That’s a Rap: Part 2

A few months ago- never thought I’d say that, it’s probably a sign that I should quit while my dedication’s still intact- I posted a post about the subliminal misogyny in the music industry, or more specifically, in rap music. You can find that post HERE. I don’t listen to a lot of rap, probably because when I see the names Tyga and Pitbull I think I’m on the RSPCA website not the iTunes charts and exit in a blind panic to go and find Adele’s new album aka real music elsewhere, so last time when I forced myself to listen to and analyse 10 rap tracks for my blog my ears genuinely bled a little bit. But what changed? Well Teamales, it’s rather simple: Fetty Wap. Now I really can’t explain why I feel like every ‘yeahhhh baby’ is addressed to me personally, but I do and this has left my internal struggle at an all-time high because, as those of you familiar with his music will recognise, he’s not the most respectful to the part of the population without penii. Every time one of his songs comes on my emotional confliction is triggered, half of me is all ‘Fetty don’t treat women like that!’ but then the bit that shuts up and dances is like Fetty PLEASE can I be your trap queen. And so because of this, I am motivated enough to write about rap again. But bear with all the stupid rapper names- I can’t pronounce them either.

679 Fetty Wap ft. Monty

Feeling the Liebster Love

Teamales! I’ve missed you- I was totally enjoying college until the part where they tell you you’re failing at English even though English is literaturely (I’m punning through the tears) the only thing you know how to do so half an hour crying, another hour talking through your life choices with some custard creams and an emotional text chat with Saoirse later I am finally glad to be writing for the people that matter again. You crazy kids. Thanks for sticking around, I’m probably way too introverted in my gratitude, but I really really mean it. Thank you for reading my nonsense.

And some people have gone the step further and nominated that nonsense for a Liebster Award! I’ve collected three (bit of a Liebster whore I know), picked my favourite questions and put them in a jumbo jet of post- so I can inflate my ego in one night instead of boring you for three. Firstly, thank you to Sophie the journalism star I met at Heat magazine that seems to have the coolest social life/wardrobe/selfie skills https://sophieellenthomas.wordpress.com/ Kelly who I still can’t believe cut all her hair off for charity(!) https://velvetandvibranium.wordpress.com/ and Peach & Kuma my favourite blogging duo (mainly because there is SO MUCH CAKE on their Instagram) http://theclosetplebeians.com/

Here are some pics of 1D to spice things up a bit

What To Expect When You’re Expecting To Be Found

When it comes to blogging, youtubing (because I like to invent verbs), vlogging and other regretfully Zoella- inspired activities, there is only one outcome: people will find you. And sadly by that I don’t mean international recognition and 2 million followers on Twitter. No, when you start blogging- just like when you join Facebook- all the friends you haven’t seen since 2005 come crawling out the wormholes in the woodwork to judge you and your creation. But mainly just you.

So seeing as most people reading this will be bloggers, except from you Rosie Bayliss who’s just a creepy eco stalker, I thought we could discuss the thing that even the bearers of the biggest blogger vanities fear: being found.

Phase 1: Why is no one following me?

So you’ve picked your domain name, chosen your theme (which will probably be the Sela one let’s be realistic here my fellow WordPressers) and written your first post, written your second post, written your third- it’s then that you realise no one is reading them. This doesn’t mean they’re rubbish pieces of writing, although if it’s in your archives it probably will be, it just means people can’t find you. And in your bewildered naivety, you think this is a bad thing.

Fifty Shades of White Feminism

Firstly, I just want to say, there comes a time in every blogger’s life when they start using photos of their microwave meals for one in their posts because they don’t have the energy to physically get up and take pictures of anything else. I am not an anomaly.

Anyway, I’ve only been there a month and already I’m realising that everyone does college differently- from the library fetishers to the partyholics. The kid I sat with at lunch had decided his college career shall consist of smoking as many joints as he can before his teachers notice his pupils are at least four times bigger than they should be. But for me, I wanted to join a society. Seeing as school only had PE or drama clubs which never favoured my lack of sporting or theatrical talent, I wanted to be part of something that actually involved commitment, somewhere I could dash off to in the middle of an exchange with my new college friends: “Genevieve, Pricilla, Ophelia I’m sorry darlings, I’d love to stay and chat but I have my extracurricular welding class every Thursday and I can’t be late.”