You Don’t Know About Me

I was going to write a nicely condensed list of things blog readers who don’t actually get my witty personality in real life might not know. (Cleverly titled “Things You Don’t Know About Me”) Then I decided it’d be much more fun if you left me questions and then I can reply to them in a later blog post, or even a FAQ.

Exciting isn’t it?

No, not terribly.

Today I’m doing every bloggers favourite whinge of “Would anyone notice if I didn’t blog?” and expecting the universe to answer with a resounding and positive “Yes“.



You gotta mouth but you ain’t got guts
That drunken mouth you should keep it shut

You don’t know what it’s been like
Meeting someone like you


Do we ever really know people though? I feel so ostracised, at work, in the street. I could stand for hours letting the rain fall down my face watching everyone else, desperate for that connection, the indescribable one.

It’s a bit like static electricity, hairs on the neck, that kind of connection. I hate small talk and thrive from people who I can get down to the nitty-gritty with. Which could be why I have the ease of talking to complete strangers only when I’ve had a skin-full.


I can and do spend hours researching infamous serial killers, and those dregs of humanity, those which were written off as “mad” or “bad”. I keep thinking about writing to Charles Bronson, and how fascinating all these people are.

Those that have seen the boundaries we all live in, and literally smashed through them, making up their own rules and at times, appearing to not feel the consequences of the heinous crimes they’ve committed.

Maybe infamy is easier to achieve than fame? Maybe the narcissism that is in an artist is in all serial killers?



I don’t even feel like an artist right now. If I think of the image the word artist conjures up in my minds eye, I’m not even close. I feel like my heart has been strung out and left to rot. I am completely convinced that at this point I’m never going to achieve.

Maybe I’m greedy for something, because I’m sure everyone is gonna tell me how I have achieved and “you’ve come so far“. It doesn’t feel like that though, and telling me well done for past accomplishes doesn’t make me feel any better about my position today.

Sometimes you get better support stating what you don’t want to hear.


I wanted to post more organically, to give me space to actually write about what I wanted to write, and I’m trying to hold back from posting 30 times a day, as my thoughts feel so alien and my feelings feel detached.

I go crazy ’cause here isn’t where I wanna be
And satisfaction feels like a distant memory
And I can’t help myself,
All I wanna hear her say is “Are you mine? ”¬†



I’m not adverse to taking risks, I’ve taken some really stupid and dangerous risks in the past, and surprisingly they’ve paid off in the luckiest of ways, and I am terribly unlucky normally. So it’s not that, I’m not someone that goes searching for change, and I hate looking stupid, I’m secretive, believe it or not.

Maybe liking myself is not the start of the journey, it’s the destination.

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Down By The River

Ruin the good moments, it’s all you’re good for, down by the river, down by the water.

The wind is angry today, violently whipping in the trees and taking the rubbish and lifting it high. This is Autumn, a pre-courser to Winter and the world whispers change.



If my soul was 100% when I was born, it must be running at 50%. I used to be so free and easy, leaving bits of myself around carelessly. My hopes, my dreams, my thoughts were taken and warped by those I confided in and adapted for other things. Parts of me were stolen when I laid in a drunken haze, someone else’s bed, someone else’s energies, their space and here was the mess that was Erin Veness filling it up with all her negative aurora.

How many times did I leave parts of me behind? Like mould growing in those who had a tendency to melancholy, I exhausted them, desperately stealing their mind space, that look that became second nature to those who cared, who maybe didn’t understand but could see with their x-ray-spex.

Erin, you’re not going to find absolution there.

Disease of the mind spreading and engulfing myself and those in between, there was me and there was me and neither were truly 100% there.



Just keep kicking until your legs give way.

My life seems to become this quest for all the philosophical questions that no-one can give me a concrete answer to. Reading Camus, Russell et al doesn’t help either. My thoughts struggle to form coherently and I feel like I’m throwing words out there and hoping they come back in a succinct sentence.


No such luck.

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Yes All Women


I’ve always been a supporter of Feminism, even if I haven’t been vocal and declaring myself an out of the closet feminist. I think of the glass ceiling of not just women in art, but women everywhere. I regularly see the hashtag for Yes All Women in my twitter time line. I read blogs by strong, feminist women and men. Emma Watson spoke on Feminism in a relatable way and even inspired at 15 year old boy.

It’s easy to say that this all doesn’t affect me. When reality it does. It dawned on me, that I feel safest walking to and from work, in the dark wearing enough layers to make my gender undeterminable. Nothing about this situation is right.

In the summer, when I was walking to work for a 7am start with the sun rising behind me, shorts and t-shirt, men staring with beady bleary eyes through their windscreens at me, while I crossed the road, while they idled in traffic, and the whole thing made me feel nauseous. The obvious stare at my chest, my legs, I didn’t just feel uncomfortable, I felt disgusted by my body and the aesthetics it has.

Nothing about this situation is right either.

Monday morning I walked to work in the rain and wind, the streetlights flickering, it’s 6:30am and the world is still sleepy. Bundled up in big jacket and bigger boots, no man is staring at me, in fact, the roads seem blissfully empty. My clothing choice dictated by the weather and my transport (or lack of).

It wasn’t until I walked home at 14:30, just after lunch, that I was stared at, made to feel as though I was all of a sudden, public property again.

I’m not alone, yes all women have experiences similar to mine, or sadly, worse. Harrowing stories of rape and sexual abuse, nothing about this is right. There are women out there fighting for contraception and legal terminations without having to resort to bizarre methods, The Two-Finger Test is still a thing happening.

Women are still slut-shaming other women, and pulling out sentences such as “I’m not like the other girls”, Women are calling each other sluts and whores, to appeal who? Using misogyny isn’t helping anyone¬†especially not women. I don’t want to play that game either.

Photo on 2014-09-28 at 13.10 #2

I can play my own part in promoting equal rights, yes all women (#yesallwomen) and He For She (#heforshe). I can support and advocate for women, children, and men that feel hemmed in and ostracised by societies expectations of not just our gender roles, but our life choices too.

And I can walk to work, with my head held high. I am a woman, and I am equal.


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