The Inanimate Hug

In a cushion sandwich,
Fleshy meat between two buns.
Sluggish and huggish.
Resting in the comfy,
of seam and plush.
The girls,
Satin and Cotton can take my weight.
I nestle in their cleavage,
They wrap around my arms,
holding soft,
my lazed limbs.
Squeezed and pressed upon.
Inanimate yet intimate,
They embrace,
I seek.
Never questions asked,
They obey.
I crease their crevasses,
punch their bumps,
Manhandle their lovehandles.
And they adjust,

Ah the sweet revelry of obedience,
the abusing love of expedience.

A Confession at 22:17


(Drawing courtesy of my Sister – it is a diagram of my current life status.)

So I have realised that lately I have been neglecting my writing duties. Since running off to Canada for a holiday (Ooh la dee dah, yes, yes I know, how unfortunate for me right? Well anyway…) I have been unable to get my head back into writing slog mode. It’s been almost three months since my last blog post… what kind of writer am I? I have been focusing all my attention on applying for jobs that I have put my writing on the back burner, priorities eh?

What kind of woman am I? Why am I seemingly incapable of multitasking? Do other women have this issue or am I defunct? Have I been living in my boyfriend’s clothes a bit too long? Have I become another supermarket drone?

Dear God I hope not.  That is a fate worse than death.

No I think I am just fed up. These past two years I’ve been living at home but it’s just felt like I’m in bits and pieces. One weekend I am a writer, the next a girlfriend or an advisor to a friend or the big sister that needs to comfort the beast (that means sister for those that didn’t know) or I am the party animal who only occasionally remembers how to have fun.  I have been hurling myself from one side of the country to the other, from one pit stop to another and I’ve forgotten how to be whole.

(Ha, wait a minute, that just shows how amazingly multitasked I actually am. Who else but a woman could be all those roles at once? YES I AM NOT GROWING A PENIS! Although… It does look like I am losing what little boobs I already had… *weeps* (I blame that particular dilemma on all the running and exercise I have been doing lately – see folks losing weight isn’t always a great idea. Take heeeeeeeeed!) Lord how many confessions are you going to make today? …. Ok, let’s get back to what I was originally moaning about, shall we?)

I’m fed up of being in the pit stop already. I want to drive, not be under surveillance or testing. I want to be out there on the race track able to compete. I want to be up to standard.

For the past two years I have felt like I have been missing a tyre, a light or a gear. That I’m not up to speed with the people I left University with. They’ve gone shooting off into their careers and I am floundering behind wondering why I’ve stalled.

I’ve realised I am fed up of living 198 miles away from my boyfriend, being unsuccessful and a failure in the eyes of my peers and my annoying cousins. I’m fed up of grieving for the loss of my University years and thinking that those were THE best days of my life – because I really hope they are not, I want there to be better days ahead for me or at least for them to be equally as amazing.

I’m fed up of being pessimistic. I’m fed up of taking the easy road. It’s so easy to slip into the pity pot, it’s so easy to mooch on the sofa and complain about how nothing is going well for me.

I mean, come on, what was I expecting?

I tell you what I was thinking – I was naively under the impression that something good would happen to me as soon as I got back from Canada. I thought that a job would fall into my lap. That it would pack my bags for me, magically transport my ass up to London and move me into a decent flat with my boyfriend.  It’s been nearly two months since I’ve been back and I’ve had one measly interview.

Why do I put my expectations up so high? It’s as if I want to fail, it’s as if I enjoy tripping myself up.

It was never going to happen like that so why am I making myself feel so crummy about the whole thing; it’s not as if I am the only person in the world suffering from the same problem.

How self-centred… get over yourself! Get some bloody positivity inside of you for pity sake. This is why my writing has been in the back seat lately, I’ve been focusing on getting out of Devon so much that I almost forgot my blog existed.  It wasn’t until this weekend that it was pulled back into the front lines.

So, this brings me to why I have written this particular post.

I don’t want to be in bits anymore, and having a pen name is just another piece to deal with.

This other persona of myself is stealing all the good bits that I have done this past year – this blog got me back into writing and has given me confidence. So why let another name take my glory? Why let someone else steal the limelight?

Maybe this is my race track, this is the one I should be focusing on instead and maybe I am the one putting myself in the pit stop? This pen name is holding me back and why?

Because I am too cowardly to put my own name to my writing? LAME. PATHETIC. JUVENILE.

Again what kind of writer am I? Yes it was fun to begin with but now it’s time to grow a pair.

So here it is confession number 6 – I am Hannah Jamieson and this is my blog.

I don’t pretend to think that I am any good but I certainly enjoy what I do. Call me Hannah, call me Alexandra I don’t really care, just in my head it matters that we are one of the same. It’s just one less role deal with.



Now see, wasn’t that easy? Funny thing is only the people who read my blog regularly will probably see this, so I guess it wheedles out the ones who are deserved enough to know my true identity.