Advice to my Teenage Self.

I wouldn’t go as far as to call myself an adult, but I definitely know a lot more about life than I did when I was a teenager.  If time travel was a thing, and I had access to it, and it wasn’t dangerous, and going back in time didn’t mess up the future, I would have some solid advice to give my teenage self.

Molly – Stop being so mad at your parents.  You are their second child, their first daughter.  They have no idea what they’re doing.  They might seem like they do, but they don’t.  They’re trying to do their best to raise you better than their parents raised them, and it’s only natural that they fuck up from time to time.  They push you so hard because they want what’s best for you – They want you to have the things they never did.  At the same time, don’t let them make you feel guilty.  You are your own person and you DO NOT have to agree with everything they say.  You can have your own opinions, but for God’s sake, respect theirs too.

Secondly – Be kind.  The people you think are ‘uncool’ or ‘weird’ are just different.  You don’t have to be their best friend, you just need to understand that they have their own shit going on, and you being dismissive or ignorant towards them is not going to help that. Smile, say hello, ask how they are and listen to their answer – You could have more in common than you think.

Third – Be yourself.  Sometimes it’s necessary to change how you act around people (eg. I know you think swearing is natural but people are offended by it.  Reign it in from time to time) but don’t ever pretend to be something you’re not.  Don’t pretend to like a band because some boy you fancy does.  Don’t lie about your age on the internet.

Fourth – Listen in class.  Education is the most important thing you can have.  It will broaden your horizons and make you more acceptant of people.  If you have all the facts, you see both sides of an argument and will stress a lot less over feeling like you need to pick a side.

Fifth – Fuckboys are a thing.  If a particular guy only wants to be with you when you’re at a party and he’s drunk, but won’t answer your texts during the week – He’s a fuckboy.  Respect yourself.  If a guy talks to another girl and admits later it was to make you jealous – He’s a fuckboy.  If a guy makes you feel insecure, instead of helping you attain a positive image of yourself- He’s a fuckboy and only cares about himself.  If a guy pulls you out of bed and drags you down the stairs because he’s mad – Not only is he a fuckboy, but he’s also an abusive cunt.  You do not have to waste your time and energy on boys who treat you like an object.  And if your heart hurts because of a break up – I can 100% guarantee you will feel better about it in six months (providing you draw a line under the relationship)

Sixth – How you look does not define you.  How you act and what you do is what people will remember.  Sure it’s OK to be proud of your appearance, but don’t let it be the centre of your universe.  Stop counting calories.  This will lead not only to issues that you will spend the rest of your life dealing with, but also decisions which will be the biggest regrets of your life.

Seventh – For the love of God, I know you don’t have much money, but please, please, if you’re going to wear leggings, invest in a pair that you can’t see your pants through.

Eighth – Everything’s gonna be OK.

Mental Health, Why I Blog and John Cena.

Thanks to everyone who got in touch on last weeks post.  I expected to get more than three questions, but I guess I was being pretty big headed thinking more people would be interested in my life.  Awh well. There you are confidence – take another punch in the gut.

 If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

If you asked me this when I was aged anywhere between 15 and 20, I would have had a never ending list of physical things I wanted to change.  I wouldn’t be as tall, I’d be thinner, my hair would be longer, my boobs would be bigger, I would have a six pack.  And why?  I wanted to make girls jealous and boys horny.  Although I’m not yet completely at one with accepting my appearance, I realise, it doesn’t matter.  There will always be someone on this earth who finds you ugly.  But also someone who finds you beautiful.

What I would change is my mind.  I’d get rid of the crushing anxiety.  I wish I could be more positive and outgoing.  I wish I didn’t have an eating disorder and body dysmorphia.  I wish my mental health was better, I know then that without trying my physical health would improve too. I wish I was 100% happy and confident all the time – That way, I wouldn’t make bad choices or have this often overwhelming negative image of myself.

What led you to start a blog?

I thought this question would be the easiest to answer, but I’ve been sitting here staring at it for the past 15 minutes wondering where to start.  I began writing a year ago because I wanted to be a vlogger.  If you’re unfamiliar with this term, it’s basically filming your life and sharing it online.  However, I wasn’t ready to face the impending criticism that comes along with vlogging, so I started writing instead.

I wanted to write to vent, to share my story, to appeal to others, to inspire and to entertain.  I wanted people to tell me that everything was going to be OK, because sometimes, I am really not OK.  In turn, I wanted people to feel that their struggle is not their own.  No one’s life is perfect – Sometimes it’s not even good – But fuck it, we can float on together.

I have always adored writing, and honestly – It’s the one thing I think I’m good at.

If you could have a billboard anywhere, what would it say and where would it be?

Thanks to John Cena for sending in this question last week.  I guess the only thing I have to promote is this blog, so it’d probably be a pretty simplistic design advertising MollysBook.  And it would be in an episode of Family Guy or The Simpsons, because that’s the only place where I ever read billboards.

I Need You!

Well butter me up and call me a biscuit, it’s been a whole freaking year since I started old bloggy here.

Seeing as I’ve been providing you all with such hilarious and thought provoking content once a week(ish) for a full 12 months, I wanted to know – Is there anything you’d like to ask me?

So the comment section on this post (and all other posts) is anonymous. You don’t have to be a member of WordPress to comment, so please feel free to ask whatever your heart desires.  If you don’t mind letting me know your name, you can also get in touch via various social media platforms (Facebook, Instagram, Twitter).

This could be a complete flop and/or total nightmare, but I mean it when I say; Ask me anything.  Dirty, clean, embarrassing, controversial, political, ethical, stupid, intellectual… Other various adjectives – I will answer them.

Next week’s blog is up to you.

Why I Don’t Exercise.

Reasons I don’t/can’t/won’t exercise:

• I am lazy as fuck.  There are brief moments in my life where I get all Shia LeBeouf (“JUST DO IT UGHHH”) but mostly, I would really just not “do it” at all.  The more I tell myself to get outside and do something, the less I want to.

• Exercise is hard.  I’ve been to the gym a fair amount of times.  Mostly I just go on the bike or the treadmill, because I know how to work those.  Once, however, my friend dragged me to a Spin class.  It was literally the worst 40 minutes of my life.  If you’ve never been to a Spin class the premise is this – There’s an instructor at the top of the room who has wayyyy too much endorphins floating around their body.  They are pumped.  Veins are popping out everywhere.  He/she is cycling their stationary bike at an inhumane rate, instructing you at the same time.  How are they even breathing, nevermind talking?  After 20 minutes I was busted.  I mean, I couldn’t stand up to do the hilly parts.  Everything in my body was screaming “Jesus Christ Molly, just stop” but I didn’t want to lose face in front of everyone else in the class.  So I endured this torture for another 20 minutes.  I wobbled off the bike pretending to laugh like it was all great fun, but I was seriously struggling to put one foot in front of the other.  Everything hurt.  My lungs, my legs, my face and what was particularly excruciating was my vagina because the seat was made of fucking knives.

• I hate sweating.  I’m not a germ freak and I have good personal hygiene (when I have to leave the house) but I just really hate the feeling of having sticky underarms, underboobs, ass crack and feet.  I put on anti-perspirant deodorant twice a week because I don’t often sweat, but when I forget to use it and I get too hot – It’s monsoon season in pit land.

• I think I look stupid.  There is not one person on this earth who doesn’t care about how they look.  I try to tell myself this every hour of every day, but STILL I can’t step away from the fact that when I run, I look like Phoebe from friends. This has been confirmed when, after getting caught in a rain shower and having to run to the car, Fiancé said; “You run like Phoebe.”

• Gyms are scary. There’s just too many options.  Too many settings.  A lot of people who frequent gyms have said “Just ask for help!  Everyone is really friendly.”  Well I’m sorry, I don’t want to disturb that man staring at himself lifting weights in the mirror and I don’t like talking to strangers.

• It’s fucking expensive.  I know I don’t need all the fancy Nike equipment like clothes and shoes, but I have 100% been sucked into the commercialisation of fitness.  I want the best shoes, the coolest leggings, the most comfortable bra.  It doesn’t matter if I look like old mashed potato when I wear it.  I want it.  Similarly, I would LOVE to hire a personal trainer but I cannot afford to pay someone to cause me physical pain when that money could be spent on groceries and beer.

Having said this.  Exercise does make you feel amazing afterwards and is really good for you.  All it takes is some structure and routine next thing I know I’ll be Tyson.  Someone help me remember this when I’m lying in bed with nothing to do and decide to watch another episode of Masterchef.

 

 

Barney’s Story Time: Mumi’s Adventur

Lst week mumi came home frm work nice and early nd I said hello hello hello plz pet me hello hello hello oh god hello.  then I was rely rely bored so i decided to bark nd bark and bark and wine nd wine and wine till she let me come in bed nd get under the big fluffy sleepy warm thing and I had a snooze nd it was nice.

Heres me bein cute bfor walk

Mumi made food for her face hole and but none for mine.  she says I’m greddy but she is. she always eatin eatin eatin food and gives none to me evn thouh i know she not evn hungry, she just a piggy.  I see it go in her face hole, where does it go?  smells so gud, i’m hungry.  So after tht I wasn’t gonna snooze for her no more and be a good boy cuz why not, i wanna go outside.

Mumi always takes years to leav the human kennel  she has skin but puts on other layers like coat, hat, sock, shoes that I’m not allowed to eat so i just bite them and chew them and ok i do eat them sometimes sorri.

i got too excited when mumi got the lead because then i knew we were definately going to the magical place wer i can run run run and pee pee pee and poo.  i ran away frm her and she shouted so i decided to let her put the lead on my necklace evn though it choke me i dont care WE’RE GOIN TO THE PARK.

we got to the park and hooray I’M FREE so i run away and smell all the things i can see and I make sure those other dogs know this is my park.  the trick is to pee on everything.  even if you have no pee left in your willy, just lift ur leg and pretend, the other animals will think youve done a pee and will know the park is urs.

mumi was talkin into that little black thing that her and daddi have nd always look at, so i decided to run away and hide.  i could hear mumi shouting my name but i didn’t mind because there was still plenty of things to smell and pee on.  when mumi found me after 1 whole hour, she smacked my bum then picked me up and squished me and kissed me on the head and called me a bold boy but then said i was a good boy, so i was happi and she was too maybe.

we walked back to the human kennel when mumi said, oh fuck where are my keys, and we had to go around to the back where the adventur is.   there’s loads and loads of rubish at the back because the men who make banging noise at 8am always throw tiles and bricks and pallets and stuff over the wall becuz they r too lazy to hire a skip.  mumi tried to kick in the red door to our house and she looked sososososo mad.  then she tied my rope to a big hunk of wood and stacked up some rubish and wowwowwow climed up the wall and disapeared over into our yard where i poo!!!

the red door opened and i went into my house, but then i did a little sneak wen mumi was washin the blood off her cut hand, so i ran back outside and more adventur for me, see ya later mumi byeee!

more hrs later after mumi was shoutin shoutin shoutin i decided to come home and mumi was sad but she quished me and kissed me again and we watched tv and i ate a bone and humped a cushon and it was a nice day.

Things That Need to Leave.

Avocados need to leave.  Stop being pretentious, creamy, disgusting mush.  You’re not a substitute for butter, you’re not good with eggs, you feel weird in my mouth, you’re only ever over or under ripe, and you have to go.

Zoos need to leave.  Ever went to a zoo as an adult and felt happy?  Maybe it’s because I’ve been researching veganism (and they’re all pretty mental), but lately, I can’t ever imagine why I ever enjoyed a zoo.  If people think animals don’t have emotions, go to a zoo.  These are creatures in environments that they were never supposed to be in.  And for those who say – ‘They don’t know any better’ – Maybe they don’t, but why does that matter? Zoos need to leave.

Ghosts need to leave.  They need to leave reality.  Ghosts don’t exist.  They exist in movies, but in real life, ghosts are born from over active imaginations and tricks of the eye.  A ghost is not going to visit me and tell me I’m wrong about this.  Buildings are not haunted, the dead don’t leave their spirit behind, a Physic can’t tell your future and angels aren’t watching you.

Donald Trump needs to leave.  That blonde-haired, racist, homophobic, chauvinistic, idiotic, money grabbing, small minded pig of a man not only needs to leave, he needs to get the fuck out.  I’m not interested in his politics or policies, or his self-absorbed idea to “make America great again”, he is a backwards thinking piece of shit that needs to pack up his things and leave.

Money needs to leave.  Money is like the person who comes into your house and doesn’t take off their coat or sit down because they don’t wanna stay too long.  I’ve had enough of it.  I either have loads of it for a second, or none of it for a year, and either way I’m not happy.  The past year I have spent struggling to make it to the end of the month, constantly having to borrow off my fiancé (hehehe that’s the first time I’ve referred to him as fiancé) or my parents, and it makes me feel really scummy.  Yes, I could be better at spending but I really love make-up, drinking and food. Money needs to come in and sit down and leave when I tell  it to.

Decisions need to leave.  I am officially the worst person ever at making a decision.  How am I going to go about planning a wedding?  I’m so afraid of offending someone or someone disagreeing with me, that I’d rather just not try at all.  The one decision I’ve made about the wedding so far?  I’m definitely marrying Gareth.  And there will be no avocados served, no animals exploited, no ghosts, no Donald Trump and no money spent.

 

Just kidding, there is going to be so much money spent.

 

 

Story Time: The Proposal.

The week before last, Gar had been particularly excited about Thursday’s Date Night.  I asked him where we were going, and he said he didn’t know, but he’d sort it out and make it a big surprise.

Thursday rolled by.  I wasn’t overly looking forward to it.  My brother, Harry and his girlfriend were up in Belfast and there was a chance that they were crashing at our house.  Gareth and Harry have always gotten along, so I was surprised when Gar turned his nose up at the idea of putting him up.  Harry had let me know early on Thursday morning that they wouldn’t be staying.  Gareth seemed relieved.

I was asleep most of Thursday (during the day).  It had been a long week in work.  Gareth was up pretty early – He said he had to go down home to Rostrevor for an important letter, and that he was taking Barney to my parents’ house so we could have a nice peaceful Date Night without a dog in the background chasing his tail or whining to get out.  This was strange – first of all I would usually ask my parents could Barney stay, and secondly, Gareth had never been to my house without me.  I concluded that he wanted me to get as much sleep as possible so that I wasn’t grumpy for Date Night.

He came back around 5PM.  I begrudgingly got up and had a shower.  He was in a good mood – Although this wasn’t out of the ordinary, in hindsight he definitely had a spring in his step.  He didn’t get annoyed when I yapped I had nothing to wear, or when I took so long to get ready he had to change the reservation.  I asked him to go to the off-licence (as is customary on Date Night) and he happily skipped out the door.  There’s an off-licence across the road, so naturally I was worried when he came back almost an hour later with two beers and one bottle of Smirnoff Ice (“Gareth, where in the name of God did you go?”).  His excuse was valid and believable – He had went to the speciality craft beer off-licence across town, bumped into one of his homebrew buddies in the shop, and got caught up in beer conversation (which I know can last an eternity).

45 Minutes later we were ready to go.  He made me wait inside while he went out and told the taxi man where we were going.  We took a weird route into city centre and ended up in the beautiful boutique hotel, Malmasion – One of my favourite places in Belfast.  I assumed he had chosen there because the restaurant was fancy and we were close to the Cathedral Quarter so we could go on the rip afterwards.

A friendly waiter greeted us and took us to our table.  He took our drink order – Gareth got a beer and I got a sexually explicit named cocktail – and we flicked through the menu as normal people do.  The friendly waiter came back and took our order, but said something about breakfast in the morning and the 24 hour bar next door.  I assumed he thought we were staying.  I didn’t react, because I thought the bill might be cheaper if he thought we were guests (yeah I’m that kinda person).  Gareth asked; “What was he saying about breakfast?” and I was like “Dunno he’s probably used to saying it to all the guests.”

So here’s where it gets soppy.  Look away now.  Close the page.  Stop reading.  Avert your gaze.

I said, “Thanks for tonight, I really love you.”

He said “Molly.  I love you too.  I love you so much that…  I want you to marry me.” AND WHIPPED OUT A LITTLE BLACK BOX FROM THE DIAMOND STORE LONDON AND SAT IT RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME BETWEEN MY KNIFE AND FORK.

I started to shake.  I must have said “What? Are you being serious?” like 15 times.   I started to cry.  I didn’t want to touch the box, it looked too perfect.  I’ve never felt anything like that level of excited joy.  I will have that image of the little black box on the marble table stuck in my mind for the rest of my life.  What felt like a year later, Gareth leaned across and opened it.  He asked again; “Well say something, will you?” and I found my words and said “Yes of course.”  So he stood up and put it on my finger. Then he put the room key on the table and told me we were staying there that night too.

That day, my mum had left a weird voicemail on my phone Gareth had been at the house and dropped off the dog and just left without saying anything.  Gareth had gone to my house to ask my dad his permission to marry me.  When he had went to the ‘off-licence’, he was actually dropping off a bag of (*rolls eyes* dirty) clothes to the hotel room. He had been planning the whole thing for weeks.  He had had the ring especially made.  I had had no idea.

I’ve never been so happy as I was in that moment.

We’re getting married.

Relationship Problems.

Whether or not you read my blogs regularly, if you know me, you’ll know I love my Boyfriend a lot.  It’s no secret that I  think he’s The One  (I definitely do not ask him once a month when he’s going to pop the question) because he’s my best friend and buys me crisps in the shop.

This being said, sometimes, I want to take a pointy knife and just stab him right in the gut over and over until he’s lying motionless on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

Honestly, these times are few and far between but some of the shit he does just drives me up the fucking wall.

For the purposes of research, I asked him to write something about me which annoyed him, but he didn’t get round to it so you snooze you lose, G.

I’m slightly embarrassed about this one, but it drives me mental when he goes out with his mates and doesn’t text me.  We have had so many arguments about this.  I never thought I would be the girlfriend who was obsessed about her partner’s whereabouts, but why can’t he just say; ‘Yo babe, heading to another pub.’  Or; ‘It’s gonna be a late one!  I’ll text when I’m home!’ Or even; ‘dsngrwiu94 hdrunknkk iloveuzxccc.’ But no.  Nothing.  This is especially worse when I’m in work and have nothing to do.  I know he’s not doing anything sinister – But he’s not thinking of me and that pisses me off.

Another thing which annoys the crap clean out of me is when he does housework.  It’s not him actually cleaning the house, but the way he does it.  I like the house being clean and I appreciate everything he does, but when he’s cleaning, he turns into Grumpy Cunt McGee.  He’ll say he isn’t, but his face says it all.  He’ll do the dishes really loudly, he’ll bang cupboards and doors.  He’ll whack the hoover or mop off the skir
ting.  It doesn’t make me want to help you Gareth, you’re clearly not having fun.

He can never remember where anything is.  Like.  Nothing.  He’ll swear till he’s blue in the face that I had something last, until I find it and he’s like “Oh yeah I did put it there…”

He farts and they SMELL SO BAD.  I know this is natural, and it shouldn’t make me mad, but I get so angry when he farts in bed.  Then wafts the blanket.  Normally in the morning I’ve just got off work so I’m having breakfast/dinner in bed beside him, and it ruins my food experience.

On the other side of the coin, imagine living with someone like me. I rarely do housework. I feel like I deserve a medal if I hoover.  In the two years of living with Gareth, I’ve mopped the floor twice.  I get home from work and throw my clothes on the floor.  I leave shoes wherever the fuck I desire. My makeup is all over the floor despite Gareth putting it in boxes. There’s bobby pins everywhere.  I stick my hair on the wall when I shower. I leave dishes everywhere – Even IN bed.  I don’t fold my clothes.  I don’t make the bed.  I don’t wipe the counters.  I don’t pick up dog shit outside.  I need constant attention.  I talk shit about myself. I don’t know how to put on the electric and always leave the heating on.

Despite all these things – and this overrides all the stuff that makes me angry – He’s the best person I’ve ever met and I know he loves me, even if I forget it sometimes.  I know he’s reading this so; Gar, I love you too.

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, and he doesn’t let me squeeze his spots.

My Experience as a Model

Ever dream of standing for long periods of time, freezing, bored, hungry and self conscious?

You should definitely be a model.

I’ve ‘modelled’ on and off for about 6 years now, and the dreams I once had of wearing glamorous clothes and strutting my stuff are all but gone.

My first modelling experience was really exciting.  Probably the best, because I was so naive.  I had been told all of my teenage years that I should look into it, (mostly because I was tall and slim) so I bit the bullet and sent in a photo to a GMTV Fresh Face of Britain competition.  I got an e-mail back within the next to weeks inviting me to come to London because they wanted to see me in person.  You can imagine how amazing that was for a 17 year old.  It seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity, so my parents, despite not being able to afford it, booked my flights and I was off within the next few months.

The day in question was also pretty fun.  It was my first time travelling alone, as well as my first time being in London.  At the venue, there were a lot of girls there.  I was intimidated, but my head was still pretty big for just having been invited.  We were told to wear plain clothes, heels and no makeup. We then were separated into groups of about seven then sent into the judges.  There was lights and cameras, I remember it being fucking roasting, but the rest is a big of a blur.  We were each asked a question, I tried to be as enthusiastic as possible, but looking back they had already decided which one in the group was going through.  I didn’t have to wait long before I found out I wasn’t chosen to go onto the next round.

I had got a bus to Belfast, flown to London, navigated the tube, got three tax

Despite being THIS THIN, I felt like a big Christmas ham.

is before managing to reach the venue, and I had been in the building for about an hour.  It was a bit of a let down.

Over the next few years I was continually told to pursue this line of work.  My confidence
had taken a hit but I was still thought I had a shot.  I lost about 4 stone in six years, thinking that this was the key to being a successful model.  Models are skinny, and if you’re not skinny, you’re not a model.

When I turned 19, I was approached again to take part in a competition.  This was just for a local shopping centre, but for a small time city this had potential to be a big deal.  I volunteered for every event to show my dedication.  I took time off work to take part in various stages of judgement.  Honestly, I was having an amazing time.  I was positive that I was proving myself to be hardworking and professional.  I managed to get down to the final three, only to lose to a rather plain looking girl.  This killed my confidence.  I remember on the night of the final being made to take pictures with the winner, but I really just wanted to go home.  I joked about it and said I didn’t care, but when I got home to bed, I cried myself to sleep.

Since then I’ve done bits a pieces – a photoshoot here, catwalk there, but I’ve never got my hopes up.  Modelling is mostly standing around waiting for something to happen.  You wait while you get your hair or makeup done.  You wait for the photographer to gets the right lighting or lense.  You wait while your pictures are discussed in front of you like you’re not there.  Then you’re thanked and the next girl steps up.

It isn’t all negative.  Over the past couple of years I’ve been working with a talented hairdresser who is amazing at what she does.  I like changing my hair all the time (it’s currently a pretty shade of lilac) so working with Caroline has been mostly positive.  Two years ago we received bronze in the all Ireland Trend Vision awards, and although that feeling was amazing, the whole day backstage had been mind-numbingly boring.  Three dress rehearsals, one meal ALL DAY, and waiting behind the scenes for up to three hours.  Not to mention you’re standing there surrounded by these amazing creatures.  Professional models who ooze confidence and all know each other from previous gigs.

To top it all off, and this isn’t to insult any photographers, I’ve never seen a photo of myself that I actually like.  I can appreciate the photo for how it’s been taken and the skill it takes to create an image, but not once in the past six years have I thought “I look great in that photo.”

I’m not at all ungrateful for the experiences I’ve had.  I’ve met some amazing people and some shitty people.  It has matured me, but made me cynical.  I still have issues with self-worth and body image, but you don’t have to be a model to experience that. I still have this ingrained mantra that I have to be slim, but that’s a separate blog for separate a time.

 

 

To Cut a Long Story Short

I’m only a few days over-due with this post but I wanted to share some trivia (I think – I’ve never been sure what trivia really is) I’ve been slightly obsessed with.  When I discussed these with Boyfriend I got the impression he didn’t appreciate them, so you too might find this post a heap of shit.

This being said, I recently have been enduring some training in work.  Generally, it’s almost fun, because we’re being given free reign to respond to contacts with a more colloquial style.  We can say what we like (minus expletives) because we’re dealing with a different type of customer.  Obviously, I have a lot of experience with this as I’m used to chatting away to myself via old bloggy here.

We’re being guided away from ‘corporate speak’ – Praise Jesus – and encouraged to be conversational.  One of the things that stuck with me on the first day was a question; Why use 15 words when you could use 6?

My Dad could take some advice in this area.  If he’s telling a joke he tells you the beginning, the middle, the family background, the economy, the scenery, the wallpaper, what day of the week it was, why he’s telling the joke, and finally the end.  We laugh out of sympathy, but no one remembers the start of the joke.

So I did some research (Googled)  some six word stories I thought I would share.  The most famous is Ernest Hemingway’s.  I’m going to go ahead and apologise with how morbid this is but it really is the perfect example; “For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn”.

More; “Brought roses home.  Keys didn’t fit”

“They lived happily ever after, separately.”

“Dad called.  DNA back.  He isn’t”

“Thought love must fade, but no.”

*Stares* Get it?

It makes me happy discovering things like this because it reminds me that people can be so clever.  These 6 words are a whole story.  They could be a whole book, but instead they’ve been condensed. I’ve always admired writers, but there’s something else about a body who can tell you a novel in a sentence.  I tried to come up with some myself, but that got embarrassing quickly.  It was like writing a poem, where you try to be clever and creative but you’re just trying to get words to rhyme with ‘Cat’.  Try it yourself, if you’re not rubbish at it you should publish them and make millions.

“My boyfriend came.  But I didn’t”

*Stares* Get it?  They can be funny too.