A Cross Bitch Writes An Acrostic
No comments
Tag Archives: feminism
Dear Whoever – Read Some Self-Help Here.
It’s Self-Help, J-Ro style.
Fuck kale. Fuck Fitspo. Fuck falsehood. Fuck Snapchat glam-shots. Everything ‘outside’ is fake. Enjoy it, but don’t believe any of it for a second. Dip your toe in and out, go for a full-on swim, but don’t let yourself drown in it.
Share This Post!
Ask J-Ro: When To Quit
Hi Jen! I was just wondering is there a limit to how many times one can ask the same boy out and get rejected each time? I have asked the same boy for caffeine or alcohol based beverages three times and each time he has essentially declined. From a fellow height challenged beour. XXX
pic by Ken Coleman
Hello Fellow Petite! This one hits fairly close to home, so this advice is as much for me as it is for you, so we’re in this together. I’m going to be brutally honest here – stop in the name of sanity. Once was enough. I speak as someone who has been there, done that, and ruined the friendship. You’re verging into self-harm territory if you go back there again.
If you think he’s giving you signals that he wants more, he’s more than likely just enjoying the flirty banter with someone safe; and who is safer to flirt with than somebody who has asked you out? Doesn’t mean it’s right though, but it does happen. Ego is a bit of a bastard really.
On the plus side, after three times getting flat-out rejected, you now know there is nothing you can possibly do to make him like you that way. So let that lighten the load. He’s just a guy. A nice guy, I’m sure…but just a guy. You got on in the world fabulously before you ever knew he existed, and you’ll live a fantastic life from now on after knowing him too.
Make some headspace for someone to try asking YOU out. You’ve done your bit for forward-thinking women and equality in the dating world by now. Let the fellas shit themselves for once. The ones who DO fancy you will get shit done!
Best of Luck! I’m off to get this entire message tattooed on my own forehead… 🙂
Share This Post!
The Valentine’s Day Rhyme Massacre
(I)
Roses are red
My tampon is too
Guess I got my period
So no sex for you.
(II)
Roses are red
Do violets come next?
I’m not really romantic
So I’ll just send you a sext.
(III)
Roses are corny
Violets are naff
So c’mere and I’ll ride you
All over the gaff.
(IV)
Roses are red
So are my nethers
We’ve caught something nasty
Let’s get checked together!
(v)
Roses are liquid
Time is made of jelly
I love Surrealism
Microwave.
(VI)
Roses are red
You turned me own flat
But I stole some of your hair
So I’ll just clone you from that.
Share This Post!
Love Me Tinder, Love Me True…
An Open Letter to all the Tinder Liars out there
Ah, Tinder. The app that’s helped more women see more unsolicited cocks than a free STI clinic after Fresher’s Week. The app that launched a thousand fake profiles, and a shedload of lying cheating gobshites who don’t know how the app actually works. They don’t seem to realise that when you sign up using your FB profile, it uses that FB profile pic as default. So, if I’m scrolling through this Gallery of Goons and some dude has a selfie where he’s leaning into some young wan’s earhole and sniffing lovingly, no amount of ‘Dat’s my sis in the pic I swear lol” in the tagline underneath is going to stop me giving your profile the Beyoncé treatment:
Look lads, if you’re going to lie, at least TRY and do it well. Put a bit of effort into it. Find the settings button, and get rid of the pics of you carrying your bride in your arms while still in your wedding rigout. I’m also not a fan of you gazing up bleary-eyed into a camera lens holding a freshly-squeezed newborn while you claim it’s your nephew. I’m not Jeremy Kyle love. I don’t have access to ready-made paternity tests, and I’m probably not going to take you at your word.
To all the Headless Torsos:
Unless you’ve just run screaming from the town of Sleepy Hollow, I’m going to have to assume that you actually HAVE a head, and that it’s so hideous even Peter Jackson’s Orcs want to vomit at the sight of it. Either that or you made a pact with Satan, that you could have your ‘rock-hard abs’ and TRX-addicted core conditioning blah-blah-blah but it would cost you everything above your neck. Don’t worry about it, it happens sometimes. OR, and this is more likely, you have a significant other and you’re staying faceless until you’re so close to getting your hole that both you and the lucky gal you landed will both be in equal amounts of trouble. So, there’s that.
To the ‘Straight In, No Messin’ Chancers:
Are you a hunted man? Have you 24 hours to live? Are you shipping out to fight the good fight in the morning and don’t want to die in the field of battle without having seen a naked woman one last time? Is your dick going to turn into a pumpkin after midnight?
If the answer to any of the above is ‘Yes’, then I can just about understand the urgency with which you want to do the No-Pants Dance. (Apart from Pumpkin Dick – get that shit checked out). More than likely, none of these situations are what you are currently dealing with, so surely you can spare a few precious extra sentences in between “Hey cutie lol” and “Pic of ur tits?” You know, just enough to stop making me feel like I’ve accidentally joined a Babestation XX chatroom. Simmer down, Smartphone Casanova.
Think I’m joking? That I’m making this shit up? I wish I was. THIS actually happened:
Well, at least he said ‘Hi’ first…
God. Help. Us. It took him a good twenty minutes of me ripping the ever-living piss out of him (as above) to realise that while I probably DID actually know what he was getting at, I wasn’t in any way into it. You could say he bottomed out. (Sorry). What an asshole. (I’ll stop now).
To The Guys Who Think I’m Psychic Fucking Sally:
Five pictures. All of them group photos. Most of them badly taken holiday snaps from your last fortnight-long piss-up in the Costa Del Ballsack or wherever the fuck. A minimum of eleven sunburnt glassy-eyed twatbadgers staring back at me, yet I’m expected to just KNOW which one you are. Or, I could employ a mind-bending mathematical process of elimination that would give Sherlock Holmes a brain-boner.
Fuck off.
Any ladies reading this and are faced with the same dilemma over and over again on Tinder, I have a simple rule, and it’s never let me down yet. It saves you the hassle of trying to work out which of the boyos you’re dealing with. Here it is:
IT’S NEVER THE CUTE ONE.
Stick with that, and you’ll never be disappointed.
Side note: (I know women of Tinder are just as insane, but I’m straight, so I can only speak about the men. Let someone else talk about the crazy lying ladies, and I’ll read that. Anyway, I’ll carry on.)
And finally…
To The Shady Men of Tinder:
If you can’t be honest and happy enough to put up at least one pic of YOUR OWN FACE on a dating site – why in all of the Land of Fuck are you on it in the first place? If you can’t portray yourself as unattached, not surrounded by fourteen drunken eejits in football shirts and sombreros, with all of your features showing – you know, like a confident, single, grown-ass man – then all you’re destined for on Tinder is the dark, lonely, bottom left-hand corner of any smart girl’s Smartphone.
NEXT….
