A perpetual thrifter, cynic and aspiring writer; she also dabbles in third person narrative and serious bio-writing.
She takes milk and two sugars. And utterly adores these two; Sherlock (Holmes) and Agatha (Christie).
You can view my work at: ELLIEMUNRO.CO.UK - if you're that way inclined, but I shan't pander.
puis-je vous garder?
.. and so we hang, mutually crucified.
Feeling dizzy, I went to lie down in my room for a few minutes. Upon seeing my thick duvet, I surrendered my weight and flopped onto the bed. It was only when my face hit the phallic hardware hiding underneath the sheet that I remembered I hadn’t tidied as well as I’d thought.
It feels like I’ve been dick-whipped by a stallion.
In a bad way.
My underwear may as well be an anklet for all the time it sits there.
I am terrifically pleased with the progress of my eyebrows. I’ve been growing them and everything but my leg hair out for a few weeks. Everything’s coming along just swimmingly.
It is a strange thing,
to smile and nod along with
the lips of liars.
If you love something,
let it go. I love me, so
goodbye. I’m leaving.
soisaystomableisays: The X-Files was filmed in front of a live studio audience.
Here’s the sitch. My period had been AWOL for five months. Nothing to worry about. Mighty irregular. My longest stint was eight months. Fun and games and lots of pissing on sticks. “Just to be sure.” UNTIL.
Three days ago. Boom. Suddenly my legs are the hallways in The Shining, and I can’t stop crying. At everything.
Things I’ve done that are totally not AOK:
Edna suggested I was having a super strong period because I hadn’t had one in forever.
I didn’t know periods were like coupons. I’d been saving this whole time! BLOOD TOKENS. And yet here I am with no Easy-Bake Oven to show for it.
Just three pairs of ruined knickers and an empty tissue box.
I’ve been growing out my pubic hair, to don as a warm coat in winter.
Sitting cross legged, I moved to uncross.
Unbeknownst to me, a lone pube was flap-trapped.
Oh how I screamed.
"Double standard try hard feminism" - Edited, was previously "FUDS" (women).
I’m having a late night tea party for one.
Eight pillow minimum.
There is simply nothing more fine than fresh sheets, especially when it’s your favourite set.
I owe my flexibility in the boudoir to sharing a bed with nine cats.
Heading in for week two of jury duty this morning.
Myself and an elderly gent were the last two on my bus.
He asks, “Where are you off to sweetheart?”
I answer, ”High Court.”
He giggles, “What did you do?” And I laugh, getting ready to leave the bus.
He continues. “What are you in for? Stealing the hearts of men?”.
I smile modestly. “Manslaughter.”
Jury duty outfit. The other thirteen wear black, and one bold lass opts for navy. And there I am, smack dab in the middle. My hips barely fit in the juror’s seats.
I understand that I’m no special snowflake, and that the times I prefer to be alone are perfectly normal. It just seems like those periods are getting longer and longer each time - which does nothing but increase the volume of “Hello????” - “Why are you ignoring me?” messages fired my way. There’s this daunting backlog to assess. And right from the first friendly message up until the fiftieth - it’s overwhelming.
In my head I’m screaming, “REPLY! Let them know you’re alive!”, but the command doesn’t reach my fingertips, and so nothing happens.
It’s like knowing the answer to a question in school and not being able to speak or raise your hand. “Are you ok, Ellie?” Oh! I know this one! And yet, nothing. Not a peep.
I’ve lost my voice and can’t tell my friends I love them until I find it.