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May. 1, 2017

So the way to my heart has always been up through my Fallopian Tubes. The majority of women, the normal ones, will go for eyes, lips, booty, a full scrotum ( I don't judge), but for me, I first see a guy and I'm like, what would this dude be like as a Father. Look clearly I have serious daddy issues, but nothing a discredited FreudIan essay or two can't solve so moving on.
Ain't nothing sweeter than a guy who's good with kids. It's like, be still my beating womb right?

See, women, despite assumptions, we are a simple folk. Don't whatsapp other bitches and we cool. But I guess for every action there's an opposite reaction and the smarter the phones get, the dumber their male owners become. Newton predicted this would happen back in the 1600's, but did we listen to Isaac? Nope!!! There they are, fearlessly double tapping UFC Ring Girls pics on Insta when all the while, a solid 5.5 sits right next to them who will (albeit reluctantly) get on her knees and try her damnedest to fulfil to cumpletion (I am genuinely sorry for the that, it was vulgar, but I do love a pun) the odious task when it's that time of the month.

The essence of a successful relationship? Well outside of not being complicit in the new found trending Social Media based affairs, I would say it's the art of pretence. Convincing yourself and each other, that you're perfectly content, and not having a small hernia at the idea that this is it for the next 60 years.

Remember at the start when you were fire and he was gasoline and every night was June 23rd? But someone always gets burned on Bonfire Night, so now ye sleep in separate rooms to not spontaneously combust and to avoid igniting the entire 3 Bedroom Semi.

Now the only time he touches you is when he is reaching across for the remote, and he apologises as this was clearly not intended, but sometimes it's too hard not to graze the drooping bosoms, or extra tire that you earned carrying his offspring.

This is going to sound so pessimistic so look away if you have an emotional button and are without my same dark soul, but I don't think you grow to love someone, I think you love someone and slowly start to lose it. Like when ye stop lying to eachother and realise, who is this person who I allow inside me 2.5 times a month (if it's been a solid run). Suddenly you're unashamed of your unkempt legs, va-j, and possibly  armpits depending on the season.

Like at this point you know each other too well to ignore the fact that it's a game of poker, and the question is, who's going to fold first. Not that his capacity for denial would be measured as a fraction of yours and the outcome being that these unsolicited fancies engendered by solitude come to fruition and suddenly one or both of you is sexting an ex.

Your relationship morphs into a tug of war of passive aggressive words and sugar coated hostility which is why you look weathered, like underpass weathered. But everyone knows passive aggressive is the best way to handle conflict right? God forbid us proud and long suffering Irish people shared our controversial thoughts and admitted to feelings of repression and angst? Right?

Central to our core is this grossly, if not artificially inflated sense of moral integrity, which let's face it, 3 drinks in starts to wain. So whilst one can have thee most noble of intentions to build and sustain a well thought of and respectable family unit, is it only a matter of time before  that shatters beyond repair, because the foundations it was built on were not solid or intended to last?The Fortress was an allusion, and what you had was a Sandcastle.

I'm not trying to get up on my Clydesdale about this whole adulthood malark, because Lord knows I am stumbling through as flukily as the next unmarried 27 year old mother trying to raise a non-homicidal maniac with a socially acceptable IQ, but I just think that if we were all a bit more open and honest about our actual lives as opposed to our beautifully filtered 10second video lives, life would become a lot more doable, life would be real.

So if you just want to go pick up that hint I just dropped, I'm going to go watch three hours of, most likely scripted, reality tv, because it's a Bank Holiday weekend, Rue is talking in her sleep, and it's my only option. I understand that I could go take out the bins and do a load of laundry, but that's nothing that a spritz of Moschino won't keep at bay until tomorrow. 




Apr. 17, 2017

So it's finally over, after 5 years.

It was such an integral relationship for me, I can't really begin to process the thought of life without it.

GIRLS. 6 Seasons. 62 Episodes, of which I have just witnessed the last. Endless life lessons and hours of free therapy. There was something utterly familiar about this coming of age tale.

Not to be too dramatic, but a perturbed state of mind has set in, slightly overcome by violent emotion right now. There has been too many a night of disturbed and unrefreshing slumbers which I can only assume has added to this irrationality, so is motherhood/adulthood after all.

I cried. Hard. As though I had lost something real. These characters and stories and their emotions and all the times they've survived, at times made me survive. These people were family. I knew them. I felt their pain, I celebrated their rare but resounding triumphs. Mid (to late) twenties can be a mu'fucka, navigating a minefield of premature pregnancy tests, alcohol dependency, unmet expectations and wasted potential. A maze of morning after pills, betrayal and blackouts. We're almost out the other side, relatively unscathed and STD free.

But now, all I have are re-runs and the hope of a possible movie, and if so perhaps even a compulsory sequel.

More often than not, Hannah's life has been my life. And we got through it together. Now, my dad didn't finally emerge from the closet mid way through his fifties like Tad Horvath, but the inner turmoil of watching two parents undo everything they had built was the same. She knew.

Two weeks ago, I took half an hour to myself to watch one of the final chapters. Hannah's pregnant. Having gone back and forth through the options, she's going it alone. Admirable. Daunting.

She bumps into Adam, the one she was always supposed to be with. They just got each other, but I guess they self-destructed as all great loves do. Romeo and Juliet, Orpheus and Eurydice, Britney and J.T.

He declares his unwavering passions and pledges to raise her baby and I kid you not, elated does not begin to cover it. I mean, all was right in the world. I know there's Syria but, in this fictional Concrete Jungle, life made sense again and I felt as though I had been wrapped in a gossamer blanket of joy and contentment. Lena, the creator, gave us 20 minutes of that comfort before Adam goes back to his girlfriend, Hannah's best friend. Ex-best friend.

The credits roll.

What just happened? How can this be? It was all so perfect. I had to rewind, several times, to re-watch it. Praise modern day, and Sky for the rewind button because I had to see it four more times to process it. You know like when you run through every play of a break up. Dissecting it to it's core.

Hannah had to let him go. And it was going to be better this way. Painful yes, but better.

I mean, she and I could have run around and destroyed things, as was instinct, but at the end of the day that would have been her and I fulfilling all their expectations of us, and we just wanted to raise our babies and surprise them. I wasn't angry I was sad. Sad for what they thought I was. I mean, they weren't wrong, I had thoughts. I had to fight to be calm. At the end of the day, losing someone is hard, but two birds with one stone, ouch!

She missed them both, as do I.

As crippling as it is initially, it can also be quite refreshing to be reminded that the world is much bigger than you and your benign non-issue. Mathematically it just makes sense for two out of three people to be happy rather than to have zero parties satisfied with an outcome right?

This is the problem with playing games, someone has to lose.

I don't know why it made me feel better all those years ago knowing that someone, who I am also very aware is not real by the way, was going though and surviving the same personal travesty. Don't ask me to reduce it to a science. It just did.

I like to think that I'm a relatively positive person, if the world spontaneously combusts, I'm going to toast some marshmallows so I have to believe that in the grand scheme of things, it's all good.

Maybe your happy ending doesn't even include what you thought you needed to have a happy  ending. If we're being completely honest though, and this is why I said relatively positive, the only legit happy endings I believe to be true are the one's handed out in massage parlours of the Orient but hey, people are better than no people and in a mad world, only the mad are sane.

It's ok to only take the high road as as long as it interacts with the tracks your ex is tied too, because eventually, perhaps after 6 seasons of Girls, you won't want to take them out via freight train anymore. It is possible to reach a stage where you're happy that they are now happy.

Also, while we’re here, a gentle reminder that it’s also totally cool to not be all things to all people. You are permitted to lose your shit from time to time. There is something freeing in the knowledge that it’s impossible for everyone to like us. But just try to reign it in after because you don't want to isolate everyone. Who would you drink wine with, sneer judgingly at reality tv with, (or share these blogs with)? 


Apr. 5, 2017

Hi, I'm Kristian, the editor in chief of this hip, happening, hot mess. I feel like I need to say that, I've been gone for so long.

Nothing like the stability and safety of a 9-5 to stunt your creative growth spurt. There's a divine calm in the knowledge that every Thursday you'll receive a payslip of your weekly winnings. There's a pillowy comfort knowing that you can cover all life's persistent bills and still have a cushion to dabble in a bit of light online shopping and overeating.

When I'm not editing these wisdomess (it's a word okay) essays, I'm either starting/giving up a diet, fixing your first world problems via chat, phone or email on behalf of Mr. Bezos, or momming, let's face it, the cutest fucking kid there ever was.

As far as grown ups go, I'm fairly inconsistent. I can keep a little human alive for 3 years (and counting) but a plant, give me 3 days before it has turned to kindling. I'll Hoover and do laundry everyday for two weeks, and then leave it until I have a carpet of dust and a mountain of dirty socks.

There was a time, a very naive time, that I thought I possessed the wisdom of ten thousand fortune cookies. I was 16 years old and thought a double nagen of Huzzar was thee greatest idea of all time. Sufficed to say, it was not.
Admittedly, at 27 I should probably be a bit more settled but I guess the more lost you are the more there is to discover and that's kind of exciting too. And aren't we all a tad confused? Right?

Maybe I don't even want to be wholly content because the fun is in the search for it! Like, there's no age limit to new experiences is there? It's all relative.
Just because you hit 18 and sit your Leaving Cert doesn't mean you know what career you want to pursue. Reaching 28 doesn't mean you automatically gain a home owners permit and an accompanying house bound pet. Waking up on the dawn of 38 is not a guarantee that you will be happily married with 2.5 kids. 48 isn't the age where you peak as CEO of your own company and pay off the remainder of your mortgage, buy your wife a sweet ride and get a little something something for your bit on the side. 58 can mean you start all over again. Who gives a fuck! There are no rules! I'm so over harbouring guilt for my shortcomings and lack of wedding band and basic good decision making skills.

Side point. Last week, on Mothers Day, I bleached my entire head of black hair thinking the end result would be Kylie Jenner. Again, hugely misinformed. It is not Ronseal, it does not do what it says on the tin. I am now 50 shades of ginger. My point being, if your answer to the previous question was a number under 27, I may have missed the memo.

I'm not going to tell fibs here, but when I first found out I was going to be a mom, I mean as soon as the pee had given a solid blue answer on my fancy overpriced pregnancy test, I had an early onset stroke. I could barely look after myself and you want me to push out a 7 pound foetus and change my ways.

And this is what gets me, somewhere between beer bonging vodka on a J1, and setting up a LinkedIn, we became of an age where by when your friend tells you they're pregnant, your initial reaction isn't, ok I'm with you, what boat are we catching to the UK to fix this? It was okay, and this is what Mother Nature and the Government want! 20 somethings settling down into co-habiting and adjoined bank accounts.

To my surprise, kids are actually easy, it's being an adult that's hard.

Like who else has a minor panic attack 12-23 times a day that a real grown up is going to stop you and realise you're totally pretending and making this up as you go along, consequently revoking your credit card and child, calling up the Magdalenes and tossing you into the Laundries?

What slightly affects my cognitive functions, just a tad, are the overwhelming expectations to not fuck up. Anywhere. Not in work. Not in your relationship. Not in your family circle. Not with your friends. (Not necessarily in that order too by the way)

The one that always seems to suffer, is the relationship. It goes from the honeymoon silky smooth daily sexy time to, sorry babe, the only intercourse that's happening here tonight, is this pizza with my mouth. Nothing except carbs and melted cheese are entering any oroffice of my body ce soir mon cheri. Leave it to a kid who won't sleep alone and a full-time job complete with a brand new 20pounds of blubber to drop kick a sex life into calamity.

Ok pause, at this moment I would just like to take a slight time out to acknowledge how first world this rant is.

And go.

Like even getting to work alone is a full-time job in itself. Waking at the crack of dawn to make some sense of your face, (those bags under your eyes sure as shit aren't vintage Chanel) trying to wake a sleeping Beast from its slumber, and get it clothed without encountering a black eye, (once the most placid and affectionate of toddlers, I now a minefield of emotion in her place)
feeding said sleepy, yet angry Beast whilst prepping lunches, getting it to Creche, having it pried off you by a questionable childcare worker before a 90 minute commute to work for a ten hour shift, just fucking shoot me right in drooping chesticles.

Every cloud has it's rusting silver lining though, my public transport nightmare does allow me the time and space to indulge my thoughts, which is where this evenings broadcast is brought to you from, Platform 2.

I think these days allowing ourselves to rest, to recharge, to take that 25 minutes on the train, to realize self-indulgence isn’t actually self-indulgent at all — is hard for people. But we must. "Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”



Jul. 13, 2016

So the truth is, in life, it's grow or die. And I know what you're thinking. Haven't I grown enough? Haven't I learned enough lessons? Am I not an amazing person right now? Why is my current situation asking me to evolve from the cosy parameters of my comfort zone? Well honey blossom, because if the universe, or Jesus, or Allah or the Lady God in the sky didn't challenge you de temps en temps you would be so fucking bored. Something is always better than nothing. Except herpes, and AIDs. Ok, all diseases, sexual or otherwise.
Challenges. They're good though right? Sorry to start trumping the C card, but without it, I would never have started writing. I wouldn't have gotten involved with the Cork Rose Centre or be going to Belarus with the Adi Roche foundation this year. Overcoming that obstacle gave me balls. Little girly landscaped ones.
That period of time taught me a lot, and I'm still learning.
Worries are like little invasive aliens taking control of our faculties. Appetite. They got it. Sleep. Yup, they have that too. Rationality. Gone. One minute you're sane, and the next your high tailing it to Tesco with his phone and your baby, scrolling frantically (the battery is upsettingly low) through his conversations with girls you don't remember hearing about before this horrific moment.
It's really important to keep things in perspective when you think things can't get any worse. I assure you, they always can.

Stop waiting for people to behave the way you want them to behave. Don't allow their actions reflect on you. They did those things because of themselves, not because of any shortcomings you may think you have. Let go of other people's actions and reactions. Don't force your views on them. Stop trying to convince people of things. They'll eventually figure out what's right for them, what helps them get through the day.
For me, my over thinking and constantly imagining the worst case scenarios is my crutch. It's what makes my day count. If Isis strikes right now, where do I hide? Where do I stash the baby before I throw myself on the grenade? These scenarios are always generally centred around the Islamic State, and Trump. Political warfare just has me and my rationality. A constant narrative of terror. I may drive myself a little crazier but at least this chestnut is prepared. *says the girl who rehearses possible future arguments in the shower*
The world continues to puzzle and astound me with its lack of human empathy and total disregard for decency and diversity. Istanbul. 41 dead. Miami. 51 dead.
The ripple effects of these lost souls have yet to reach our shores, as we continue to allow displaced babies, children, women and men live in squalor in European camps. Fearful of the unknown. Fearful of having to share.
Becoming a mom really shone a light on the hypocrisies of life. We teach our children not to lie, all the while living in a web of them ourselves. We teach them to share while we hold a solemn death grip on our borders.
We retain 5% of what we are told, but 30% of what we see. 75% of what we practise, and 90% of what we pass on to others by demonstration. We could all learn a lesson or too from......
Myanmar (formerly Burma) is on the brink of a dramatic change. After 50 years of dictatorship, women are at the helm. Aung San Suu Kyi, despite 15 years of house arrest (without such necessities as Netflix and Snapchat) has now secured a staggering four government posts including prime minister, after tireless campaigning.
We see a lot of wage disputes in this country. Newly trained Guardai complaining about having to live on 30K a year. Teachers striking. Train drivers. Hello! In Myanmar, after working a 6 day week on a construction site you will bring home $30. Get your shit together people of Eire. Go drive your train. Sitting down, all shift. 35K.
(Female) Garment workers do 12 hour shifts, 6days a week and earn $18 in to-to. Researching them almost has me on the cusp of nudity (almost, the post baby bod is a no show).

You don't get to mope about only being able to record two shows at once on Sky+ when women in India are dropping out of school as soon as Menses dawns and that crimson waterfall flows due to lack of hygiene products and fear of even asking for them. Apologies to any males that felt the weight of that sentence, you will recover in time) If you think it's a taboo subject here, at least if you get a blindsided with an early cycle here, the odds are there's a tampon or sanitary towel in reaching distance. Again, sorry to the guys.
And we won't even begin to discuss the implementation of 'corrective rape' for homosexuality in Jamaica. Have you ever seen Mars Attacks? And the aliens giant brains explode in their helmets when they hear the old ladies music? That's what this issue does to my medium sized brain.

I have high hopes for the future of womankind though. J.K Rowling was turned away with Harry Potter 12 times before someone decided it was worth while.
So, don't forget on the 11th no that you are also worthwhile 😘



Jun. 9, 2016

I tend to jot down notes in my phone, in my daily planner, on receipts, just scribbled on loose A4 pages. Sometimes, these random musings get lost in the abyss of my burnt orange Mr. Mc Queen tote/laptop case/Rues changing bag, only to be rediscovered on a mission for bobby pins months later.


Here are some of the aforementioned doodlings.


#Men are right. Women are not funny. (Wait for it). They are hilarious.


#If you haven’t text them, text them. If they don’t text back, stop texting them. That's harassment.


#The good news is that everything changes. The bad news is that everything changes. So, try to eschew thinking in forevers.


#He held on to his bitterness, I held on to mine, and what ensued was years of passive aggressive torture.


#If you don’t eat melted cheese. Eat the melted cheese.


#The ferocity of his prose held my attention, until it didn’t and I forgot to remember he was waiting for me.


#Try not to spend tomorrow tripping on future fears that may never even exist.Just live in this moment where everything is pretty okay.


#Even on your most ennui-filled days, at least you have drinkable water, pjs that are forgiving in the waist and filters on snapchat.


#Comfort yourself in the knowledge that maybe everyone is just as confused as you are on how they will afford their mortgage whilst maintaining a below average social life.


#Try to constantly emit a hum of truth. I have come to terms with my almost pathological inability to conceal my emotions, and have found contentment in the realization of same.


#Now going through the incessantly painful process (physically, not emotionally) of having the tattoo removed, has forced me to accept the fleeting nature of feelings, and how love, nor the ink we use in an attempt to sustain it, is everlasting.


#He was my panoply of contradictions, meshed with his elemental energy, he held all the power.


#Over this past year, collecting these compositions, making casual reference to vaginas, drooping bosoms and other body parts with the same calm and ease as one would address actual curtains and carpet, my ambition is becoming as big as the past transgressions I choose to divulge.


#With age comes ambivalence.


#I have been a female long enough to recognize gender specific patronization. The nuances were evident.


#We continued to stay out all night, and not give enough fucks.


#As a precocious child I was drilled to follow the rules, even the ones I considered to be arbitrary. I was taught to listen to, and obey my elders (even if they were clearly mistaken, and total assholes).



#I sat there, trying to write something that would make a difference. Stoic and solid. I frequently caught myself dazed.


#Don’t question the crazy. Embrace it.


#What would Lady Gaga do? People always comment on how you look like her, maybe its time to adapt to her thought process. Take a ride on that disco stick. No. Wait. Grow your own.


#Midleton. Is this the place I would grow into the next version of myself.


#I was miserable. So I gained 20pounds and cut off 80% of my hair. Transformation complete. You are now asexual. You are a mushroom.


#Female. 20’s. Lack of compliance. Loves puns. Initiates conversations with people who aren’t there.


#Do you lie to yourself too? Small things like, of course I know what I’m doing. Yes, I can totally keep this baby alive. The scales is clearly malfunctioning right now. I have not put on 70 pounds this pregnancy.


#Men bond over sport and pussy. We insist on connecting on a level of self-deprecation and self-loathing. Ugh, I’m so fat. My pores are huge. Yes. Just like that scene from Mean Girls. I have really bad breath in the morning. Eww.


#Wiping out body shaming would really free up time for things that really matter, par example, how to keep Trump out of the Whitehouse and putting a whole new Aryan race into production.



#What is it, Kristina, Kirsten? And how is that spelled? With a C or a K? Oh it’s fine, put down whatever. It’s all the same.

Having my name pronounced correctly wasn’t high on the list of priorities. I was getting chemo, and there was ISIS.


#All females have two jobs. Their regular, average 9-5, and keeping the V in check. It doesn’t wake up looking like that. It takes a lot of work. Thankfully men are starting to return the favour. You’re no longer holding back their fro when you decide to go down on them.


#Unique pathos


#Existential angst


#The War for Peace. Oxymoron.


#Retaining a friendship is a question of mutual respect. I’m blessed that she came from the same planet I did.


#Is the quest for happiness making us unhappy?


#My biggest fear about my feelings is how other people feel about them.


=You are the light, but I see better in the dark.


#Every step counts getting to where you are. It just takes one to be misplaced to change everything.





What I love about writing, is that one day you can design a puzzle out of words and it will really mean something to you , but when you come back to it, you may not see the same image you had originally intended to create. You can begin to tell a story, but if you don’t like where it’s going, you can change direction. You can’t do that in life. Your decisions have repercussions, some lasting, some inconsequential. You get one chance to be 18, you can one chance to have your first baby. You can only have one first kiss. One last kiss. The dismaying hamster wheel of the 9 to 5 will inevitably come to a halt. And what will you remember?