,
I only did
what any red-blooded male
would have done in my place
If you think that’s rape,
we have become too sensitive
as a society
which is obviously ruled by man-hating feminists