Diary of a Glitter Splashed Britney Lovin' Lesbo

I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else

Name:Miss Fee


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The Outsider - A Camus

Choke - C Palahnuik


Monday, June 17

I’ve lost my virginity. Don’t get excited, you know as well as I do that this story is not gonna involve The Fee and sex. But, I’m no longer a foam party virgin. After much deliberation about what attire to sport and how much beer to drink at an Ibiza foam party, I headed to OUT with a crowd of hotties in tow (Lil Red, Straight Man A, Beautiful Boy and Babs being the most notable). I had opted for the non safe option of a white zip up jumper and vowed to avoid all things white and sticky (not a hard vow for a lesbian to make thankfully). I didn’t think this was going to be a problem when I waltzed in and saw the pitiful amounts of foamy dribble that would not have looked out of place in 4 days old dish water. I met Big A who was all open for multiple hugs and watching all manners of lesbians kissing. He was with his pained rock star boyfriend who was possibly the cutest thing ever, apart from Big A himself of course. As soon as I stepped into the club I was greeted by tune of the moment, LASGO, so I knew I was in for a good night. And having thrown up already in castors, I had no dicky tummy and spinny eyes to hinder my horrific dancing that was to follow.

It’s a shame that the DJ can mix a song as well as poofs like sniffin’ rug cause he is the most obliging DJ in the history of requests. Everything asked for gets played and cover versions are kept to a minimum (more on that later). I’m shuffling around on the dance floor, minding my own business and the hotties’ next to me when I get wetter than I’ve been possibly in my life. Being totally twatted, my group piled into the heart of foam action, to shape our bubbly Mohawks and form pretend genitals like the mature folks we are. The music got all 1997 dance and that’s when the fun really began. The boobs were out in force. There was way too many a bad bra and ten times more stupid and funny lookin’ boobs that should never be seen. And that was just the poofs. Does foam automatically mean that if you are a girl and you have ridiculous boobs and 1982 bras that you need to whap them out for all to see? At least I had the decency to keep mine away, nobody would have been in for a real treat had those bad boys come out to play. The most cringe worthy part of the night had to be the continual air punching that was carried out by me and my group of normally good dancers and hot friends. I should have been at a rave the way I was carrying on and on more than one occasion I was utterly tempted to invest in 4 glow sticks and shove them in my every orifice to brighten up the unwell lit dance floor. Air punching should be a ‘dance’ move that’s banned from all self respecting clubs. It should come attached to a health warning. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it’s certainly so far from cool that it’s vindaloo hot. I passed out around 4 times as the inhaling of foam became too much for my delicate throat which has been massacred by the cold I have had for 40 days and the fags that I have smoked constantly for the same amount of time. I did indeed have a wonderful night and have promised myself never to return to any party where bubbles get cannoned down your top. We had to walk home at 3 am with tears in our aggravated eyes, breasts on show through our tops and shoes so sodden we left trails to the front door. For the whole of yesterday, people from all walks of life turned up at the front door, itching for a party involving frothy gunk. You’d have been forgiven for mistaking us for whores if you’d seen the state of us, drippin and see through but then at least whores don’t pay others for the privilege of looking like that while we paid a whopping £3 to get moist and sticky. And while the foam may have washed out of my clothes, my shoes will never dry and my face looks not unlike a spattered bog, all pitted and dry and no amount of moisturiser is curing that stuffed crust pizza look.

And so it is my day off, having worked an entire weekend (despite the cheeky snoozes I managed to pull off) I think I well deserve this one. I think I well deserve any day that doesn’t involve actual work or effort.

Eating: The bottom row of my fridge.