#SELFLOVE.
When I saw the call for non-soppy love stories I thought, “fuck yeah I have loads of those”. My recent dating history is about as successful as a campaign by Fred and Rose West to be chairs of their local housing association. But it’s hard to pick between the guy who, on a date in a shite Shoreditch cocktail bar, threatened to take his clothes off if I took too long in the toilet and the guy who told me that gravity is a conspiracy made up by the government. Or there’s the man that said he was moving to China imminently, so wasn’t after anything serious, but still definitely lives in North London with his girlfriend (cheers, Instagram).
Ghosting, breadcrumbing, haunting, kitten-fishing and all kinds of other nonsense words made up to minimise us being weird to each other, I’ve experienced them. But I’m kind of done with laughing at my mishaps. I’m here to talk about self-love. I don’t mean wanking (you dirty bugger) and I don’t mean having a bath, taking a pic of your floating legs and posting it on social media with the caption #selfcare (everyone knows you’re having a wank after).
I’m here to talk about loving yourself. Fuck the nagging voice that says you’re blagging your job and you’re behind in your career anyway. Fuck the feeling that people don’t really want to hang out with you. Fuck looking at carefully-crafted Instagram posts of American pop stars and models in bikinis that make you want to rip the flesh off your thighs and stick enough Botox in your forehead to kill a baby. Fuck comparing yourself to some dick who’s doing well in life but let’s be honest, is a smug prick. Fuck self-doubt. Fuck judging yourself by other’s progress. Fuck the negative internal monologue.
In the words of the great band Idles….”if someone talked to you, the way you do to you, I’d put their teeth through. Love yourself”.
–Louise Davies
