Just Keep Swimming...

Following on from the last post about how to have a successful night out, I decided to have go out last night and follow none of my own specially created rules. Apart from the drunken text one, but what’s new there. Which meant I didn’t have as good as a night as I could have of. Although I did discover a new hobby of coming home too early and creating my own club in the garden with headphones, a large vodka and all the sass a girl can dream of in a sleepy suburb in Liverpool at 4am. Literally dancing around the garden at 5am was probably the highlight of my month so far.

I see myself as a positive person, someone who tries to make the best out of any situation – because what’s the point in looking at the bad side of it all. However I’m also a dramatic person. I think it’s due to my constant love of attention, my need to always talk and socialise and my Liverpool all girls’ school background. If you spend most of your formative days surrounded by hundreds of dramatic scouse girls looking for drama in the smallest of situations then chances are you’re going to inherit some dramaticness. If only that was a real word (I’m hungover, I don’t have time for a thesaurus). However although I do love being a bit dramatic every now and then, my problem lies in when something bad actually happens to me people can sometimes think I’m being dramatic and have exaggerated the situation. Kind of like the boy who cried wolf. But sassier.

Nights out are second nature for me. I know how to go out, have a good time, have minimal drama and make the best of every night as you do only live once. But sometimes if I’m not in the right mood, or the right type of drunkenness, or just aren’t clicking with the environment then I don’t find it as easy to have an amazing time. And this only happens because of one reason. Verbal abuse.

I’m not the thinnest of girls, or the prettiest of girls, or the stereotypical of girls. I’m overweight, dress very obviously gay with the suavest of checked shirts and I’d rather play chess every minute for the rest of my life than give a boy any second of romantic attention. But that’s who I am. And I love who I am. But sometimes in a packed club full of drunken idiots people aren’t always accepting of this. So they say horrible things. About my weight. Or my appearance. Or about me being gay. And 99% of times this doesn’t phase me at all. It’s almost commonplace to me. It shouldn’t be, but it is. There are certain places in town where I know chances are I will get some sort of thing said to me or about me within earshot. And unfortunately some of these places are where some of my friends love to go. Fortunately their comments mean so little to me that I can never recall what they actually say the next day. If only their comments had so much of an effect that I instantly changed my life. Weight comments would make me immediately start an eat clean diet and live in the gym. No. Although I am in the process of losing weight, I actually sort of like how I look and I’ve got a semi strong eyebrow game so that’s all that’s important. Plus my personality is killer (total joke, I’m the worst). Homophobic comments would make me wear dresses and fancy all the boys. No. I’m really proud of who I am and for coming out and for living my life the way I want to live it when many others can’t. I would never be able to part with any checked shirt and the thought of a penis coming anywhere near me makes me want to vomit everywhere. Unless it’s Zac Efron. Homophobic people only encourage me to be prouder of being gay and fancy more girls. So it’s a win win. Comments about my appearance and about how no one would ever fancy me would make me do something drastic with my face and endlessly and desperately seek a bae. No. If someone doesn’t like me for the way I am now then they’re clearly not sassy enough for me. Someone will eventually find me attractive and like my personality and be able to handle all my drunken antics, snapchats and stories. And until then, I’m not arsed. I’ll keep liking all the wrong people until it turns out they’re the right person. And I’ll keep waiting for a call from The Undateables. Most of the time the comments don’t affect me, because I’m in a good mood and I’m drunk and I know I’m more fabulous than they can ever dream to be. The harsh reality is most weeks I go out I will get something said to me, but I never make a big deal about it because I don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction that they’ve bothered me in some way. However on a few nights out of they year, sometimes the comments will affect me/ I’ve probably had a bit of a shit day, are too sober to be in that club anyway, and one comment will just push me over the edge and make me annoyed and want to leave immediately. Understandable I think. But the issue is because none of my friends really see it, simply because why would they be on the lookout for something a guy in a low cut V neck says to me in the middle of Baa Bar, there’s a bit of chaos sometimes when I suddenly want to leave the club they want to be in because of an incident that I can’t really prove happened. I wish I was lying to them. I wish I was that desperate to go the Raz that I was making up the stories. But there’s dickheads in this fine world so unfortunately it’s the truth. But it’s even worse when they openly say they don’t believe it or maybe I’m just imagining it. Please. I’ve got no time to make shit up. If I’m going to make something up, I’d rather it be more creative like I’m Adele’s official eyebrow game icon. Plus I’m really not that desperate for attention. I’d rather sit quietly on my own in a corner for a whole week than make up fake stories of abuse for attention. If you’ve seen me on a night out, as long as I’ve got someone to dance with or someone to talk to in the smoking area, then I couldn’t be less bothered about attention in the slightest.

I pride myself on not letting these dickheads affect me, so on the one night it does, someone doubting my entire story is offensive. I’m already annoyed that I’ve allowed myself to be bothered; I don’t need to be bothered more. But if I spent the rest of the night being bothered then that would be no fun. So the only thing to do is move on to a new club, get a new drink, dance my little heart out to a charming little song and spread the sass. And I’m incredibly proud of myself that little things like this don’t stop me being who I am or going out and having a good time. It would be easy to just conform and try and not get the odd comment said, or to stay in so I wouldn’t have to risk it. No. That’s not who I am. So I’ll keep wearing my checked shirts, I’m never going to be a size 0 so I’ll make the most of what I’ve got, and I’ll keep my personality and attitude to life because it’s not made me do too bad so far. Essentially, I’ll just keep swimming.

If you’ve made it to the end of this rant of a blog, congratulations! Sorry it wasn’t as amusing as n it could have been. Normal service will resume on Wednesday!

Stay Sassy xo