Tag Archives: break up diaries

When should I stop masturbating over my ex?

Oh hey team, sorry to bother you. Quick question. Won’t take long. Just wanna sense-check something based on my own patterns of behaviour and whether or not they could be considered ‘normal’. Tell me: when should I stop masturbating over my ex?


Getting over a break-up: happiness as performance

I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but I’ve been trying extremely hard not to write anything about my ex-boyfriend lately. Although I wrote a post about endings which I shared with people on Patreon, I didn’t publish that here in public and there’s been only one thing on the break-up diaries tag since the summer. Please dispense medals and cookies accordingly! Then immediately snatch those medals and cookies back, because inevitably I’m about to have some Big Feelings about him in this post! I’m allowing myself a quick burst of emotion for reasons that I won’t fully explain, but which I will try to justify with excuses that sound poetic but are only half the story. Getting over a break-up involves a lot of waffling and emotional incontinence! Strap in!


It’s all cider and fuckparties from here

When I tweet out blog posts I wrote this time last year, I am often struck by the howling sadness that I was pouring out onto these pages at the time. I figured a more balanced view from the future might be helpful, perhaps in the form of a letter to my past self. So one night I got drunk and wrote exactly that. Edited sober, because I’m professional: here’s a message from my future to my past. 

It’s worth noting, Ms GOTN-from-one-year-ago, that you might be sad right now, but it’s not like you’re doomed to misery. It’s important that you understand your life is not over. In fact, come closer, I’ll give you a glimpse of what your future holds. Listen very carefully and quit weeping, mate: it’s all cider and fuckparties from here.


Love is an addiction

Love is an addiction, and I am not good with addiction. I’m writing this post so I do not send a text: it’s that simple. I sit here at my desk, legs crossed on my office chair like I know I really shouldn’t because it’s bad for my back, and I press the buttons on my keyboard that will keep my hands busy so I do not send a text to my ex saying ‘hey, how are you? I was wondering if you fancied hanging out?’ Earlier this evening, I pressed other buttons – on the microwave, to heat up my dinner, so that I wouldn’t send a text. Later, when it’s reasonable enough that an adult might call it a night, I will brush my teeth so I don’t sent that text, go for a pee so I don’t send that text, roll my mattress out onto the floor and take a sleeping pill and have a wank and put on a podcast so I do not send that text. I will do all this extremely mindfully. With the focus and dedication of a powerful woman who will – under absolutely no circumstances – send that fucking text. Love is an addiction, my friends, and I have no willpower.


Because it’s raining

I’m drafting this post at my ex-boyfriend‘s flat. There’s something pleasingly empty about his flat. It’s tiny: his choice. It’s neat and clean and there’s hardly anything in it, besides a fridge full of treat food and drawers full of soft pyjamas and hoodies to which he encourages me to help myself. When I’m here, it feels deliciously like I’m on holiday from the rest of my life.