Hello. I am Kathy B.

I am a human, & what a beautiful, bizarre, turbulent, terrifying, wild, wonderful, fucking extraordinary thing that is. I write about being alive to inspire, entertain, & make myself less insane.

Sunday, 7 February 2016

Five girls on their best first kiss

'We’d been flirting with the idea of falling in love for a while. 
It was a Sunday when our nights collided, and nothing was different about his beer buzzed tongue or my chocolate hair that separated us from any other eighteen year olds. But as happens, we live in a world where ‘we’ are always the exception. And we were. He was cold, distant with most - but cuttingly funny. I was sarcastic and sharp and ate boys for breakfast. We fit. He pulled my small frame into him and kissed me; his fingers ran over the back of my hand while his lips met mine. The second time we kissed for the first time was a Friday. It had been two years since our first kiss and I had just told him I was leaving him. His distance with others had shrivelled with them and grown onto me, and I, aching with sadness, was leaving him. I didn’t want to. Every part of me refused, but he needed to know I would not be one of the people he pushed away. I was the girl who ate boys for breakfast. I watched my words wash over his face. It really is a palpable thing. His heart sunk so loudly I swear I heard it and I, like every other girl, but acting as an exception, gave him a fine and delicate thing– a chance. He paused. He’d been fighting for so long to convince me we were worth too much it took him a while to notice I’d said a small, but sure ‘okay'. He kissed me more deeply than he ever had before. He kissed me through his salty tears and the ache of almost losing me. He kissed me for growing apart and he kissed me to remind me he wanted nothing else. Our first kiss was laced with teenage anticipation and excitement, but it was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the second time he kissed me for the first time.' Anonymous

Sunday, 31 January 2016

The perfect paradox

(*Full image credit to the wonderful Uditha Wickramanayaka*)

. It's pretty full on, right? We busy ourselves from one day to the next, our habitual existence decorated with love and laughter and the romantic possibility of that achievement: that adventure, that job, that relationship milestone, that flat with the #earthporn panoramic seaside views, our triumphant victory over whatever it is that scares the shit out of us. And we dismantle as easily as we decorate: our frustrating, irreparable flaws, the wildly frustrating, irreparable flaws of others, the insecurities we torture ourselves with, the 'OH-EM-GEEEE-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life' monster that crawls from beneath our bed at 2am, the occasional raging, internal fury that bubbles within us when we spill onion soup on the gorgeous, 'bargain hunt!' pin-striped blouse we found in Primark last weekend.

Sunday, 24 January 2016

A lesson from a dying stranger

Twenty minutes.
That's all it took. To know I'd never forget her. To know that her words will dance seductively in my head for years to come, and that perhaps, some of the best, most spontaneous, courageous or ridiculous decisions I'm yet to make will be somewhat part of her legacy. An accidental, precious, damn-fucking-important gift from an almost total stranger.

Sunday, 17 January 2016

Sunday mornings

There's something special about Sunday mornings.

Beautiful, sedate moments of incredible nothingness. Moments during which you're distant from the chaos of living, and can revel, guilt free, in your cosy pit and explore the depths of your wonderful, gritty soul. Moments to escape all that has happened, and all that will. Moments for recharging under a vast, new sky: a dawn of opportunity the same as yesterday and the day before, but a dawn realised. Perfectly, peacefully realised.

Moments for nudity. For feeling. For entangled limbs. For kissing. For laughing. For legs akimbo. For slowness. For wrapping soft duvets around tired skin and transforming into a human burrito. For the spilling of crumbs in crumpled bedsheets. Moments for being.

Your Sunday doesn't see the false promise it makes to your Thursday, nor the gravy stain on your red, knitted jumper. Sunday just sees a glimpse of the morning sun through wispy clouds and fills beating hearts with hope. Because hope is there. Always. We know that on Sundays.

A strange, charming expanse of minutes that feel infinite, where you just lay, giddy and dishevelled as fuck, and simply know that you exist. That this is how you feel. This is what you are. And this is what it is. What a lovely ol' thing it is to be alive. Bacon.

Sunday, 10 January 2016

'Stop being silly', & other things you shouldn't say to people with anxiety

(*Photo credited to the wonderful Jen Smith*)

That's the most simple way I can describe it. Swift, chaotic, stomach-in-throat dissolving. That's what it feels like to suffer with anxiety. That's what it feels like when, out of nowhere, the torturous bastard rears its ugly head when you're about to get on a plane for that epic, soul-changing adventure you've been excited about for months, or when you're at the supermarket, minding your own business, trying to purchase a red onion.

Anxiety. Making fully functional human existence near-damn impossible on a regular basis.
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