On Storytelling


I want you to tell me a story.

I’m not sure if it needs to be true, or fabricated, or long, or short.

But I want you to tell me a story.

I want you to tell me a story that transports me, that focuses my mind on the characters and the places, on their emotions and their motivations, on what might be coming next.

I want you to bury your head into my hair, kiss up my jaw, as you tell a part that’s particularly enthralling.

I want you to trace patterns with your fingers, and tease me that I’m not focusing on your words.

I want it told in completion, from beginning to end, even if it’s a fantastical fairy tale with a ‘happily ever after’ at the end that you know will make me pull faces and mime gagging.

Because right now I’m being told bits and pieces, with holes and inconsistencies, and I hate every second of it.

The truth will suck. For you, admitting it will be so difficult. But, it needs to happen, doesn’t it?

I need to know. I need to know what is happening in its entirety.

I don’t know how to ask this, I don’t know how to call you out on this.

I’ve asked you questions you don’t want to answer, or answer in full. And you’re so far away I can’t do much when you don’t.

You’ve put me between people, used me as a buffer. I know this and don’t know this. I know things and don’t know things. My head is a swirling mess.

I needed one last thing from you, and I’ve asked for it, and now there’s really nothing left to tie me to you. So now, I could say That’s me done.

I think I need to be done.
I don’t know if that’s fair, or not.

I need this horrible feeling to be gone – of not knowing, of being pulled in the middle, of not understanding, and not having a claim to demand understanding.

Give me peace. Give me answers. Give me something.

I can’t give you my attention. Every moment you get from me takes away from something else, something else that needs my focus so much more.


I’m so, so tired. And I want to be free of this.


So I’ll tell you the story of how two people drove along a highway, in the sunshine, under a bright blue sky.

On The “Why”


If this was a book, I’d be sitting in the cafe, looking forlorn out the window. My sister would be sitting across from me as we sip our green tea, Lana Del Rey singing “Video Games” in the background, as we discuss this latest boy that got away. And she’ll tell me,
“You know, you should write about this.”
But this is not a book, although the cup of tea is real and Lana Del Ray was just playing in this Starbucks.
This is the product of an idea my sister and I came up with about a year ago, and the result of the fifth time I’ve been stood up by as many men in a two and a half week period.
This is the product of a nomadic existence for the past three year years, and the experiments with, for lack of a better word, ‘relationships.’
This is the product of a girl who, in complete, brutal honesty, needs a really good fuck.

Hi, I’m Emma.

Obviously not my real name.
Why Emma? I don’t know. I like it. I like E names. Emma, Erin, Erica, Emily, Emeline, etc.
So, Emma.
For the sake of description when understanding these stories I’ll give you a brief overview.
I’m in my 20s. I’m not perfect, but I work out 5 times a week, so I’m trying, in more ways than one. I care too much about Netflix Marvel shows. I have too many books. Or not enough. Depends on my living situation that month.
No real names will be stated here.
I am under no pretense that these stories will not be understood if the people involved decide to read them, but I think the odds of anyone involved actually reading this are slim to none, so, meh.

This is not a, men all suck. They don’t. A good chunk of this is equal blame on both sides.
This is not a, the online dating world needs to go die. It’s not great, but it’s also embedded itself into our society now. So we kind of have to accept it and move on.
This is not a, OMG, let’s go form a lesbian harem in the woods because we give each other better orgasms (if nothing else this mentality is massively insulting to lesbians.)

This is a, so my dating life has been a clusterfuck, a motherfucking mess, a damn tragedy, and, I felt like writing about it. Because work is boring, and my NaNoWriMo Camp project is stuck. This seemed like a much better use of my time.

If you’re still with me, expect stories of absolutely, mind-blowingly terrible sex, communication that a middle schooler could handle better, and more tea drinking than an average Brit.

So, let’s go.