I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else
Before I come to tell you anything else about yesterday I have a story that really must be recounted first. Beautiful Boy phones me last night: BB “ Fee, have you heard from Luscious L?” Fee “Well he did call me on Saturday night around 4am but I ignored it. Why?” BB “Oh my god you so should have answered that phone call”. Ok so here I start to panic and have images of Luscious L getting queer bashed and calling me to plead for help and I’m ignoring his call in favour of sleep. I start to feel guilty until I realise that BB isn’t crying down the phone, he is in fact laughing like a maniac and trying to explain the story behind Luscious L’s early morning phone call. Now, for anyone who knows Luscious L, this is hilarious, if you don’t I will try and build up a picture for you. So, Luscious L goes to his home in a rough part of the city, walking and drunk and very gay. He arrives at his tenement to discover that he has the wrong key. Not seeing the problem with forcing his own door he hurls his full body weight against the door, repeatedly, over and over. He’s still at it, shoulder bruised and face all sweaty when he hears the sirens. And still he continues with the determination of a lesbian forcing tongue down a straight girl and the police are there. Living where Luscious L is residing at the moment I’m sure when the police got the call to say there was someone breaking in they were expecting 3 junkies, multiple scars and maybe 4 knives between the 3. And instead, here’s Luscious L, in his full gay glory, battering a door down. Luscious L is stood there, 6ft tall, quite big built, bleached blond hair, with gold puma trainers on, bleached jeans slashed in various places with a knee length tassel belt and a white girlie clutchie swung over his shoulder. Oh to see those policemen’s faces as they scramble out of their car in full riot gear and tear gas at the ready to be faced with Lily Savage. Pure comedy. Who needs a show when Luscious L IS the show? And so they manhandle Luscious L, or maybe that’s just the story he’s telling – rough handled by 3 police men – into the car and the poof is lifted. He’s forced to sit in a cell with infamous junkies till his mummy comes to collect him. Bless his little gay socks, had he of had any on of course.
And so I’m sitting there in a shopping centre waiting for Slains (hangover pub of choice) to open yesterday with Young B, feeling like a skanky ho, minding my own business when I look up and coming toward me at full speed is an accentuated fanny. This bad girl was collosol in it’s triangular shape and I could do nothing but stare at it’s enormity. And then, as though by accident, everywhere we looked all we could see was jumbo muffs. Sunday must be visible fanny day (there were no major lippage however, just a mass of distinguished minge). Ladies as young as 19 who should know better, were walking around showing off the size of their muff. It’s all wrong ladies, I like the element of surprise.
And from here the conversation turned to MILFS (Mother’s I’d Like to Fuck, a fav of mister trashwhore). My favoured MILF of the moment, aside from Queen of Fun’s hottie auntie (sorry!) has to be Lorraine Kelly. I wish I could explain this fascination but really I can’t. Lorraine Kelly is a UK breakfast television presenter who rules my morning, or she would were I to get up at such a ridiculous time. She’s got this posh Scottish accent (yup, they really do exist but are an endangered species) and says things like “thongs are teeerible, they get stuck up the craaack of your booottom”. I’m sorry but anyone who can use the word ‘bottom’ eloquently has my vote any day of the week. She's like over forty, odd hair, strange eyebrows, good boobs adn slightly fit (?). I don't get it.
Here's my MILF of the day
I can’t say I found any other MILFs yesterday, I guess the prospect of finding an Aberdonian one is pretty difficult and I will settle for hottie auntie who’s hotter than a pizza oven.
So myself and Young B hung out drinking tea again in several pubs (is it normal to drink tea in pubs? Even Earl Grey?) with Young B’s imminent 4 hour bus journey looming over our heads like a cloud of turd. We smoked none and drank no alcohol so in effect we are both on detox. Even on Saturday night I did not veer off my detox too severely. With my 4 drinks (and 3 of other people’s drinks) and the total of 5 cigarettes I smoked I think I did rather well. Yesterday there was cheese strings and chips but that aside I am surviving well and my fresh orange juice picked me right up this morning. Anyway, so in the rain, with my now curly hair (curly is not a good look for me) we made off for the bus station to say our goodbyes and good lucks that Young B was not going to vomit with her love for travelling. And I went home with my new Shirley Temple look to cry a river of Buffy tears. I have been warned about watching the last Buffy episode (season 5) to expect a slight sniffle. And so I had put off watching it, till yesterday. I don’t think there has been a time in my life when I have cried so much. Dead Buffy? Hello? And every person that called me afterwards wondered why I was all choked up and miserable, thinking it was slit wrists time or something but no, it was Buffy heartbreak. I need a new, shiny happy obsession.
Listening to: Shakira, the dance mix
I came home yesterday to have my mum moaning at me so in my rebellious non teen state I stormed up stairs slamming everything in sight and yelling abuse about washing and thought I’d add a final touch of cranking the tunes up full blast. Only, all I had to hand was Shakira. It really didn’t have the same effect as Marilyn Manson or something mean and sweary and my mum just laughed as Shakira shook her hips and the floor and the walls. Gutted at my lack of ability to wind my mum up.
4/29/2002 12:12:00 PM
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