girl v. nostalgia

Nostalgia is ‘an ache to return home’; nostos meaning to return home, and algos is ache or pain.

No, for me, nostalgia is an open wound. It is a potent yet addictive emotion. One that we cannot help but pry open when it starts to itch and heal. It reminds you of emotions that are not there anymore, just thoughts of what you think should be, or miss, or desire.

Opening up nostalgia is like rubbing salt in the wound simply for that delicate after taste of relief. You’re addicted to let painful emotions wash over and consume you because basking in nostalgia is often better than reality.

My friend told me that on a recent trip home she had met up with her first boyfriend, despite her currently being in a loving relationship with her long-term boyfriend. She had met the first love at 17 and enjoyed a young love whirlwind romance for a couple of years. And now, she was confused. She didn't understand how she could feel an ache when she saw him, but still love her boyfriend.

She asked me to tell her about my first love, what I felt, whether I ever saw him again. It would explain a lot, I said. But no. I do not wish to prize open any old wounds. Nostalgia removes the bad parts of memory and holds recollection up on a pedestal. It doesn’t remember bruises on your heart or your legs or your mind. It savours only the good parts in a way that aches.

There is no need to dream of fond memories and what if’s. Nostalgia is not about coming home because home is right now in this moment. The memories we hold dearest through nostalgia are simply whispers in the wind rather than reality. Do not rip open wounds to bathe in nostalgia, no matter how addictive. The best thing you have is in front of you. 

girl v. how to fall in love

How to fall in love. Blindly. Without an ounce of foresight. Casually with old friends. Or deeply with strangers. Fall in love with their snarl. Fall in love for life, or just for the night. Fall in love with someone who will make you pinch yourself when you wake up just to check you're still there. Find someone whose touch sends shivers down your spine, whose every whisper leaves you grasping for another word, another breath in their presence. Find someone who is as electric as you. And someone to share electric kisses with. Find them in the supermarket or in the park. Don’t find them in a club. Fall in love with someone whose name quenches your thirst on a hot day. Fall in love with them when they are hungover. Love like a winged cupid painted blind. Love with your mind. Kiss with your eyes open. Fall in love with the city you live in. Fall in love with your life. Someone will fall in love with the way you love. Leap into extremes and jump, jump, jump. Creep with caution and be scared. Be OK with being scared. Fall in love with someone you see everywhere. Or someone you’ve never met. In a sea of normality, let love come charging in. 

girl v. how to get over someone you love

How to get over someone you love. Write about it. Read love poems. Read about lost love and ache that you could never put your emotions so eloquently. Read Sylvia Plath and cry. Listen to Buckley’s Hallelujah. Take a long walk along the coast, or just along the Embankment. Sleep. Sleep in. Sleep for days. Lie in an extravagant fort built by your tired hands after you stayed up late picking out the double entendres from his texts; how a semi-colon meant love and a full stop meant he stopped loving you. Throw a book against a wall. Don’t throw a mug (you’ll regret it). Visit a zoo and say cliché things to yourself, like, at least I’m only a prisoner of my own emotions not a prisoner of four walls. Listen to your friends when they say: “it will be OK,” or that “time heals all wounds”. I mean, it might not and time doesn’t, but just nod anyway. Be grateful that they are there for every time you call them to cry, or sob or want to drink until you wake up with the casual taste of disdain and regret in your mouth. Smile. Breathe deep. Take up yoga and knitting and please, please don’t forget to eat. Go to Selfridges and try on the most ridiculous ball gown you can find. Sleep around. Don’t sleep with anyone. Retrace your memory over the moles on his face that form a triangle across his cheek. Run a marathon, even if it’s just for Breaking Bad. Be nice to a stranger. Call your mum. Be wild. Don’t let yourself degenerate into a machine for making money. You’ll learn more by giving yourself a little freedom. Wake up one day and decide you don’t want to feel like this anymore, or ever again, and then change. Just like that. Replace fear of the unknown with curiosity. Go to a bloody library for once. Educate yourself. Don’t chase him. Work hard. 

girl v. writing

There’s something poisonous about love that I just can’t get enough of. It entered my life a mercenary, a stampede through my heart when I least expected it. I was a lost soul that had sunk into a deep depression, dropped two dress sizes, dropped out of university and fled far away from the promising future I had always worked towards. Then I was smothered by an enchanting satyr and once I was enticed to the other side, once I had tasted love, I just couldn’t waste another day of my life without it. So I followed it. I stalked, vehemently pursued and hunted it down like prey. 

Sexual tension.

Ahhh sexual tension. One of my favourite friends. Making food shopping, friendship and late night meetings with your dissertation supervisor all the more exciting (oh no, that’s just me?)

The best thing about sexual tension is the excruciating build up and wait. Nearly as exciting as the four months run up to Christmas. However, to the guy walking down the street asking me “what was I on”... (a bench) I’m afraid that’s no way to get this chicken roosting. Use some charm, flutter those eyelashes at me and for heaven’s sake please try address me by my name or something other than “girl”.

In a club... When that guy is rubbing his junk all up on your groin let me assure you that it is not sexual tension flowing through your body that you’re feeling. In my experience it’s probably rohypnol. Now the feelings are similar but the results may vary so please try and watch your drinks, ladies.

But on a serious and more politically correct note (I always find rohypnol jokes are often hard to swallow... get it... hmmm) anyway, half of the excitement about attraction and crushes and sexual tension is that build up and anything less than a good couple of weeks just won’t do it for me! I want their touch to bring shivers and their mere thought to force me to bite my lip to stop a smile from spreading across my face!

Take that friend you wait five years of “will they won’t they” and denying that there is any “spark” between you. Five years of girlfriends, boyfriends and setting each other up. Of accidently brushing each others’ hands or “accidently” leaning over the table with your top button wide open and your bust fit to burst. (it wasn’t accidental and it wasn’t successful unfortunately!) That is a case of ultimate sexual tension and the results will be just as good as the wait...

Until you start sleeping with each other more regularly and then you suddenly find yourself in some sort of relationship... And so... you stop taking each other’s calls and build up that sexual tension again for another 5 years.

You see when you have sex it can kind of kill that tension and I end up thinking about whether I have enough ‘Surf’ powder to do my next wash or whether I put the cat out. Well I think it gets killed if after you have your wicked way there are no residual feelings left to keep that sexual tension going. I’m Columbus and I’ve conquered the new world but now I’m a bit bored and kind of miss my lasagne.

So next time you’re leaning over the fruit shelves in Sainsbury’s you could be the next victim of the man across the aisle leering at your melons. But for your sake, I hope not.