Thursday, 15 January 2015

I'm ugly and I know it

A few months ago I saw this lady who used to run the play group I went to. She was fairly pleasant to my face though I did think she was acting weird, being very over the top and insincere. I've since found out she was loudly remarking to anyone who would listen "OMG is that what she looks like now / she's so ugly / what a freak" etc. This woman is a sixty-something year-old supposed pillar of the community and devout Christian so it's not very nice of her to talk about any young ladies this way. Plus, it was right before my period, I had a huge pimple, it was just after the first anniversary of my mum's extremely tragic death and understandably I was feeling somewhat fragile anyway. So to find out afterwards that this person was having a laugh over how ugly she thinks I've become is more than a little gutting, it's actually rather heartbreaking. I live in a very small, gossipy village so I can be sure she told everyone exactly how frumpy, old, mad and gross I now look, and that they all had a good laugh about it too. That's exactly what this place is like, no one escapes the gossip mill, not even bereaved orphans. Sometimes there is no way to fight it; you must simply accept that some people think you are too ugly to treat with one iota of human decency. It's a bit silly really - I am so much more than my face, hair, clothes etc. and so probably are you. Appearance is only a shell. The woman who think I am ugly doesn't know the real me; how funny and loyal and kind I am; and if she finds my face to awful to get past, she is probably not someone I would wish to spend any time on. I also think it is very unkind of my friend to a. tell me what was said in the first place and b. that she keeps repeating it almost every time I speak to her. What good did it do to tell me someone thinks my appearance is hideous? I can only conclude that she herself harbours spiteful feelings towards me, though I have no idea why. I have just been very sad and quiet since my mother died and I don't see why anyone would want to torment me with how much they don't like my appearance. All I know is, I have never and would never treat someone's sad, bereaved daughter that way.

Wednesday, 14 January 2015

My most embarrassing school moments

 *This blog post contains very strong language and crude imagery*
Today I had such a laugh reading about people's embarrassing school incidents on Reddit that it made me want to impart my own moments of shame. The only trouble is, the ones I've seen on Reddit and Yahoo are such small fry compared to my own that writing about them is quite, erm, embarrassing in itself. I mean I have dozens and dozens of occurrences to file away in my personal cringe archives, and most of them involve my extremely poor bladder and bowel control. I also embarrass very easily which puts me under an even more intense spotlight of shame. Nevertheless, the following incidents all really happened to me during my school days and I hope you'll be able to ROFLMAO with me because your own moments of shame will fade into obscurity against mine - guaranteed. Tbh it's just nice to be able to have a laugh about it; it certainly makes a change from bitter tears at 4am. Let the cringe begin.

  • Not long after I started secondary school, when I was eleven, I got weird feeling in my stomach in the playground after lunch. I didn't think much of it, but I probably did a while later when it turned to severe diarrhoea - during class. Being a meek child  - very meek - I asked to go to the toilet probably two times when it became apparent an explosion was imminent. To be frank, though I had that awful colicky feeling, nothing much would come out but the freaky feeling in my tummy wouldn't go away. I (stupidly) kept going back to class only to become desperate again after a few minutes but then the teacher started getting pissed off at me and I didn't dare to ask any more. So I...y'know...right there, in my pants. Quite a few times. I wasn't aware of this acronym at the time but: OMG. I thought it would draw more attention to myself to ask to leave the class so I sat tight and pretended all was well. The other pupils began to notice. "Someone's shat themselves!" My face puce, I laughingly agreed and told my besties, "Oh no, I think I trod in dog muck earlier." I remember changing classes at least once in this state. It was much worse in the food ed room because the chairs were hard plastic stools. (Hard stools. Unlike mine. Har har.) God knows what the particularly mean teacher thought when she found liquid faecal matter on one of her stools afterwards. I never asked her. I was very upset when I got home from school that night and my knickers had to be cut off.
  • The secondary school I attended had a lot of very rough, mean boys and that, coupled with normal teenage self-consciousness, led me to get a phobia of reading aloud to the whole class. Despite it being obvious that it was unbearable for me, the teachers seemed to ask me to read to the class more than anyone else - a crude attempt at immersion therapy, p'raps? I think my worst experience with reading out loud was one day in English class: I got in such a state after the first few sentences, and shook so much that I choked. I actually choked, dear reader, in a very audible manner. But being a pleaser I tried to keep going. It was literally the most humiliating thing ever. If YouTube had existed then, it would have been a viral sensation.
  • In another English class, everything was very quiet as we concentrated on what our well respected teacher was saying. I was in a reverie, I'll admit. I thought he said my name, prompting me to answer whatever he was blathering on about. So I piped up loudly, "UM, UM, ERM." Everyone turned and looked at me. Because he hadn't said my name at all, just a word that sounds a lot like it. I am such a bumbling fool, it's amazing I've never been sectioned tbh. Onward we shall cringe.
  • Ah, the long jump of humiliation. Actually I can't remember if it was long or triple jump that I was doing that day. I was good at athletics and they were my faves. I know I had been in a rush to get changed and for some reason hadn't put any shorts on under my PE skirt. Rookie mistake. All I had on underneath was an extremely inadequate* (*baggy and old) pair of knickers which was just daft. Anyway, with lots of other kids watching, I took a run up and did a great jump. But the male teacher, next to where I landed, called it null - I had my foot over the board. That's not what was embarrassing though. It was that my skirt was up, my legs were open, my knickers had shifted to the side and my whole vagina was exposed :O If anyone noticed they didn't say so. 
  •  Having a large pimple on picture day wasn't nice :.( and for some reason they allowed the entire year to crowd around and watch as we were called in alphabetical order for our celluloid humiliation. I was up second and I could hear the taunts as I tried to ACT NORMAL for the camera. "You don't have to look so scared," the photographer announced loudly to the room. Cunt.
  • The Lord only knows why but for some reason they got a judo expert in to give as a PE lesson one afternoon. I so wanted to be like one of the fat girls who had perpetually broken wrists and dodgy knees - they always got to sit the lesson out no questions asked. (The one time I was coming down with severe flu and asked to sit out stupid netball the bitch forced me to do it.) Anyway, so I got forced into this bloody judo lesson. I was that kid who looked like a starved eight-year-old from beginning to end of secondary school and there was this girl, let's call her Fanny, who absolutely hated me because of said physique, my pallid complexion, my posh accent, goody-goodyness and childlike lack of cool. School is nothing if not a brutal character assassination, that's for sure. Fanny was a tall, chunky beast of a girl with a real mean streak - if you would like to see what she looks like now,  shoot me an email. She may have got skinny but I can still see the fat, mean bitch she really is :) So guess who Fanny chose when the judo instructor asked who she would like to fight in the middle of the room with all the other kids encircling? Skinny little me of course. Rather than put a stop to what was an obvious case of bullying the judo TWAT forced me to face Fatty in the ring. I gave it my all but it was pretty much Chihuahua vs pit bull. All the other boys and girls jeered and whooped and taunted as Fanny crushed me against the floor within seconds. I felt upset and humiliated but maybe not as much as the boy who got an infamous boner during his bout.
  • Assembly always made me nervous because I was so afraid I would have to go up on stage in front of the whole school but I always relied on the belief that I was pretty much safe as long as I didn't volunteer for anything. I mean, they can't literally force you, can they? Pfff. I don't think they give a shit how much they violate you quite honestly. So one day I got to assembly a while before my little group of friends which was unusual - they normally got there early and chose us some good seats away from all the horrible boys. This day I got us some seats away from the hoi poloi and it seemed fine, they came and joined me and assembly began. We had one of those idiotic Gideon's bible fundamentalists yammering on and on about whatever boring shit they tried to indoctrinate us with. Suddenly he was saying, "Everyone look under your seats, one of you has got a sticker underneath and you've got to come up here." Fuck me, it couldn't be could it? It just couldn't be. It fucking was. I can admit now I didn't actually check under my seat because frankly I didn't really give a shit who had it. Next the fucker was walking straight to the back of the hall, straight at us, his walking stick pointing right at me. "I've got MS and you've made me come all the way back here," he berated me, like I cared a flying fuck about someone I didn't even know. I could feel my friends turning to look at me, more than six hundred people turning to look at me, my face engorging with blood. I still don't know wtf this pathetic exercise was supposed to prove but he gave me a chocolate bar that my "friends" said rustled loudly throughout the rest of the whole assembly. It took me at almost ten years before I could tell my mum about this because part of me died inside that day. I have hated Gideon's International ever since and I personally hope to see their downfall within my lifetime. 
  • In concurrence with my weak nerves, I startle, or jump, very easily - and not just at loud or sudden noises but lots of other things too, such as suddenly being touched. One day during a science lesson we were being given a demonstartion with everyone crowded round a bench with me near the front when midway one of the bastard boys threw a pen at me and it clipped me round the ear hard. I jumped so badly I nearly fell off the stool. It must have been bad because he actually apologised. Once again I was the butt of the joke. Sucks to be!
  • I had an extremely weak bladder and lol'd til I weed myself on a regular basis. Sometimes I would even wee myself standing at the bus stop and faced a whole day of feeling gross with no way of changing. The first few seconds when the urine is warm doesn't feel too bad but when it's cold and wet, it's just miserable. Buy some Tena Ladys, girl. I often left a little wet patch behind me on the plastic chairs and I was rightfully very self-conscious of standing up at the end of lessons. I must have really stank - I definitely did because just recently I found a note my friend had written me that said "Hi smelly". I didn't see it at the time, luckily, but she was spot on. I must've smelt bloody terrible. It was my friends' fault for making me laugh so much - I haven't done it since I left school purely for the fact that nothing ever makes me laugh like that any more :( 
  • There was a really nasty group of boys in my form group who came from the nearest city. They were already going to clubs by the age of 13 and getting into real criminal mischief. They were already men, essentially. It was quite a shock to find myself having to be in close contact with them, believe me. I was but a scrawny child among ruthless thugs. I suppose it was my pale, skinny appearance and air of vulnerability, but I became a figure of fun to them and every time I saw them - at least twice a day - they would shout abuse at me and intimidate me in a very cruel way. That fat bitch Fanny and her beautiful and perfect BFF Angie, the school hottie, would watch and laugh as these Mean Boys taunted me. What really hurt was that the girl I sat next to wasn't that different to me but they ignored her picked on me relentlessly. I would think, what is it about me that is so different and strange and terrible? One day in particluar I will never forget because suddenly all these boys plus a few from a different form all converged on me, they were all surrounding me shouting abuse and laughing. One came right behind my chair and held my shoulders so I couldn't escape. I'll never forget that feeling, it was absolute humiliation. It was an embarrassing moment because Fanny, Angie, the girl I was sat next to and all the other kids, they didn't do anything. They just sat and watched and probably joined in the laughter. That's what really hurt. Hey, if you want to know what any of those boys are like now, definitely just shoot me an email and I'll tell you their FB! They are just as scary now. I see them in the court list from time to time.
So there's a selection of my most embarrassing school moments. I know that last one is not so funny for me, in fact I had a little tear going over it again. Please tell me what your most embarrassing moment was at school....I would love to know :))

Pat that

So I have made many posts on here before detailing my own epic struggle with acne and tbh it's not easy to find (safe) products that actually do anything to keep the pesky boils at bay. Salicylic acid can be more irritating than a Real Housewives omnibus. Benzoyl peroxide became mysteriously and suspciously unavailable a few years ago. And Roaccutane...well. If inflammatory bowel conditions are your thing, it comes highly recommended. 

But personally I no longer wanted to take the risk of using these toxic chemicals for what is, after all, only a matter of vanity. Tea tree oil might be the safest option but I ended up abandoning it again because it is so itchy and only seems to make things worse. Anyway, time for my tip. It's 100% guarenteed safe and non-irritating as long as you do it correctly. It's basically free, it's supah easy, it's fricking everywhere. 

It's toilet paper. 

Don't scoff, this really works. I know it doesn't sound all that glam like Gwyneth Paltrow's weekly unicorn rainbow dust facial. But just try this for the next week. 

When you get up in the morning, take one unused sheet of Andrex's finest and gently dab away all the oily parts of your face. I know I always look like I've been rubbing bacon grease on my cheeks when I get up,and it's really refreshing to see my skin turn matte as if by magic. Next, wash and moisterise as normal, or whatever you do. Take another sheet of toilet paper and remove the oil again if needs be, then apply your makeup. Wait a few minutes and if it looks shiny already, gently press with a new sheet of paper again. You are now ready to leave the house. Or, in my case, turn on Jeremy Kyle. 

The oil may not show through for a few hours now but by afternoon it probably will. From this point on I pretty much blot my face every time I take a bathroom break. It's extremely easy and convenient to use a sheet of toilette papier after I've washed my hands and it instantly makes my makeup look perfect again. As the day goes on it does start to remove a bit of my foundation but it's perfectly easy to touch it up with it being so matte and clean. I continue blotting this way throughout the day and evening, right up until bedtime when I do it again before I remove my makeup. 

This is one habit that has completely changed the way my skin behaves and looks. My pores aren't exploding, I don't have massive new pimples every day - just the occasional small one - and my face feels much less heavy without all that disgusting grease on it. The simple act of removing the oil makes pores appear instantly smaller, and apparently the sooner you begin doing this, the better your skin will behave as you age and pores get naturally larger. 

If you are posh and toilet paper is a bit non-U in your world, then try a more ladylike tissue paper or even the proper blotting sheets. I like blotting sheets too - the Kleenex ones are the dream - it's just that when you excrete as much oil as I do, it would take about ten packets a week to do the job properly. They probably do a better job of getting rid of the oil but it seems to be a much more effective technique the more frequently you do it. So that's what is so good about toilet paper: it's there for you to use every time you take a time out and it won't cost you a penny. 

My laughter lines always looks extra bad when my skin is at its oiliest and removing the oil really hepls to make them look less pronounced. The only thing I would say is that you must be sure to press very gently with the tissue paper because it can make the skin a bit sore. You don't need to press hard at all; just pat very lightly. Please give it a try and your skin will start to look better within just a few days.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

No but like I need a lawyer stat

God knows how this stunning piece of news escaped my attention but maybe it's because I don't sit here Googling her name every day. The Honey Boo Boo of France, Nabilla Benattia, almost murdered her little flower of a boyf, Thomas Vergara, the other week.


I can't even!!!!1!

Certainly came out of left field.

It is claimed that the almost murder happened when Madbilla and Thomas had a screamer of a row and she kinda maybe definitely stabbed him in the chest till he nearly died of it. Yikes. La grosse salope. I mean who even does that?

Further evidence that French chicks are cray cray and will leave you for dead, fellas. The DM also informs me that Twatbilla was charged last year for spitting at someone who was just doing their job on the train. Not only is she a dog, she's a camel.

Kim Kardashian, Fatbilla's brain-dead idol, may be annoying but at least she doesn't go around phlegming at people and stabbing them through the chest half to death.

And how did Blowbilla handle this PR disaster? With really stupid selfies, duh. Including this sensitively timed lolmovember one. That must make Poor Thomas's family feel really good, right? It wasn't enough that she trapped him in her web to begin with, she then took him to Shiv City, return flight extra.

Of course Flabilla is pleading self-defense but is there ever really a plausible excuse for burying a knife in someone's breast, really?

I admit his off-duty Conchita Wurst look with that little ponytail might drive anyone to the kitchen drawer full of sharp things but yo' gonna pay gurl.

She faces 30 years of hot lesbian shower sex if found guilty and Reality TV purgatory if not. Either way her face won't be leaving the cover of French Bella magazine any time soon.


Friday, 7 November 2014

People with chronic, severe, disgusting coughs

So one of my recent posts described my life-long struggle with Misophonia, the intense hatred of noise. It's difficult to put into words how hard it is to deal with and if I could swap places with a deaf person, I honestly would 90% of the time and I mean that sincerely. 

Anyway, I didn't go into details on several factors of my experience with this horrible disorder that have caused me untold stress.

Now I still live in the family home with my dad and brother. My dad, 67, has been a heavy smoker since he was barely old enough to crawl - because, I can only imagine, his mother was some old whore who never found any time to bother with any of that boring "parenting" stuff. 

Throughout his life he has been the most dedicated smoker and his - and our - fate was surely sealed with some kind soul introduced him to roll-ups. Anyone who says these are somehow better or healthier is an out and out liar. They have wrecked my dad's lungs, body and mind to a murderous degree - although true to the c_nty smoker mentality, he has no idea there is anything wrong with him at all. 

It was around ten years ago that he found rolling up was better than merely lighting up and in that time it's no exaggeration to say my life has been turned into a never-ending nightmare. His tickly little smoker's cough that was unremarkable in its formative years is now a chronic, severe cough - a constant HURK-HURK-HUUUURK that permeates the whole house at least five times a minute, all the while he is here. 

I think it's the loudest, weirdest sound I have ever heard another human make. Fuck you, Golden Virginia. 

At best he might be able to go twenty seconds between sputum removing episodes but that's pushing it. It's like I've been living in a cancer ward for over a decade. 

When he takes a bath is the weirdest, it's like listening to someone projectile vomiting all their internal organs. You can hear it at full volume through the tracing paper thin walls all over the house and it's like "Jesus, is tonight the night to call an ambulance?"

Because presumably it's not going to end well, though I often think it can't get any worse, there must be a limit to the amount of noise one person's throat can make, and boom. The weather gets warmer, it gets worse. Winter comes, it gets worse still. Right now it's like he's got a litre of phlegm in his lungs. 

When the cough started it was dry, unproductive. Nowadays it's all too productive. It's loud, sharp, barking. I know he's going to do it but it still makes me jump out of my skin all day long. It's like my nerves have been wrecked.

When he gets out of bed, which is often (day and night), he does the whole "throwing up" routine for a good ten minutes, then has a fag, chokes on it, gets a bit of phlegm in his throat, the cough goes apeshit, reaches for another fag. Repeat. Hardly the way to live. 

Smokers are by far the worst drug addicts of all, I guess because it takes so long for it to kill them. The heavily addicted ones, I don't think they think about anything but when they can have their next fag.

Sometimes I wonder WTF the neightbours make of all the coughing, not to mention WTF a doctor would say if they could hear it. I imagine most people would feel deep pity for me for having to live with this for so long. 

Quite honestly, it has brought me to breaking point so many times that being in a permament state of high anxiety is my default now, and I can't imagine what I'd think about if I didn't have someone coughing in my face for hours every day. Merely writing a blog post can feel Herculean when you are undergoing sound torture.

It's difficult not to sit there Googling and obsessing over it. When you look at the lung cancer symptoms it's like "if you've had a cough for 2-3 weeks..." and I think, Bitch Please. 2-3 weeks is for pussies - try over 500 weeks. 

Using Google as my doctor's manual I've narrowed it down to:
Chronic bronchitis
Lung cancer

Take your pick, they all sound like tremendous fun. I can just picture my dad say there on an oxygen machine...with a fag in one hand. I just know that image will become reality one day. 

There's not much online for people like me who live with chronic coughers. It's mostly people with work colleagues who cough the shit out of themselves all day long and that must be awful. But there's something about living with it in my home that feels extra unfair and horrible. I wonder why I have to live with this terrible thing, and no one else I know does. It's like my home has been taken away from me and it's all because of tobacco. 

(I didn't want to make this post too depressing, so I didn't even get into what it's like living with the smoke of 50 roll-ups a day.)

If you work or live with an annoying cougher, please feel free to vent all to me in the comment section. Lean on me, babe.

May your weekend be quiet and the air fresh.

Thursday, 16 October 2014

When someone you love marries a foreigner and goes native

In the last few years I have become aware of a strange phenomonen. Actually I knew of it in a different form when my brother worked in a gun shop and his girlfriend fully pretended to love clay pigeon shooting just so she could catch him in her trap (pussy). 

But some gals take it a step further. They go all out to get their man; fully native, even.

This one girl I know - let's call her Ann - is crazy for black dudes. It's probably racist to say bitch got jungle fever, but she's craving big dark donkey dicks like I crave mac'n'cheese. She actually went and lived in Italy for a while when she was about 22 with the soul intent - it became obvious - of hooking up with one of those African refugees who just doggy-paddled across the Med on a shipping crate with ten of their friends. 

Not joking, this actually happened.

I'd love to have been a fly on a palm tree when she paraded past one of those gangs of skanky, idle young Africans you see on Donal MacIntyre exposes. You know the ones that live in encampments made of people's old trousers on some industrial wasteland in an Italian port city? 

In a matter of weeks she'd picked up a Nigerian who was supposedly about 30 but, to put it politely, he had obviously seen a lot of life and must have been pushing 50. He doesn't know exactly because he never had a birth certificate. 

A month after her arrival in the Big Boot they were married - legally bound for all eternity. El oh el oh el.

After a visit home to the Motherland, where the locals had never seen white flesh before, constantly harangued Ann and corn-rowed her hair, they came back here to the UK to live. They are still together eight years later with a growing son who has a name that sounds a lot like Ibrahim - so everyone thinks he's a Muslim. He just had to have an extra special name because he wasn't extra special enough already, haw haw.

The really weird thing in all this is how Ann now behaves. It's like she's had a personality transplant or, should I say, a nationality transplant. She would actually appear to believe she is an African.

She's lived in the same tiny English village as me all her life, is a bumpkin, small-minded, ignorant. God knows where this lust for black men came from, it's all white as snow in these parts. But she obviously feels she was wrongfully displaced from some Nigerian village.

She gets her hair done in an Afro salon even though she's got fine European hair. In her work as a sewing lady she now only uses African fabrics. All her Facebook posts are pictures of jollof rice and plantain. She sends her son to primary school in traditional robes and a turban on non-uniform days. She lives by African proverbs and speaks the way a noble old Nigerian lady might - "My husband presented me with a rose on this day".

Soon I fear she'll be using an umbrella to shield her from the sun and carrying the shopping in on her head.

She gets freaked out when Hubby boils a whole pig's head or nibbles on chicken feet but accepts it and loves it all 'cos it's so darn foreign and cute.

This has all been quite embarrassing to watch from afar - as Scott Mills would put it, I've got goosebumps on my cringe glands. 

Another woman I know, Sharon, is exactly the same only her husband is from RRRoma, as she would say,  so she has had to become totes Italian. All her FB pics are of pasta, she can only accept friend requests from people called Giuseppe and Anna Maria, and she called her son Matteo, which sounds really stupid when you say it with a Wiltshire accent. 

Her speech is littered with Ciao and Grazie and in general she has found a way to exude an amount of faux Latin spirit. 


Similarly my brother, who prefers Eatern European women, now lives happily as a Ukrainian with his wife and two kids, who amazingly somehow escaped being called Artem and Oleksandr.

These three examples all have common traits. Utter deperation to be married to anyone, anyone at all. Such a total insecurity and lack of self-esteem that they have failed to hold onto to their own culture, eschewing it for another that seems foreign and therefore better.

People also seem to fetishise foreigners to a startling degree; perhaps there's something colonial in it.

Look, ladettes and geezers, it is possible to retain your own culture, dignity and sanity when you marry one of those sexy foreigners. Their language, food and everything else is not superior - just different. Get over it and be yourself.

Friday, 5 September 2014

The social anxiety scale

Have you ever tried putting the people in your life in order of how much anxiety they cause you to feel? It can be a worthwhile exercise and even rather fun. 

To begin, think of people you're totally comfortable around, with whom you can be yourself. It might be one or two, or even none. Count these types of people as zero. 

Now move up the scale to the people who freak you out and push that anxiety button the most. These people score a full ten. 

All the other people you know can be rated and fall somewhere in the middle. They might make you a bit nervous, or freak you out but not cause your worst anxiety.

You can add detail for why each person makes you feel a particular way. This can help you to look at your negative thoughts objectively and understand why you see the people at opposite ends of your scale as so different. 

For example, on my scale the people who score a zero are calm, quiet, non-judgmental, undemanding. They also happen to be family members whose unconditional love I can count on. If I mess up, I know they won't reject me.

The tens are all type A personalities who tend to get right in my face and bellow their conversation at me, asking rude questions, making me explain myself and generally making me feel ashamed of myself. 

There is one woman in particular I'm thinking of here, a family friend I am sometimes forced to deal with, who has what might be the world's LOUDEST voice; she always looks right into my face for minutes at a time as she regales one of her lengthy anecdotes. 

It makes me feel utterly uncomfortable and has done since I was a child, but like a lot of these people, the more scared I get the louder and more ridiculously animated she becomes. Sometimes I have literally been cowering at the back of my chair during one of these ordeals. 

I think she knows I'm terrified of her and is desperate to make me like her. Um, awkward?

If I'm honest, I try as hard as possible to avoid her company at all costs which I know is the veryt hing that makes anxiety worse. That's what we're continually told, right? It's just that mine has only ever got more extreme every time I face a trigger situation.

Ok, so I'm still working on ways to feel comfortable around the people I score as tens on my anxiety scale, but I now know I'm happiest around reserved, non-confrontational types who don't make cutting remarks, do sudden things or carry any kind of agenda. 

Give it a try and let me know in the comments what sort of people cause your worst anxiety :))