What to do when someone completely ruins your entire university career

Some people may've spent their day helping the world move one step closer to curing cancer, some may've learnt about how the world came about, I however, at the ripe old age of 20, learnt that my lip genuinely quivers when I try to stop myself from crying. Who's winning here? Probably not me.

I swear this time I am not being dramatic. This is not like the time I turned my phone off for three days to avoid telling someone that I didn't "feel the same way", or that time I was unable to get out of bed because the aftermath of finishing reading the Twilight books and facing up to the crippling reality that I would never find a sparkly vampire who would rather die than be without me, was all too much. This time I am in super serious existential trouble.

The kind of trouble that makes you want to call your mum and sob down the phone to her for a while, before realising that perhaps you should've opened with the line: "I'm about to start crying, but it's not because I'm pregnant". But I digress, for I have found myself in a completely unforeseen predicament (that does not involve a pregnancy). Upon meeting my new dissertation supervisor for the first time, I was told that the way I write does not flow, and needs a lot of work. Ok, so this may not seem like a big deal, but for me, the world ended. I instantly felt like throwing up and crying all at the same time - kind of like a drunk first year who's still having the time of their life because they have not had their life's work crapped on.

It was extremely difficult not to do this while I was still in her office

I'm trying to describe this in a way that is not pompously egotistical, which I'm realising now is kind of difficult, but the simplest way to put it is like this: in school, some people excel in sports, some excel in music, I somehow, was rather gifted at writing essays. It's like a party trick but more boring. Throughout school, college and about 60% of university I was led to believe I could write essays; just last week I was told that academically, I write 'really very well'. And considering this new supervisor was reading the same piece of work, I have to question what happened. Did my choice of words insult her? She circled the word 'sound' rather vigorously which makes me wonder if there's something deeper going on. I also noticed (while concentrating on a spot on her desk so as to try to stop myself projectile vomiting), that there were no personal touches - is this woman even who she says she is? Is she an impostor who showed up to stomp on the dreams of final year students who are only just starting to figure things out?

I am insinuating nothing...

Who can be sure? But she definitely doesn't think I can write. Or I can, but it makes absolutely no sense when I do. And it would appear that I have attached so much of my self worth onto the knowledge that I can write, that I now feel as though my life purpose has been struck from me. Kind of like how Troy felt in High School Musical 3 when Gabriella went off to Standford without him. *Starts humming the tune of 'Right Here, Right Now'*. Obviously, he fixed that by stalking her to her college and dancing with her under a tree, but I don't think that would work in quite the same way for me.

When life tragedies such as these occur, I find immense comfort in the words Katy Perry spoke to me (and about twenty-thousand other people) this past summer: "whatever you're going through, just know that Katy Perry goes through crap too".

But for real you guys, I am dealing with this just fine.
~ Eleanor xo

The person you become in a nightclub

Mindy Lahiri is goals

I don't know about you guys, but the person I turn into when I enter a discotech is largely down to the kind of mascara I'm wearing. If it looks as though I'm having trouble blinking because my eyelashes are so heavy, I'm probably wearing what I like to call: my slutty mascara. Or as some people call it, Maybelline Scandaleyes mascara. Or as my google search has just pointed out, Rimmel Scandaleyes mascara. If you ever wondered why I'm not a beauty blogger, I think you just found your answer; I don't even know what brands I use. Let's just gloss over that minor mishap, after all, I am currently drinking the most expensive vanilla latte in existence because the dick-wad barista decided to overcharge me and I'm so livid I can barely see. But I digress; my point is, this Rimmel mascara (nailed it) guarantees massive fat-ass lashes that look the bomb in photos. So much so that I haven't de-tagged myself from a truly atrocious photo that appeared on Facebook last week simply because my lashes are killing it and I want everyone to know. #TrueStory #Blessed.

So yes, slutty mascara = I've made an effort, I'm excited and I'm ready to partay... except in the case of last week when I had what can only be described as the worst night-out ever. Clearly the guy who thought it was hilarious to come up to me and mimic my 'resting bitch face' knew, even by midnight, that tonight was not the night he was getting laid so gave up and began acting like a giant douche-bag to soften the blow.

On that same night I made a new friend in the form of a blonde fresher, I'm going to go ahead and assume she was a fresher simply because she couldn't stop swaying and then couldn't seem to comprehend why I was drying my arm, even after I told her twice that someone had spilt their drink all over me. Eventually it seemed to click and she reacted as though I'd told her I'd been shot. Which to be honest, is a very fair reaction seeing as my new Zara top took the blow. Vodka is for drinking, not for pouring over brand new £30 chiffon Zara tops. Or Primark flats; but I lost that four quid simply by buying the shoes, let's be honest.

I'm not being a nightclub hater; the only things I really hate on are wine gums and incense candles *tries not to vomit*, because there are some great times to be had: you can weasel your way around getting a much drunker friend to buy you a beverage of some kind, maybe even a double if you're feeling adventurous, you can scream the entirety of 'what makes you beautiful' into your BFF's face as she does the same to you, and you're pretty much guaranteed to get some if that's what you're after. Unless of course you're one of those people that refuses to believe when someone tells you they aren't available. Basically what you're telling me is that even in my nightclub finery, I could never be anything more than a hump-and-dump situation. Yes, I may be wearing my slutty mascara but that's where it ends, my friend. And if we're being honest, if someone decides to make up that they're not on the market just so they don't have to get with you, maybe it's time you went home, ate a pot noodle and had an existential crisis of your own. Still, who can really say chivalry is dead when the guy finally stops telling you "you're lying" and trots off to try his luck with one of your friends. Forget holding a door open, this is what a gentleman looks like.

Seriously you guys, all I want to do is dance to Taylor Swift and wear sweatpants while I'm doing it. Kind of like a really hip grandma. Is that so much to ask?

~ Eleanor xo

PS, while googling synonyms for 'hump and dump', I found some amazing alternatives: "wham bam and thank you maam", "nail it and bail it", "smash it and dash it" and the king: "tap the ass and hit the gas"

What it's like being 7311 days old (or 20 years and 1 week)

As most of you are probably well aware, it is terrible. You see before you a girl with a chipped manicure, rocking a 'just-taken-out-plaits' hairstyle, who possesses a pink iPod nano with Ashley Tisdale's unfairly overlooked debut album, 'Guilty Pleasures', ready to blast through her car stereo on the drive home from work. It's possible we have an epidemic on our hands. Or a pandemic. Or just a general emic because I don't really know what any of those words mean... Let's just go with 'code red'. Or perhaps more fittingly, 'code grey', because that's what I've been fearing I will find stacked on my head when I look in the mirror every morning after I wake up.

Truthfully, on the day after my birthday I really believed I'd woken up with wrinkles. But as it turned out, I'd just fallen asleep with my make-up on and decided to smush my face into my pillow so as to make myself look as unattractive as possible. At least there's still part of me that's lazy enough to be classed as a teenager. I can't remember if this was also the night I had a dream where my neighbours ginger cat bit me on the face. Not that this is relevant, but as a certified old person, I'm now supposed to bore you by going off on strange tangents.

The day itself was obviously a lot of fun - as birthdays should be! I was awoken at six in the morning by an interesting rendition of 'happy birthday' sung by my mother; who also, being a total joker, decided to sing the line "happy birthday to someoneeeeeee" instead of inserting her own daughters name. Classic hilarity from Mrs Potter. We then preceded to play a game I would like to call "Mum can you stop telling me how much you think I'm going to like each present it's practically the middle of the night and my eyes aren't able to fully open". My parents gave me a silver star charm for my Thomas Sabo bracelet; receiving this gift is a moment I will probably always remember, obviously because it's beautiful but also because when I opened it, my mum looked me straight in the eye and went "because you are a star". Couldn't sing my name in the happy birthday song though, could she?

This all went out the window when four days later I picked out a truly gorgeous rose gold Marc Jacobs watch that would be, as we say in our family, my 'main present'. I'm still so in awe of it's beauty that I keep forgetting it is actually a time telling device. Brains AND beauty, what a catch. And just to blow this whole thing even more out of the water (I don't think I've used that saying right), the rose gold on the watch matches my rose gold iPhone 5S. I cannot tell you how much of a first world white girl I feel. It's an exhilarating experience to say the least.

Once I'd got past my midday "oh my god there's something wrong with my knee I can't move I've officially reached old age this is the end" anxiety attack, I was able to continue celebrating myself - with more presents (shout-out to my adorable best friends who proved once again just how well they know me *cough* chocolate fingers *cough*, and to my boyfriend for the really sweet gifts of my favourite things - including a new MASSIVE Yankee candle that the pyromaniac inside me can't wait to get back to uni and burn baby burn), and a Smarties birthday cake - courtesy of my boyfriends family because they're the sweetest people ever. Sadly the day ended with me in tucked up in bed early, ready for work the next day - and for those of you thinking to yourself that I would've done the same thing even if I didn't have work early in the morning, to you I say, shhhhhhh.

Now it's a whole week later and the world looks no different (which is good because it means I'm not losing my sight), and to be honest, I don't really feel any different. I still have trouble getting up in the morning, I seem to be getting worse at making toast, and I'm just as atrocious at driving as ever. I did voluntarily clean my room yesterday though so make of that what you will.

Thank you so much to everyone who wished me a happy birthday and/or sent me cards and gifts; you guys are the best.

~ Eleanor xo

PS. You'll be pleased to know I completed 9 of the 19 things I'd planned to do this year. Most disappointing of all was my failure to keep my cactus plant alive. Better luck next time. Maybe.

What I don't get about facebook

If I were to make a pie chart of the reasons people use Facebook, I imagine it would be a choppy mix of "to boast about how amazingly you're currently doing at life", "to show off happy relationships", "to vent about shit relationships", "checking you are still doing better than that slutty girl who bullied you when you were 13" and of course, "stalking your ex. And his new girlfriend. And her brother. And if you're having a really bad day, his best friend". 

Just last month I found myself discovering that an old college friend had found himself a girlfriend. It was a jaw dropping moment and I had to take a moment to process what I'd just seen. I preceded to "oh-my-god" and flap my hands in the air for a good few minutes before I was able to regain my composure. Of course, now I've had time to let the revelation sink in, I find myself wondering why exactly I care. The fact he fancied me first is neither here nor there. Essentially, what you see on Facebook is either going to make you feel super pumped or horrendously upset. Kind of like cocaine. I imagine.

But what else don't I get about this ridiculously addictive and soul destroying social network?

1. Why am I able to 'suggest friends' to people? It's like saying, "yo, pal, I gots more friends than you and I feel like you should know so I gon point it out over Facebook hell yeah" (why have I written this as though I am a gangsta?)

2. I accidentally told Mark Zuckerberg I was in a relationship before I told my family. My mum called me up a couple of days later not really understanding what any of it meant. I believe her words were "what does it mean you're in a relationship? It's not real though is it? It's just on Facebook". God bless mums on Facebook.

3. The United Nations will soon make it law that no selfie can be uploaded without a filter. It's basically our way of tricking people into thinking we're a ten when we are quite clearly a two (at best). My profile picture may or may not be airbrushed... No dark under-eye circles for this girl, thank you!

4. When a complete stranger from the other side of the world with no mutual friends tries to add you. Just the other day I had a nice french guy try to add me; I did consider accepting it because he was wearing a snapback in his profile picture and just oozed street cred but I didn't feel that was a strong enough reason considering I, you know, have no idea who he is. Désolé, ami. (I had to use google translate for that - sorry if it's completely incorrect)

5. Why are some people so open about every element of their lives? I once used twitter to ask if tripping up in front of a cute guy and making him laugh counted as flirting (sadly I don't think it does), but some people feel the need to post super personal stuff, I mean, super super, and it's just uncomfortable. So, yeah, please stop that.

6. Kissing pictures. WHY?! Nobody ever looks at their news feed and thinks to themselves, "hmm, you know what's missing here? A wonky-blurry-black-and-white image of my friend with her tongue down someones throat". Ok? Never.

7. When your jackass BFF uploads that ONE picture of you looking horrendous. True, it's probably your own fault you look so bad (let's all blame it on the alcohol) but it's so not cool when a picture of you with your eyes going in different directions or you grinding on a what-you-thought-at-the-time-looked-like-Zac-Efron-but-really-now-does-not shows up for all to see. My sister and I once took a picture together where I felt I looked really good, but she had her eyes closed, so naturally, I cropped her out and uploaded the picture with just me in it. She flipped out afterwards, but I assured her I was doing her a favour. You're welcome sis, I got your back.

8. Those weird adverts on the side of the page. They're supposedly catered for you specifically but mine are currently advertising "British Military Fitness", "Financial Spread Betting" (what even is that?) and a "wedding photographer". Yes, I want precisely none of these things. However, I'm now starting to worry what my search history is if this is who the algorithm thinks I am...

9. Why am I still Facebook friends with a bunch of my friends ex's? Well, I know why. Because I want the friend count.

10. People who continuously post statuses that are pointless. Literally no-one, not one single person on the face of this planet cares that you just drank the perfect cup of tea or that you're watching the film currently showing on itv2. And I think I speak for everyone when I say that you do not need to post what the fucking weather is. Not only do I have an app on my phone for that, but I can also, you know, LOOK OUT OF THE WINDOW. You will know I've just read a weather status if I begin massaging my temples. Or if it's sunny outside.

But even I have to admit that Facebook isn't all bad (especially considering most of you probably got here because of it), it's a great way of piecing a nights events together and also means that my mum is able to keep track of me when I'm at uni and forget to call her for three weeks. Shout-out to my dad for texting me every time my mum turns to him, sighs and says: "she went out again last night" every time I go out partying. Everyone should have their parents as Facebook friends, it is tremendous fun.

~ Eleanor xo

I saw you wrote about me on your blog

It happened. Someone said it. The dreaded "I saw you wrote about me on your blog". Pretty much one of the worst sentences I've ever heard. Well, that's a total lie, I've heard far worse things. An example being: "Those shoes are disgusting". Ouch. But that's not the point. Anyway, I knew exactly which post this person was referring to and if I wasn't sitting upright in a car with my seat-belt on (safety first, kids) I would've slowly slid off my seat and into the hole I had apparently dug for myself. Instead, and in a rather appropriately dramatic manner, I swiftly turned my head to look out the window (that's how they do it in films) and muttered "yeah, we don't talk about that". While I considered using the app on my phone to erase all traces of myself and this blog from the web, he changed the subject. Thank God. I really didn't have the 3G to spare.

Because essentially, what I write here in my strangely blue corner of the internet is basically, how can I put this? Word vomit. Ah, another Mean Girls reference. But seriously, I sort of forget who reads what I post. I figured I'd be fine sharing my life with total strangers and anyone nosy enough to click a link on Facebook, but then it dawned on me that real life people do read it. You there, you're real! Congrats! Just count yourself lucky you're not doing one of those weird warpy 'prove you're human, and not a vacuum' literacy/numeracy/I-don't-get-the-point-of-these-I'm-literally-just-buying-concert-tickets tests. No-one ever gets those things right first time; screw you internet, not only do I have GCSE's, I also have A Levels - who are you to judge me?

I like to make fun of myself, hence the content of every single one of my posts, but a blog is like a diary, isn't it? You know everyone's read it, but you have a mutual understanding that they don't tell you they've read it and neither of you try to start a conversation about it. Well, that's how it happened with myself and my sister. God knows why I kept a diary for so long - or why I kept it hidden in the same place. I was clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed.

But not only do I not have control over who's reading this stuff and laughing with me (not 'at', she says hopefully), I technically do not own what I write here. Well, I mean, that's what I'm assuming. I never read the terms and conditions. I'm guessing this means that the guy who owns 'blogger' now technically owns all current 460 words of this post. Blogger is essentially owned by Google and who owns Google? I'm not actually sure. Ok, I did a Google search (how ironic), and according to 'whoownsgoogle.com', Google is owned by Bill Shor. Call me presumptuous, but I'm thinking this website is a viable source to use. So, Bill, if that even is your real name (still might not be, I only checked that one website and it was dated 2009), what do you think of my writing? Will it be sold unknowingly to me and used in adverts and other media extensions across the world? Hmm? HMMM!? I know how your sort work, I've watched a documentary! On purpose! By choice! Yeah, exactly. Not only that, but I can quote Legally Blonde backwards, so I could totally take on your multi-billion dollar company. Someone bring me a smart suit, an american flag and a tiny chihuahua, stat!

Obviously, I'm not actually going to go back and read the T&C's I've completely glossed over, but I think it's good to be aware of what may or may not become an eventuality. In the meantime, what I think I'm saying is that maybe I need to think a little more before I post on here. Which doesn't really make sense because I've just written about the person I was supposed to not be writing about. Again. (It's been a long day). I have a feeling this won't work out for long because if I don't write about the embarrassing/bad things that've happened to me, how can I a) help you guys out or b) cheer you up because at the end of the day, at least you're not me. Plus, the rest of my life is horrendously uneventful and I've used the same make up brands for years and I've absolutely no money to be a fashion blogger.

I guess I'll just have to keep slating the people who teach me the greatest life lessons. Shame.

~ Eleanor xo

The things you learn in Holland (about yourself and everyone else)

In the midst of severe procrastination and with a packet of just opened (which means half have already been devoured) Cadbury's chocolate fingers next to me, I am here to chat to you about my (not so recent) journey of self discovery. It's true, the journey ended about two weeks ago but I've been a little busy catching up on the season finale of Pretty Little Liars (oh em gee, am I right?!) and trying not to inhale the large quantity of Milka I bought home for various people I like, to catch you all up to speed on my life. Sadly, my plan to give a load of Milka to my boyfriend in the hope that he'd get the hint and share it with me, horrendously backfired. He took it home still unopened. I wept.

So, the story is this: at the beginning of March, myself and five other Brits packed our bags and headed over to the land of Nether- wait, that sounds wrong; we packed our bags and went to Holland (better), for a two week long international advertising project. Sounds pretty snazzy, right? Sharing a cute little hotel (owned by a fearless Dutch woman whom we loved) with six other European countries, we began plotting our uprising; spent the two weeks working in seven different groups creating fully fledged campaigns for different brands. Most of which we'd never heard of. No sweat.

My first time flying with FlyBe was... interesting. I hadn't been in a propeller plane for some years and having a seat next to the propeller that initially wouldn't start was somewhat unsettling. Still, for a while all I could picture was my mum sitting next to me tutting and comparing every single thing to how British Airways would do it - she's a devote BA flyer so this brightened my mood considerably. To be honest, when we landed in Amsterdam I wasn't truly convinced that we'd left Britain at all because we were faced with, wait for it, rail replacement services. Yes, really. For some time I was marginally convinced that this was just a British conspiracy by the government to piss everyone off but I see now that MI5 do have better things to do than mess with us all and it's a Europe wide problem. So, I forgive you National Rail. For now. 

Finally, nine hours after our expedition began, we arrived in the town of Bergen and our adventure began. And after a dinner of vegetarian lasagna, I knew this trip was going to get wild.

So what exciting Netherlandy wisdom do I have to impart on you? Well, I could write you a book, but I won't, because I'm lazy; but most importantly, if you get taken on a tour of a quaint, historic, serene Dutch town, do not be surprised if you end up in it's red light district unannounced. I still have to rub soap in my eyes to try and remove the images of the things I saw that day. Our tour guide described it as one of the "most popular" streets in Alkmaar. You don't say. 

On most days I felt as though it would be less obvious if I actually walked around holding a sign saying 'tourist', but let's be honest, this is half the fun - I mean, it's not like we get cute rivers and landscapes in England, it's all tower blocks and badly spelt graffiti. True, it adds character, but usually a character with abnormally large private parts. And I can't see Boris jumping to show that at Heathrow. The thrill I got from referring to my friends as 'Team GB' and saying stuff like "I am British" was embarrassingly massive. I tried learning some Dutch but instead all I learnt was that I'm terrible at languages. Still, I once found myself in an in-depth conversation comparing euros and pounds so maybe that counts. 

Things I learnt through this trip:

1. I'd be the worlds worst language teacher. I'm not even sure if I speak English correctly anymore.

2. I may have caused every single person there to think that Brits legitimately use the words 'swag' and 'swaggy' as adjectives...

3. At first I thought dutch boys were really cool. And then I realised that they all look exactly the same and it freaked me out a bit. If you want the new One Direction, you'll find them in Holland.

4. Once you start quoting Bridesmaids with your bestie everyday for two weeks, it becomes increasingly difficult to stop

5. It's true, you never forget how to ride a bike; but you sure will be rusty (and nothing will be funnier than seeing your friend ride into a ditch)

6. I need to be in a country where "bless you", "excuse me" and queuing are actually a thing. The lack of these things made my eyes twitch vigorously.

7. Dutch food is actually pretty good  

8. My sarcasm was probably taken offensively and I wouldn't be surprised if some of them wanted to chase me with a pitchfork

9. Nothing is more upsetting than being surrounded by multi-lingual individuals. I want to bitch in a secret language too!

10. I spent 87% of my time complaining about the Dutch bus system and how ridiculously expensive it is. 

11. At the peak of tiredness I managed to slide out of bed head first, go over my neck and land face up on the floor. And once I punched a shelf.

12. No matter where I go, someone will always pick up on the Potter thing. It almost felt like home.

13. HOLLAND IS SO INSTAGRAMABLE. And their extortionately priced buses come with wifi!

14. Lauren and I had many in depth discussions as to why the country has very few plug sockets. We've still yet to reach a viable answer.

15. And perhaps most importantly; the Europeans know how to get cray and partay

I had the most amazing two weeks; I got to bond with my fellow Team GBer's and took more selfies than I have in my life (I blame you, Lauren). We worked our cute little behinds off during the project and learnt so much. The whole thing was an experience I will never forget and I can sleep easy knowing my mum is not going to disown me because I did bring her back some Gouda. And what trip is complete without the purchase of a 'Netherlands' Starbucks mug?

~ Eleanor xo

I am the girl your mother didn't bother warning you about

Feel free to blare 'Bad girls' by M.I.A as you read this. It seems only appropriate.

Or perhaps she did. "Look out for the girl who you will want to simultaneously strangle for being so dramatic, and squeeze in a tight embrace for being so clueless about the general world around her". Ah yes, now you remember. Potentially worse than all those conventional bad girls you hear about, getting involved with one of these will be one of the most interesting adventures you embark on. Or most boring. It's practically the same thing.

Am I rebellious? Not in the slightest. Well, I mean, if you're asking if I spent the majority of my childhood tearing through my house on the hunt for Christmas presents after my parents distinctly told me not to, then yes, I am rebellious! Did I run down school corridors? Ok, perhaps 'run' is the wrong word, it was more of a mix of jogging and skipping (I do not, and will never run. Unless I'm being chased by a crazy person. And even then it's not a guarantee). You may not see me as quite so hardcore once I admit that the first time I ran through a school corridor, I burst into tears because I felt so guilty. Hint one that I am not a rule breaker.

When spelling tests were all the rage back in primary school, I was the only person in my class to turn themselves in and stay in at playtime to re-do my spellings after the teacher told us if we didn't get a certain number right, we weren't getting a break. Actually, this still annoys me. I messed up my spellings because I just wasn't very good, not because I hadn't studied for the test like she insinuated. Plus, the boy quizzing me was a humongous douche bag but I kind of fancied him so I really didn't have the brain capacity to waste on the spellings.

I made it through secondary school with exactly zero detentions under my belt. The one time I almost got into trouble by accidentally lobbing a paper ball at my teacher (I was aiming for my friend across the room), the guy I happened to have a massive crush on, took the blame for me. It was one of those 'making of a true love forever' kind of things. I still remember the look of complete terror that crossed my face before my knight in shining armour stepped up. I am forever in his debt.

I have yet to go through my Miley Cyrus style transition, but I'm somewhat hoping it arrives before I get to the serious part of my twenties. I have learnt through the last few years that unfortunately, I am not a slutty party girl. I suppose technically I dance kind of slutty, and I wear shorts so tiny they could be classed as underwear, but a nightclub is no place for ballgown slow-dancing. Though that image does look hilarious. And really, who doesn't love a good dance on a podium?

My 'bad girl' resume would include things like, 'once slapped a guy in the school cafeteria', 'uses swear words more than any other kind of word', 'called a guy a wanker for stepping on her foot as she danced to Taylor Swift', as well as the not-to-be-overlooked: 'once got a black eye from a rounders ball', 'recently smacked the left side of her face with her wardrobe door', 'got laughed at by a bunch of skaters for buying an 800gram box of coco-pops' and 'narrowly avoided getting punched by a girl who wasn't so keen on being called a bitch'.

Pretty badass, yes?
~ Eleanor xo

I'm not a bad person, I just make bad decisions

Before we get off on the wrong foot, I'd like to point out that when I say bad decisions, I'm not talking about cheating on anyone or stabbing random civilians, or you know, throwing up on a police man or anything. My life is not quite as eventful as Grand Theft Auto, sadly.

Statistically speaking (because you know how I like to ensure I have my facts straight before yelling my views across the internet), a good 98.7 per cent of my life choices are abysmal. I mean, it's shocking. Only, I never realise until it's a little too late. Take that time in year ten when I allowed my hairdresser to cut my hair shorter than shoulder length and I ended up refusing to go back to school the next day because I was unable to stop my hysterical tears over how awful it looked. My friends told me it looked "really nice", but everyone knows that it's written into the friendship bible that they tell me it looks good; but truthfully, I'm unsure whether their words were sincere even now. Or that time in December 2011 when I decided to mix up my skincare routine and tried out some new Neutrogena face wipes and then woke up the next day with a melted face. Nope, I'm not even exaggerating. My face was literally melting. And huge. And kind of weird and warpy. Allergic reactions are surprisingly unenjoyable, but it provided my sister with hours of entertainment so at least someone had fun.

They say that the greatest mistake you'll ever make is being too afraid to make one. Which frankly, I find to be total crap. I'm terrified of making mistakes, yet I still seem to make them anyway. Don't even get me started on the summer evening I was in the shower completely unaware that a) the tune I was blissfully belting out was a Will Young classic or b) that the bathroom window was wide open and all the neighbourhood kids heard every single (off-key) word. I haven't mustered the courage to look any of them in the eye since.

I mean, we all know about my candle debacle, and I constantly grimace about how rarely I shave my legs (who has the energy to be sexy all the time?), but mostly, it's my mouth that gets me into the worst trouble. Shocker! I kind of, how can I put this, 'speak first, think way way later'. And in-keeping with this theme, it has come to my attention that my mum has been following my blog for a fair while. Gulp. There's no explaining my way out of my extensive profanity usage or admitting to sharing a bed with boys. Ooops. Does this mean that when I next return home I should anticipate finding my clothes with red 'A's sewn onto them? I'm sure we can all agree that I'm really terrible at making good choices. Or, really good at making terrible choices, if you will - let's try and put a positive spin on this...

Lately though, my bad decisions have revolved around: hanging out with people I shouldn't, expressing my upset towards people I dislike via Facebook, and opening Snapchats from my friends showing me they've just joined the gym, whilst I'm in bed scoffing Cadbury's Chocolate Fingers. It's just one big vicious circle, isn't it?

~ Eleanor xo

Fourty long overdue apologies

At nineteen years old (yes, really, I'm that many years old - I know you had no idea because I never talk about it...), I have racked up a worryingly large amount of regrets. From buying flared jeans in the peak of my childhood, to becoming addicted to the Sims 2 and butchering my family's laptop in the process, my repertoire is overflowing with "oh good God" moments. But let's be honest, what life is complete without a healthy dose of regret with a side order of self-hatred? We all need things that keep us up at night, that we can over-think while staring out of a car window with one of Adele's songs blaring through our headphones, and that really do warrant a dramatic re-enactment of our favourite rom-com break-up scene.

So I've been thinking, what am I sorry for? After much careful consideration and general "why the hell did I even do that? Eleanor you are a total twat", I have compiled a list of fourty incidents I feel I need to apologise to the world for (because face-to-face apologies are so two-thousand-and-late). And if you're reading the list and think a certain point is about you, well, it probably isn't - don't be so cocky. Ha, no I'm joking, it most likely is.

So without further ado: a bucket full of soz for (being the worst human being ever) and...

1. I am sorry that I can't pay my rent by myself
2. I am sorry that I have no self control when I'm in Zara
3. I am sorry for the times you haven't been able to check your email because I've been streaming crappy American television shows
4. I am sorry for fantasizing about pushing you down the stairs after I learnt that you'd eaten my Nutella without asking. *twitches*
5. I am sorry for accidentally setting that oven glove on fire
6. I am sorry for not texting you my whereabouts and causing you to think I had crashed my car and was in a ditch
7. I am sorry for telling you to "fuck off" on the one night of the year I should've done the exact opposite
8. I am sorry for all the times I've broken the shower. I've lost count of how many times it is now...
9. I am sorry that I use 'swag' as an adjective
10. I am sorry I let you pass out on the floor... whilst I fell asleep in your bed
11. I am sorry I laughed at your misfortune. But hey, karma's a bitch and so am I.
12. I am sorry for constantly borrowing your DVDs without asking
13. I am sorry I always fish for compliments. And I'm even more sorry that you've figured out that I do that.
14. I am sorry that I turn into Miley Cyrus when I'm drunk. And that my tongue has a mind of its own in pictures.
15. I am sorry for spilling the liquid soap in your bathroom. And for only now telling you.
16. I am sorry for smashing one of your plant pots with my car
17. I am sorry for crying for fucking hours and covering you (and everything you own) in mascara. That was so not cool and I deeply regret it.
18. I am sorry I enjoyed your sexting scandal. You did kind of deserve it though. Soz.
19. I am sorry for starting that fight about your ex. And that it lasted three days. I understand your side now.
20. I am sorry I tripped on my pajamas and ended up breaking your textiles coursework
21. I am sorry for breaking your heart after you spent £40 on sending me a bouquet of flowers on Valentines Day. And that you stopped talking to me a year later. Prick.
22. I am sorry for always being late
23. I am sorry for being "a tiny bit over-dramatic"
24. I am sorry that you're all so jealous of me. But I can't help it that I'm popular. Wait, no, that's a line from 'Mean Girls'.
25. I am sorry for getting a nose bleed while we were making out
26. I am sorry for getting rib pain while we were making out. Multiple times.
27. I am sorry that both of those things happened on the same weekend
28. I am sorry that my handwriting is worse than that of a 5 year old child
29. I am sorry for almost running a red light on my way to see you... I'm just generally sorry that I am such an abysmal driver.
30. I am sorry for swearing so fucking much... Ah, man.
31. I am sorry for not always texting back (or replying to snapchats) and being unable to control my use of emojis
32. I am sorry that my appalling taste in music affected you so much
33. I am sorry for always stealing the duvet
34. I am sorry for asking if you would "like me for dessert" whilst we were in a crowded restaurant... and for being unable to keep a straight face as I did so
35. I am sorry that near enough all my clothing has a chocolate stain on it
36. I am sorry I played bejeweled while we were in bed. And that you fell asleep because of it. (I got a high score though, so all was not lost!)
37. I am sorry for always shooting down all the nice things you say to me. I get nervous, ok!
38. I am sorry I still fantasize about one day getting my own break-up scene like the one in 'A Cinderella Story'. But it is so freaking dramatic.
39. I am sorry that I am so pessimistic about everything. "The glass is always completely full of tears".
40. And most importantly, I am sorry that I took a break whilst writing this post to stand on my bed and mime along to 'Let it Go' by Demi Lovato. And that I consequently almost fell off and broke my neck with the force of my air grabs.

So, can you forgive me?

~ Eleanor xo

The realisation that I shouldn't be left alone

I came up with this post idea whilst mustering all the strength in my five foot seven inch body in an attempt to reach the pack of Cadbury's chocolate fingers perched precariously on the edge of my desk - whilst still lying face down on my bed. I had an epiphany of sorts, a kind of "Eleanor, look at yourself. Look at your life, what on earth are you doing? And more importantly, why are you wearing Christmas socks in January!?" experience. I did manage to retrieve the box, but I'm really not flexible enough for all this stretching - I definitely think I just sprained some kind of ligament in my rib-area. You can tell I was a truly gifted biology student.

Ok, so now that I've consumed at least fifty per cent of the just opened box of chocolates, we can begin. Currently, you're all up to speed on how, at nineteen, I'm already certain that my career is failing. But today, my majestic chums, I am unsure whether I'll be able to survive long enough to even see my twentieth birthday. Why exactly? Because, to put it mildly, I am a tiny defenseless naive kitten with very little knowledge about anything.

To put this truly surprising revelation into perspective, earlier this week I found myself in an unforeseen predicament. Long story short, I spent a good ten minutes with my arm hanging out of a window, grasping a smoldering candle. Why, you ask? Because, earlier that day I'd taken a leap of faith and decided that I was responsible enough to buy and look after a Yankee Candle (here is an instagram image posted only hours before the harrowing event). Whilst burning, the candle fills the air with the scent of 'fluffy towels', which is most satisfying, only, when you blow it out, it emits more smoke than that of a nightclub smoke machine. Naturally, this threw me into a complete panic because my bedroom has its own smoke detector and I knew I had only a matter of minutes to get this situation under control... so I swept everything off my windowsill, threw open the window and with wet wax sloshing all over the place, thrust the jar into the night air. So smooth.  

Once I finally realised how incredibly ridiculous this entire situation was (I was still holding the candle outside at this point), I whispered down the phone to my boyfriend, "please don't ever let me live alone". As I described my predicament, and how utterly laughable it was, he replied with, "Oh god, who gave a candle to the pyromaniac?" And he's right, of course. I am a true fire risk. And then some.

Other evidence I shouldn't live alone:
1. I almost set my Halls kitchen on fire whilst cooking sausages last year
2. When the batteries in my toothbrush ran out, I had to brush my teeth without them for several weeks because I kept forgetting to buy more. (The same happened with my TV remote).
3. Generally, I can't cook. I just can't. And I don't think it's a good idea to live on a student diet for the rest of my life...
4. Not that good with a washing machine. I know that if you put a red sock in with your white clothes, bad things happen - I learnt that from a Simpsons episode.
5. I constantly lose my keys. Which are pretty important... And nobody wants to have a locksmith on their speed-dial, do they?
6. I'm not very good with money. Currently, my dad helps me keep track of my (dwindling) finances, but when I have a mortgage to pay, I have a feeling I'll need someone around to cut up my credit card if necessary
7. I AM ALWAYS LATE. It's not my fault, I swear! If I'm going somewhere with someone else, I am punctual, but without them, your guess is as good as mine (once, I turned up 50 minutes late...ooops)
8. When the light bulb in my university bedroom blew, I had to illuminate my life with fairy lights for weeks before my dad gave me new light bulbs and carefully instructed me on how to change them myself. He made sure to remind me to check the light switch was off before touching anything. Thank god.
9. I have absolutely no idea how to make tea. My mum keeps trying to teach me but it's yet to stick...

Sadly (and worryingly), there are so many more reasons as to why it's borderline dangerous for me to be alone. You never know what you'll find if you leave me unsupervised; I could paint a mural on the wall in your living room, or I could burn it to the ground whilst trying to make pancakes. But as I've often pointed out, that's half my charm...

~ Eleanor xo

{This post is dedicated to a dear member of my family who sadly passed away on Monday; you are forever in my heart, and I will miss you greatly}

Why I'm fairly sure my career will never take off

Now, I know you all believe that I am practically the human embodiment of perfection, but today I found myself wondering if this really is the case. When an uber-hipster with a loud shirt gives a presentation on his experience of the world of work and how he got to where he is (one sexually provocative banned Panasonic advert and, i'm presuming, an entire wardrobe stocked with geometrically colourful clothes), you can't help but question everything about yourself. He kindly informed us all that when employers are looking at you, they don't care for degrees or skillsets, they care about who you are as a person and, wait for it, your hobbies and interests. Ummm.

Hobbies and interests. HOBBIES AND INTERESTS?! I have no hobbies or interests. Actually, that's not true, some 'interests' that come to mind include: tweeting my embarrassing moments, eating my own body weight in Cadbury's Chocolate Fingers, wearing socks with holes in them, playing bejeweled, live-streaming Pretty Little Liars at 1am, being charmingly modest and providing ongoing comic relief for my friends, instagramming every restaurant meal before I consume it, impersonating Taylor Swift, wasting my student loan at Starbucks, getting snapchats labelled 'spawn of satan' from my sister after staying out all night without telling anyone, tripping over things, swearing (I really need to stop that), having nervous breakdowns about my future, getting blisters from new shoes, waking up with yesterdays make-up smeared across my face, avoiding physical exercise, and (perhaps most crucially), procrastinating.

So you see, that's all I have to offer the world! I don't cook, I can't ski, I'm not a photographer (like most people claim to be), I've never attempted to fight a great white shark, and disappointingly, I've never had the opportunity to save someones life. I can't even keep a Sim family alive without using cheats anymore! I'm nineteen, this really is not going well. I mean seriously, there are kids out there infiltrating the FBI website and starring in Hollywood movies, yet my greatest achievement of the last few months is managing not to kill my pet cactus. Instead of being out there saving white tigers or freeing slaves, I am sat here, wearing pajamas with owls printed on them and a hooded Hollister sweatshirt that frankly makes me look like a yob (my sister has pointed this out more than once), having what can only be described as a severe existential crisis.

You see, this is why I'll end up curled up in a hole all alone, with one outfit and three pence to my name. Because I am a truly horrendously pathetically boring excuse for a human being and if we're being honest: peeps do not dig that.

Now pretend you and I are out in a rainstorm, picture it as if we're part of a fantastic Hollywood rom-com starring Julia Roberts, it's dark and cold, there are only streetlights and the faint purr of someones Porsche in the distance, and I look up at the sky and begin to yell "tell me, advertising industry people, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, WHO AM I SUPPOSED TO BE?!"

What's the answer? What do you think I am? (besides totally crazy for yelling at the sky, obviously)

~ Eleanor xo

My New Years Resolutions: 2014

It's that time of year again where everyone begins to consider their most annoying traits, habits and unwanted body weight, and attempts to convince themselves that this can be rectified by the chime of a clock. I however, am not very gifted with a) making good resolutions or b) remembering that I made them. It's usually around March time that I suddenly realise I'm supposed to be, in the case of 2010, spending less time online, or like 2007, not talking about people behind their backs (ok, don't judge. We've all been there...)

It's been 52 weeks since fireworks illuminated the London skyline and Big Ben proudly announced it was 2013, and I'm struggling to recall if I actually made any resolutions. If I did, they were probably along the lines of "don't be so over-dramatic" or "stop being so bitchy", which, to put it mildly, didn't quite happen. Still, my main aim was to make 2013 an amazing year, and in hindsight, it really was. I settled into university life, made some amazing new friends, got brilliant grades and found myself in the relationship pool once or twice - muchos exciting.

Cliche as it sounds, and as much as I hate to admit it, I have truly found myself this year. Sure, it's been hella difficult (a technical term) at times, but isn't that half the fun of life? How can you appreciate true happiness if you do not experience sadness? - pretty deep, I know. If you ever find yourself writing an essay on the subject, feel free to quote me if you so wish. 

So what about 2014? Well, this year I'll find myself turning 20 (oh god, how is that possible) and provided I work my arse off, beginning my final year of university. Me, a girl who still laughs at immature sexual jokes and watches High School Musical on a regular basis, an adult? This can only go well...

Eleanor's 2014 Resolutions:
1) Take fewer things for granted 
Like my youthful complexion and tight ass. Ha, no I'm totally kidding. I'm referring to meaningful stuff like people and possessions and feelings and gross stuff like that.
2) Worry less
Never going to happen.
3) Don't focus on your weight or size, just eat well 
So basically, eat fewer biscuits. Again, never going to happen.
4) Mend broken bridges 
Obviously I am not referring to manual labour, I'm being all moving and metaphorically poetic.
5) Save money! 
How impossible!
6) Become more decisive 
Afriend suggested this to me and I think he has a point. Well, he might. I can't decide.

At least with written proof solidified on the internet (and with you, dear reader, as my witness), there is a chance that I may succeed. 'May' being the operative word, obviously. But, here's to the new me!.. Who will hopefully be less annoying than the last one. 

And so to you, my best pal (I'm gonna call you that because I feel like you are), I hope you entered 2014 thoroughly drunk (only if you're over 18, of course; I do not condone underage drinking at all...) and kissed someone at midnight who thinks you're wonderful; or you know, who had a great rack, whichever. 

Good luck in 2014, and as you more than likely pointed out in a Facebook status, this is definitely gonna be your year.

Happy new year!
~ Eleanor xo