...I found Fitz from Scandal and it was mutual love at first Presidential sight. Joke.
...I make dolllaaarrrr. Joke.
...I'm totally into raw, vegan, Matcha tea kinda food now. Major joke.
I'm stopping the fake reveal now because it's depressing me. The big reveal is that I have written a piece for July issue of ELLE.
It doesn't sound so great now that I have thrown Fitz into the mix. It's also probably not a big reveal for many of you as I have hyperventilated this news to you over the phone and made you promise you will buy a copy. If only there was a self-promote emoji, me and Nick Grimshaw would own that. When this article writing information is entered into the grand scheme of world-defining-moments it is probably pretty insignificant. In fact as I was told last weekend my job is in fact completely obsolete. That boy was NOT allowed to share my tequila. He can go back to saving the world (he is a marine so I will give him that) and I can go back to making 'Romantic Gothic' themed mood boards, and trying to explain how much I want to be a Chloé girl this season and a Givenchy girl next season to Kate and Juliet.
So it transpired that our Deputy Editor read my blog and thought I was pretty lols, so she asked me to write a piece for the magazine. Seeing as I can really only write about myself (because it's all about me, right?) that was the basis for the piece. 2000 words, a couple of edits, some VERY probing questions and a hideously awkward photo shoot later it is ready for the world to see.
I had always dreamt of being published, but I also dreamt of being a professional squash player and that dream tanked. So I wasn't holding this one up on a pedestal. And when I mean I dreamt of being published, I mean I convinced Baz I was going to be the next J K Rowling. But when I realised all my ideas were essentially her ideas that dream tanked too. So when this opportunity came around I couldn't quite believe it. No, really I couldn't. I kept asking 'Are you sure?' 'Yeah but are you sure sure?' Clearly wanted to show off my eloquent grammar.
As the news spread questions like 'Are you a writer?' were asked. Cue pug face and totally mature response like: 'whhhaaattttt. I'm not even a grown up, don't ask such silly questions.' Just for visual reference...
I genuinely believed my writing career peaked in Year 8 when I won the Literature Award for the book I didn't even read. Smashed it. Who actually read those books about the girl that had a moth that followed her around and had NOTHING to do with Northern Lights? Or maybe my literary peak was my very first piece of published work, when I was 6 and I won a poetry competition (I didn't have many friends) for my poem entitled 'Conkers'.
The literary career certainly took a nose dive in GCSEs when I was too busy trying out all of MAC's brightest eyeshadows to read Silas Marner. And even if I did make up for it in the final exam I was essentially doomed for any kind of Nobel Literary Prize when I was predicted a B for my A-Levels. If you have met Baz you know a B is as good as a F. In fact my English teacher had so much faith in my ability that when it came to A-Level results day and I told him that I had superseded his prediction and miraculously got full marks, he told me there must have been some mistake at the examining board. I checked, there wasn't.
Having had my dream of studing English at University dashed thanks to that tarnished B prediction (and thinking Latin was a good backup plan) I took matters into my own hands. I would charge my housemates dinners in exchange for me proof reading/rewriting their essays. Waitrose dinners got extra attention and semi colons. I mean I also translated Latin into English and had to comment on texts that were in a dead language that no one speaks/understands/knows anything other than Caecilius est in horto, but that's as good as an English degree right?
So here we are 58 blog posts and a 4 page spread later. I still don't think that makes me a writer. I think that makes me lucky...and hugely self indulgent. Either way the 6 year old 'Conkers' writer is ridiculoulsy excited and the B predictee is shitting it.
So please all do me a favour: buy the July issue of ELLE (out Thursday), quickly whip over the page of my bulging thighs and (hopefully) enjoy.
(Holding my breath until Thursday) Fatty BB xxx