Did anyone ever play ‘Doctors and Nurses’ when they were young? By young I mean under the age of 13… when ‘play’ was innocent and just that: play. If you are into all that uniform jazz these days, then so be it but I don’t think I can handle the visuals of my regular readers in uniform at this time of day if that’s ok??
Last night I dreamt that I was kissing my ‘nurse’ on a water slide while Straight Man A held my other hand. What the hell can that mean?
That dream had me waking up in a sweat and it got me remembering. I partook in a great game of Doctors and Nurses from the ages of about 8-11. It was a torrid affair but it’s fair to say that those were the best years of my life. The game was always the same, there were no boundaries and no limitations of the areas you could prod and with what you could prod them. It involved the ‘doctor’ investigating the ‘nurse, in anyway you wanted. There was always a fight to see who could be the ‘doctor’. What does that say? We preferred to put fingers in someone else’s every crevice than have fingers put in our own crevices. Hmmmm. At the time the girl was my best friend. I don’t even know she liked me that much but I spent a lot of time with her and couldn’t wait for the next time when she’d drop her patterned pants so I could have a good rummage. I don’t know how long each game lasted, probably when the ‘nurse’ could stand the careless, invading fingers no more or when we heard the annoyingly sweet voice of her mother singing her way up the stairs. Her mum was never far away and one time we were so engrossed with someone’s innards that we did not hear her. She opened the door as something inanimate was being inserted somewhere it would never have fitted but I think the only reprisal we got was ‘pull your pants up, you’ll catch a cold’. I was devastated when the games had to end and she had to go to another school. I don’t think the getting caught incident and her being sent away to a school where they wear heavy stupid kilts were related. I never saw her once she moved and I never got my answer as to what the ‘hangy’ bit was. Well not her ‘hangy’ bit anyway. Always in the back of my mind I was sure she would come out as a lesbo. She was my first thought when I started thinking about joining the pink crew myself. I wanted to call her up and say ‘Hey nurse, remember me? Are you gay now too?’ I couldn’t imagine she would be anything but a bender because she was always so keen to unwrap the parcel and open the box so I was kinda shocked after Miss Delusional Fee was told she was as good as engaged. I suppose feelings are all over the place when you are young. Maybe she would have shuffled her hands around anyone’s intimate gunge, maybe it was only because I was there. Maybe feelings you have when you are young have little reflection on your future feelings? That’s far from true for me. Like so many homos, once the revelation that I would be a beaver girl came about, I could trace back all the women I adored since about age 4. I know for a fact I loved my Primary 1 teacher. I was the only one not to go to her wedding because I was so distraught and that was aged 4! Taking a stand for the woman I loved after only 4 years of life! Now that’s impressive. And who could forget the manipulative girl who yelled at me every day, laughed at me, and generally made me so unhappy I cried all the time? I hated her so much but I loved her even more and couldn’t stay away from her. For so long I fancied this girl and even now when I see her which is maybe about once every 2 years, I still get a weird sensation. And the fact that she looks like 4 hundred pounds of shit now makes the years of torment (oh I love a dramatisation) seem funny and almost worthwhile.
Anyway, young love aside, I’m getting lost in the memories and digressing. Back to sneaky feelys. I wonder if I‘d had boys in my life whether I would have been tugging around in their pants? I hear lots of girls say they ‘did things’ with girls when they were young but are all for the opposite sex now. Imagine if all the girls who were so interested in the velvet turned out gay? I think the world would be over run with lesbos. Can that ever be a good thing? Too much of a good thing can never be good surely?
I can’t imagine that anyone will want to share their intimacy with others (boys or girls) when they were young but if you do, feel free to do so. I’m very interested to know if you made connections with these experiences, whatever they may be, with your current sexuality. And yeah, I’m a helpless nosey bastard because I know these ‘games’ go on so someone must be brave enough to share the awkwardness of these experiences with The Fee so she knows she is not alone in this ‘hobby’ which has progressed to a life style.
A reliable source told me that my university could easily be ‘the ugliest university in Britain’ the other day. I’d be inclined to agree. In fact, ask anyone that goes, from minger to hottie, and most will agree. Now, I’m hardly part of the beautiful minority myself but I do have eyes. These eyes have a natural talent for spotting pretty ladies and maybe, if I am lucky I see 3 a day at university. I saw more than 3 on Friday but on an average day, three is the lucky number. Clearly not everyone would be most at home in a kennel (in fact the small amount of people I know personally are all rather lovely) but there's at least enough to ensure the world will never run out of freaks for their travelling circuses. For example, in one building in particular there are far too many uggers in tracksuits. You’ll be sitting eating your sandwich with extra mayo when a hoard of them come bounding by in shorts with wet hair and grins wider than my ass. Correct me if I am mistaken but am I right in thinking there is no pool? Do I need to see your slicked with grease hair and smell your stale odour as I tuck into my fatty fishy delight? No I do not. And what’s more offensive is the corn beef legs. My legs are repulsive and so I do the world a favour and keep them in clad in denim but these people (men and chicks alike) are quite content running through a cafeteria with their weather beaten legs and sloppy plimsoles. It’s not right. And I can’t sit in a lab without a tracksuit sitting too close to me after its been in the gym hall. Do they not have showers? Do I really need the stench of stale genital sweat permeating my personal space? No, I don’t. I can excuse a hot girl for pretty much everything but even shallow Fee has some exceptions. For example, a chicks hotness is instantly removed if: 1) they are broad Aberdonian 2) They eat kebabs after dark 3) they wear American Tan tights 4) They keep their nails too long (ouch) and 5) They don’t shower more than once a week. It’s all very well to present your new hot lady who looks so good in knee highs and a boob tube but what about when The Fee needs her hugs? I don’t want her sweaty pits on my hair. I don’t my clothes to smell of 4-week-old tuna and onion sandwiches. And, I do not want people to assume that because she is hot, that it must be me, the minger that smells. So while you may be hotter than vindaloo, you smell like a Balti and while I may want to wake up to your pretty face and feel your sexy skin, I don’t want to wake up next to what smells like an overcooked steak and kidney pie. So ladies in tracksuits (especially the ones which are elasticated around the ankle and contain the smell) if you can’t shower than don’t do gym. Or if you really really must work up such a sweat that you drip beef then please, do us all a favour and go straight home without coming into contact with any sorry sole who may offer to help you with your sweaty gym bag just because you have a pretty face because just remember the odour your feet give off as this unsuspecting person bends down to lift your heavy sack. It’s enough to wipe out a small race of ugly university attendees. Oh, in that case, sweat all you like.
How is it possible to have so many ugly people at on university? I blame the city. You come to Aberdeen and notice the ratio of ugly people to beautiful people is extraordinarily high. I blame the fish and the oil and the fried Mars Bars.
And so I go to bathe in oil and chew on fish and slurp on deep-fried chocolate and wonder why the ugly gene is so prevalent in me.
Listening to: Scooter and thinking bout Bo and the time we almost lost her to the pavement 3 floors below while she 'pumped it up'...
PS Does anyone else hate bums in thongs? Truly vile.
I watched a programme the other day on asses. Being a connoisseur of a fine ass I thought I was really going to be spoilt. I thought my desire for a good ass in bootcuts would be satisfied but alas, all I was treated to was a bunch of woman wanting asses the size and shape of J Lo's and going to hideous lengths to get such a bulgy butt. Apparently the J Lo arse is trendy right now and many a desperado is gettnig their ass shaped and gouged and bruised so under a great deal of clothes, it will look like the big bum of said J Lo. We saw one woman getting lipo from every possible area so the fat could be injected into her butt so the surgeon could play around with it, draw on it, shove scalpels and needles in it for the end result of an ass you could prop books upon. The woman in question marched around with her new jumbo bum like a duck would waddle its way to the pond. What's attractive about a bum that sticks out so far that I could have rested my pint and my 4 course dinner on it from the other end of the beach? And what is elegant about swaning around like you've got 4 fists shoved up your shitter? I don't get it. And what's worse, I think this phenomenum will give rise to the classic blue jean arse. People are going to be marching around trying to squeeze their once small butts into under sized jeans, with the pockets of such tiny dolls' jeans resting so far up their ass that their ass is elongated to the point whereby it appears to be banging off the backs of their ankles. Tell me why this is right? It's not. J Lo has gotta go and she's gotta take that ass with her because while it may suit her shape and figure, it can surely not suit every bikini clad tart whos boyfriend pays for this surgery so he can play with her fleshy cheeks from another room in the house so he doesn't have to look at her moaning, plastic, champagne swilling face.
However, if someone with such an ass would like to get together with me so I can have my chips with real gravy then please do get in touch.
This is my new love. We are to be married very soon. I'd love to invite you all but sadly Jodhi has requested that I keep the numbers to a minimum because she is scared of Britney's wrath. I have told my Britney not to worry, that she is always number 1 but till the day I can have Britney all to myself, without fear of curly Justin and The Lord interferring, I will have Jodhi May as my wife. She doesn't mind playing second best to my love Britney and is using me as second best til Nan King finally comes to life. She is, however, worried that Britney will come to the wedding where I will be decked out in a beautiful white dress (which will do nothing for my hips) and court shoes and yell obscenities at her and this is why I cannot risk telling all where the wedding will take place. But for those who do know, I'll see you at Kings College Chapel at 1pm Saturday, bring vodka and menthols and be ready to fend of an incarnation of Nan King and the real Britney and her 10ft wide bodyguard.
Oh and I found these pictures here. The site is Spanish or Italian and no, I don't speak either well but I do understand the term 'photo gallerie'. I'm very bright.
Oh and if u see no picture of my future wife, refresh the page a couple times and you may find her.
Aha! I knew it!! All this time I have wondered 'am i paranoid?' and now it has been confirmed that I, Miss Fee, who everyone at this moment in time is speaking about and laughing at and wondering why I am wearing such a bright pink tee when it's way too girlie for the like of me, is paranoid. Tonight's sleep will be a very deep one.
Since when did a red light and a green man equal 'drive on and run the dollop over'? Not one, not two but three cars drove through a red as this aimless wanderer tried crossing the busy high street last night. I could have died! And what's worst than possible death is the fact that I almost had to run in order to save this sham of a life! Imagine the shame of a wobbling dollop traversing her way through the cars as their passengers wave and yell 'drive goddammit drive', just to watch as I plunder my way through an attempted run to reach the safety of the pavement? Oh just imagine.
Imagine also fainting in the cafe of Marks and Spencers as you dine with your mum for lunch. Imagine feeling the dizzy sensation sweeping right through you as your head clouds up and the last thing you remember is the lump of chicken that stuck in your throat. You may not remember grabbing at the edge of the table as you slid off your chair, as onlookers gasped and went rushing to your aid and your mum watched on, powerless to stop you from landing in a heap on the linoleum floor. And then imagine the scene created as cafe assistants look uneasy and don't know what to do and contemplate calling the ambulance 'just to be safe'. Someone slaps your face, another gives you water and you are revived with no dignity in tact and you are left traumatised from the humiliation and wandering what the hell just happened and why you are lying in amongst the crumbs and loose hairs of Markie's clientelle with your mum tugging at you and making sure your clothes are arranged properly, so no flesh has come undone from the confines of your clothing. Imagine all the old ladies yelling 'food poisoning' and crowding you with their powdery talcy rinses and trying to force feed you 'pandrops' from the lining of their bags. Then imagine being wheeled back to work in a 1954 style wheelchair with a tartan picnic rug draped across your knee for comfort and warmth. Imagine the reactions of all the familiar faces in the street as they watch, bewildered, as you are pushed fiercely by a mum with no control over the gammy wheel, down the street you normally have no problems walking on. Imagine your mum's face as she pushes too hard and the wheel about gives way and you are slammed into a wall, legs first. Imagine the further tramua of your jeans being shredded by this latest accident and your hairy legs which you meant to shave that morning (and every other morning for the past month) being put on display for all them hotties you adore and maybe thought about asking out one day. Imagine the looks on their faces when they see that you are as feminine as Arnie and you can see their minds ticking over with thoughts of what other hair you may not tend. Imagine what this would do to your reputation and your entire life? You may never be seen in public again and you may die a spinster and you may eat your own faeces and you may wallow in a box of bugs and turds for your remaining days while forever being known as the 'hairy girl who fainted in Marks and Spencers'. Oh just imagine.
I got drunk on red wine last night. For a part of my uni course I had to find an entrepreneur, interview him/her and conclude my findings. I decided to interview the man that owns the shop I work for. I had originally opted to interview him over email but when invited out for dinner, although the thought scared me more than the idea of fisting, I knew I had to go. The location was a Vietnamese restaurant and I somehow managed to refuse a starter so I wouldn't be seen as a lard ass and then choose the hottest thing on the menu. I handle spices the way I handle a cheese toastie, pretty well, so I thought everything would be fine. But no. I managed to bite into a huge jalepeno chilli which set my beak a bubbling and my eyes a dribbling and all I had to wash it down with was a bottle of red wine. I chugged and I chugged and my interviewee watched in horror as I drained glass after glass of the potent stuff which I can never usually drink. I was then wasted, like non-focusing wasted, for a good hour and can't remember much of what I was told in that space of time. I took notes which help me as much as low fat cheese helps a hangover because my drunkeness led to very drunken scrawls which wouldn;t look out of place in a nursery school sandpit. My usual quiet, madly blushing self had even started to get quite vocal when I was aware of the 'birthday party' sat beside us getting their coats. I had already noticed the gobby chick with a face longer Dumbledore's beard who clapped and whooped as she pretended to down her flaming Sambuca. I had already seen her looking at me oddly at least 4 times throughout the course of the evening. But when they stood up to leave, and most of the others had left the building and were tucked up in bed, she was still there, lingering like a Cranberry. She said to the boy who hadn't taken his beanie hat off all night to try and disguise his lank hair that was popping out the bottom, "I can't do it?" When he enquired as to what she was talking about, she blatently turned to face me, even made eye contact and nodded her head in my direction. I felt my blush grow up my neck and work it's way through to my toes. Never have I felt so uncomfortable in my life. Everyone knows I'm more paranoid than a habitual pot smoker but this was no paranoia. I was the only person in the vacinity that that head motion could have been directed at. Clearly a few options went through my mind, 1) She thought I was famous (come one, sure I look like someone famous and cool??!) 2) The boy fancied me (well he was not entirely beautiful and I had seen him looking at me once) 3) she fancied me (her and her flouncy fairyness could have wanted a sniff of the rug, really) or 4) they were laughing at me. This was the most likely. Maybe my blouse had become dishevelled or maybe I had a red pepper in my teeth, or maybe in my drunken, lolling state I had haphazardly drawn on my face. I went to the toilet, careful not to knock anything out of place, careful to leave my hair as it was, careful to leave my blouse as it was so I could view myself in the mirror as they had seen me. There was nothing untoward as I gazed at my reflection. My blouse remained closed, my hair was still as in place as it ever gets, and when I smiled that crooked smile, displaying 23 teeth at once, there was no stray veggies. So what the hell were they looking at? I also discounted the possiblity completely of being checked out by the boy because I didn't look good that evening. The rain had played havoc with my hair, I had the biggest embryo on my face and my eyes were baggy beneath my squint glasses. I don't care actually. No that's a lie. For some reason I care far too much about what other people think about me. But I was just glad they didn't come over and say something which would have definitley embarrassed me 10 times more than her just glaring at me in that rude fashion, like I didn't have feelings, like it was prefecty acceptable for her to make me feel as comfortable as a tough turd. Or maybe I do wish they the cow had come over so I could have shown her the wrath of my extra spicy meal. Good lord, I prayed the wind would not come over dinner, as we were served our coffee. I had images of my questions being punctuated by leathal farts but luckily for my parents I saved it all up for when I got home. Spicy food does give you personal space, it's great. I mean, no way will those stale old people stand too close to me in the bus queue today and no one will be asking me to bend down and retrieve their fallen glove for fear of bif skiddage. Wind is wonderful. I'm sure there is a song in there. I apologise for sharing possibly too much information but just be glad you are not sat next to me and my hot ass today. I don't think you'd get out alive.
And I'm late for work. It's 10.25 am and I start at 10 am. I have yet to make the call that says 'daddy, i have ring sting, I will be late' because right now all I can think about is how upset The Queen will be if I really have lost the spool containing pictures of her beloved whore Jordan. She was so small you wouldn't have seen her in the photos anyway.
Tis time that I must go and attend to this out of control hair which hasn't been cut since january and is spilt end central and also I go to see if I qualify for the title of Miss Flatulance 2002. Quite probably.
I went shopping in Glasgow at the weekend. I had saved space up on my credit card for the occasion and looked forward to it with the excitement of The Queen of Fun in a sweet shop. I went out the evening before and knew I would be hungover for the shopping event of the month. Well come on, I’d had 4 drinks. So, I woke up looking like an oaty turd and feeling as irritable as a bowel syndrome. I knew it was going to be a bad day. I didn’t know that by the time we arrived in Glasgow that we would only have 4 hours worth of shopping time! 4 Hours! It takes that long just to stand in the changing room queue in bloody H&M for fucks sake! What a farce I say, what a farce! So, it was one of them days where nothing fitted, shops were sweaty, and things that did fit would have looked better on a hippo. I was not amused and I wanted to batter every fat calved person that came my way. With all that money to spend I cam home with 2 belts, a wallet and a shirt that I almost had a panic attack over, that fitted as comfortably as a condom over the face. I decided there and then, like I always do when I have an emotional breakdown in every shop because my belly is too lardy too even fold into jeans and when even my wrists (my only slender feature goddamn!) couldn’t finds an accessory that suited, that I was going on another diet. Being a fatso does nothing for my already fragile mental state I tell you. And being a fatso does nothing for the clothes I try to hide it under. I tried on about 16 pairs of jeans of varying sizes, from the ‘slightly above average’ to the ‘jesus 2 baby elephants would fit in here’ and either my thighs were emphasised to a point way beyond piss taking or my belly hung so far over the jeans that they almost met my boobs around the knee area. And it was when I sat down in a changing room, to sob into the denim delights that would never be mine that I noticed just how large and accentuated my fanny is in my favourite jeans. It’s fucking massive! It’s no dainty dairylea triangle but really it’s more like the size of a pillow. I may never sit down in these jeans again. No one needs to see the over exaggerated size of Miss Fee’s ‘love triangle’. How vile.
Anyway, you know I will stick to no diet because food is the first, last and only thought on my mind at any one time so I figured that I could justify the amount I eat (enough to feed all them homeless people that torment me with their ‘hey fatty give us some change’ taunts’) if I up-ed the amount of walking I do. Or I could go to the gym. Ha! Imagine this dollop at the gym with all them slender types with muscles in places there should never be muscles, with those super skinnies who shimmy themselves around the gym as though they are either on the dancefloor or in a porno. Vomitice? It really is. Jealous? I really am. I wish I could open my legs wider than a 50 year old whore or maybe even more than a millimetre so they chaf no more. There’s nothing worse than friction burns at the top of your thighs.
I had a conversation with someone the other day about ‘gym fear’ and we thought we might begin our own little dance class for those, like us who are too scared of wobbling our bits around in front of them bleached blonde, manly muscled types. We thought we’d call it ‘Dollops Do Dance’. We’ve yet to recruit an instructor but at the rate the Queen of Fun is going, with all them pies for breakfast and all them peanut butter M&Ms she’s scoffing, I think she is a likely candidate. Anyone else wanna come along and shake those 5 bellies and wiggle all your asses in the one place? The only specification is that you must have more than 1 chin and your thighs must rub at the top and your knees must be dimply and you must have dollopy fingers which could be mistaken as pork sausages. See you there fellow dollops.
And so I go to remove all mirrors from my house because if I have another tantrum in front of one because my hair is baggy or my ass is wide or my bellies are trippin’ me up or my feet are broader than Brazil, I am likely to do myself, or at least the mirror, an injury. I therefore conclude that I am indeed vile.
Listening to: The merry sound of cheese being sliced and being placed upon 16 (I mean 6 … really) cream crackers and being topped with Branston pickle. Heaven really is a place on earth. Cheers Belinda.
Also Listening to: Justin’s album, beautiful. I love him.
I was thinking about first impressions the other day. I was thinking that I'm not one of these people where if I dislike someone in the first 30 seconds then I will dislike them for the rest of my life. I hate people who instantly judge a person like that. Like I can talk about judging people, I do it all the time, 'would you look at the size of her hair, it's larger than my ass' and 'are her glasses really as big as my ass?' and so on but hey, I like to contrdict my every word. But why say you hate someone you have known for less time than it took you to drink a half pint? Thinking about this has made me think of the first time I met everyone in our group of friends. If I were to judge them all on these first conversations (or they were to judge me!) would I be friends with then right now? I mean, the first time I met the infamous properly J Bo was at the bloody bingo and I was quite coyly mumbling 'house' to get my £30 without drawing attention to myself. She thought I was a stand-offish freak and I can't even begin to think what I must thought of Her Gobbyness. That must have been 4 years ago. And now, she can't get rid of me and we no longer need the mutual friends to be there when we hang out as we are friends in our own right. Maybe if it hadn't been for that night at bingo where I had to buy J Bo and her unknown friend a drink with my winnings then things may have been different. Maybe she got her disliking of me out of her system that night as I sat there in faded combats batting my heavy eye lids at The Queen. Whatever, I don't think I saw much of her again, apart from the odd head nod in the street, until I started drinking too much and swapping shoes with her ladyship at the Mudd Club last summer. That was quite a summer. Actually, I don't remember most of it as, like I say, I was pretty wasted all of the time, using vodka and cheap beer to forget stuff I really didn't want to think about. But anyway what's done is done and while I regret my hostility toward to J Bo, I'm sure eit wasn't intentional and I'm glad I got to hang out with her and Rosie of the River and discover what being a fanny is all about. We started fights in pizza shops after 'bra wedgies' were handed out, we put mussels in the arm rests of taxis and we threw ourselves around the mosh pit like hairy twatts as the J Bo made everyone in the place get down on their knees and worship her Jason Donovan keyring in a place where he is about as cool as the damp patch. Ah Jason.... we lost you to coke and whores but we will still love you and remember you as the mulleted boy who did the tomboy mechanic who has more career now than you have hard drugs. Bless.
The memories are too much. And the more I write the less time I give myself to go meet the woman herself who is in need of alcoholic refreshement. And so I go to listen to the sweet sound of my gut singing for cheese whilst killing all who surround me with my brutal hunger breath.
Sorry to keep banging on about that bloody 'arm up fanny' poll but it appears as though there has been some confusion over the term 'fudge'. Clearly to many 'readers' the term 'fudge' is associated with 'ass', possibly after 'fudgepacker' or whatever its roots may be. However, while I am vile and completely nosey, I didn't want to know who loves bit of knuckle between their cheeks as the term 'fudge' to me is an elongated version of 'fud' and therefore when I refer to a 'fudge' I mean PUSSY. SO, you keep your nails up arse stories to yourselves :-) As this only came to light today, it now makes me wonder whether those who answered 'yay' to a fist up their fanny really thought I meant 'ass' and thought I was asking who loves that much flesh up your back passage? Jeez. Maybe that's another lesbo sex thing I need to find out about... and so it's time for anotherpoll... who likes a bit of meat with their gravy? No, just kidding. I'm off polls of my own, at least until I can think up another that may offend people. Ok, give me 5 minutes.
So, not everyone was offended, by that damnpoll, which has had more references than my beloved, Britney for fucks sake.
One last thing and Fisting: Yay or Nay will never be mentioned again: The following is Charmin's reply to them that got offended. How I love this woman.
Miss fee, don't YOU apologize! I think you ARE shy, incredibly CRASS and yet deee-lightfully honest. Truth be known, I think that fisting either scares you, or does not interest you in the slightest, but you read about it in my post and wanted to know if you are missing out. And you wanted to know what others thought about the girth of someone's entire hand in their finer parts. (I said nothing about ass my dear.) And SO WHAT if you are so bold to question it, that's your "style." Seeing, hearing, and reading something foreign to you makes you wonder what it's all about. And then you write about it in the purest stream of consciousness form I have ever seen. I have read many writers who claim to be stream of consciousness, but you my dear are the purest. You can also be judgemental just like meredith, but YOU are never too dignified to talk about it, and are never afraid, at least in your writing, about being too bold. That is what I love about the fee.
Anyway... more importantly than me offending others... I have 3 words for you: charmin! charmin! charmin! This lady is amazing. I just got the hottest Britney poster ever, in the history of Britney posters. I can now remove that age old Steps poster where they went all bondage and looked stupid in spikes and plether. Now that's offensive. So I am far too excited and may not even unravel the poster.... but that's another story completely. Thank you :-)
Today is another day at the office. I say 'another' like it's something I do often but I do it rarely happens these days. My time is too focused with uni work, fisting and nonsense. I have nothing to share with you, no fashion feux pas, no turd stories (except the one where I was forced to clean up a turd that was engrained into the tiny carpet at work after some rude customer left his skidmark) and no tales of Bo, or Gobby but fear not... there's a night in the pub to be had tomorrow so I am quite sure there will be plenty of stories for me to share with you very shortly, when my life has something more interesting in it than ridiculous polls. Yeah right, I'll be straight before my life becomes interesting.
And off i go to paint my nails some shiny barbie pink colour and read all about the trashwhore's impending attempted murder accomplish trial. Life doesn't get much better than that.
It seems as though I have managed to offend a number of people with my poll. Well, I apologise, no offence was meant but if you read my site before you would have known what to expect before visiting it to get to the poll. I use foul language, I have an immature sense of humour and I speak a lot of shit. I know this and all you who read my site know this. I never mean to offend anyone with anything I say, it's stupid, it's irrelevant but if it makes the people who read it enjoy it or smile for even a second then it has served its purpose. My language, as was so rightly pointed out is not 'eloquent', it's really not supposed to be. I'm quite sure I could garble a heap of shite in 'eloquent' language if I really tried but it's not in keeping with my style so that's why I write the way I do. I can't expect everyone to enjoy it but then I certainly don't enjoy every site I read, it's just not possible. Anyway, I can't say anything else about it because what was meant as a joke has been taken out of context.
And for the record... for you lovely people who did not take my poll seriously and did dignify it with an answer, it would appear as though the majority of you ladies love a finger and many enjoy a whole bunch of dirty fingernails. So... for the end result... all that was conclusive was finding out that lesbos have varied sex. Really Fee?? Yes. It's true. Not all lesbos have sex in the same manner. Shallow minded Fee has had her horizons broadened with that revelation :-) So, like I say, I didn't expect it to get so misunderstood and I'd promise not to do it again but this is me and as happened this time, it will probably happen all over again unknowingly, just when I think I am having a bit of fun and whoompf... moral outrage is sparked. But thanks to those who joined in with the spirit of my crap and offensive poll anyway...
Three posts in one day, thats more times than I've eaten today. Yeah right. Anyway, I need your help. I have become disillusioned with the world of lesbo sex and I wondered if I was the only one that doesn't do fisting?? I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that much flesh and bone up you fanny, it's just not for me and I wondered if anyone else felt the same?? Or if I'm a frigid tight bitch. So please take one milisecond out of your shagging to fill in my poll. Many thanks.
Why does it always start to torrentially rain whenever I start walking somewhere where there is no bus route, when I have holey sneakers on and when my hair which is big enough anyway has just been washed? I began my 45 minute walk to uni this morning thinking I was well prepared for any little showers that may occur as I had my swanky umbrella for ultimate protection. I'm only about 10 minutes into my journey, which has seen me leave all bus routes for miles around, when it starts to lash. My umbrella gave only the top of freshly washed hair any coverage and by the time I slipped around in wet leaves and arrived at uni, I was one sodden rat. I don't think the rain has ever caused me to be so wet before. I will probably never jump into water with all my clothes on so at least now I know what it feels like. Horrible, like I'm oozing water from my every orifice. My impractical coat also stained my jumper nicely and ensured my crotch is as moist as the rest of me. Even my pants are soaked through. Not something I'd complain about under normal circumstances but today, it's definitely something worth moaning about. My feet, due to the extreme holeyness of my once glittery pretty dunlops may never walk again, not in silence anyway. They squidge and leak water with my every step. It's not pretty and my odour eaters will be ruined! Ruined I say! And what's worst is that there is not a hand dryer in sight in this place. How the hell can I dry my cold and wet fanny with a communal towel? It's just not possible. I wouldn't have minded contorting myself under a hand dryer for a bit of warmth but there's no way I will be caught rubbing myself with a stripey pull down towel. It's just not on. My reputation is bad enough without adding 'random public fiddler' to all the list of my other heinus credentials thank you very much. I must go and let the pnuemonia (sp????!) wreak havoc through my body silently.
I’m a very grateful person. It’s the small things that I appreciate most from people I know. I don’t expect grand gestures from these people to prove things between us are all good. I like a nice card, an unexpected text or a surprise call. I like genuine gestures that may seem trivial but to me they make everything good. I even appreciate every drunken conversation (that I remember) where a promise ‘to be friends always’ is made between 2 or more drunken souls. I just like to be reminded that the people I like are thinking about me as I think about them. Sometimes I’m surprised by those I know best and their seemingly uncaring attitudes, I’m not surprised by their everyday attitudes because this I’m used to but I’m surprised when I get an out of the ordinary text or a surprise gift that reminds me that despite outward appearances, they do care. I’m even more surprised by those I do not know so well but whose opinions and whose writings I read and value. I’m surprised when they leave me lovely comments and make me smile and wonder would they like me if they knew me in person. So, I was extra surprised yesterday, even though I was told to expect it, when Charmin, sent me something in the post that The Queen delights in but unfortunately these treats are unavailable over here. I thought this a remarkably kind gesture because despite knowing Charmin only from online, it’s the sort of gesture a friend would commit to. I know The Queen, who shows gratitude like she shows any emotion, is extremely grateful for this and while I meant to give her all of the packets… something happened last night between me and the m&ms and before I could say ‘fat turd’ half of one bag was already gone. Oh but they were so so good J So, thank you J I hope I can return the favour to you but really, sending haggis (Scotland’s national dish which is a mixture of sheep guts and floor sweepings) is not an option. Foot and mouth and general health and safety will not allow this. Oatcakes I can do.
While I’m on the subject of friends, J Bo wrote a lovely blog entry yesterday about our group of friends. She said she never thought she would find a friend who would judge her and here she was, lucky enough to find a whole gang of them. I couldn’t have put it better myself. That’s hardly surprising though. I’ve always had friends but usually only a couple at a time as people cannot handle The Fee and her weirdness so it’s quite amazing that I now have a whole group of close friends who are equally weird and make me feel all kinds of good, just knowing they are there. There’s always someone there for you, no matter what your problems may be. Be that a constipation problem, a lack of sex problem or even an over excessive muff puffing problem (will name no names…) and it’s so good when we can all get together and act as we always do when we are in our group: immature and loud and having more fun than you could imagine. It’s so hilarious when we hang out. There’s always far too much to laugh at and I’m constantly going home to patch up my split sides and wipe the saliva from my mouth which has over talked and over guffawed. And while the J Bo worries that next year, some of us will go our own ways and leave this place, I do not think that far ahead. I don’t want to and I do think that while friendships may not always be as close as they are, they will always be there and it isn’t the hardest thing in the world to stay in touch with people you like as much as I like my friends. Even if it’s a text or 2 a week just to know you are all thinking about each other. I hate how I have to grow up sometime and I hate change. I hate making new friends. There’s always room in our group for more, we are very accommodating but I don’t want to go and leave the best friends I have ever known. I know. I will set up home in a box in town and work my ass at the harbour so I never have to go. They wont take me alive you know. I only wish we could have all met somewhere else so we didn’t all want to go running faster than pre cum out of this shit hole. But like I say, I aint going anywhere, they’ll carry my remains around in a box long after I’m gone, they can’t get rid of me, I’m as stubborn as a skidmark so I can stop thinking about it for the moment. Let me instead think about the cranberry and brie sandwich I devoured yesterday in one bite. 31 grams of fat in one sandwich! My good lord! I deserve to be jumbo sized.
Listening to: Backstreet Boys greatest hits… it reminds me of the Halloween party… that’s my excuse anyway… that’s your fault BO.
Like most bloggers, I keep track of the visitors who visit my site. Yesterday I had my highest day of visitations in the 9 months that I have been writing this. Jesus 9 months. I could have had a fat baby Fee in that time, aren't you glad I took up this hobby instead of making ugly babies? Anyway, from my humble beginnings back in February when I had a mere 2 visitors in the form of 2 friends who felt sorry for me, I have grown and have a steady following behind my large ass. Despite all the people that come visit me (I'm sure that 165 people in one day visiting a stupid weblog is quite a lot, I have studied the figures of others and it appears that this is pretty good considering my site has no substance or relevance whatsoever), only a selected handful actually leave comments or sign my guestbook. I know these people come back and check me and almost daily but I just wish I knew who they were so I could say hey and maybe thanks for being interested. If they have webpages I could check out theirs in return and leave them nice comments too but people, if you don't tell me who you are I can't do this. I understand you may be shy but while my fanny may bite, the rest of me doesn't so the next time you are in the area, make your presense known with a kind word, a sneaky fart or maybe even an accidental muff puff. I leave it up to you.
Since I began blogging I have discovered many people and their weird and wonderful ways which I would never have known about had I not emersed myself into the blogging lifestyle in order to whittle away the dull hours of my dull life.
I mean, I read spangle blog everyday, never fail to crack a smile over it and yet, despite miss woo living in the same city as moi and knowing at least one of the same people I do, I have never met the lady. I have read about her life, chatted on msn and seen her picture but still she remains as unknown as a penis.
Of course, then there is Mr Trashwhore who is no longer at uni but if I didn't read his blog I wouldn't know anything about his girlfriend's ma or about his latest misdemeanor which saw him being arrested on suspiscion of being an accesory to murder only 3 days ago. I hope we haven't lost him to the scary people of Aberdeen but if we have, at least his blog is still entertaining.
I also must make mention here of Straight Man A who I link to as religiously as I kiss girls. Man A is a subtley amusing writer and should update more often. I wish that were an order that you would adhere to.
Being a blogger has also led one of my loyal 'fans' and I use the term very loosely to set up on her own. No longer satisfied with the hilarity she causes when she leaves a comment, the J Bo decided to put my shit site to shame and start her own one which has the capability of being more political than Tony Blair. (sorry, couldn't think of anything witty to go with 'political' considering I don't even know what the word means.) Today's entry just made me smile a heck of a lot.
So, while fellow Aberdonians have realised there is nothing better to do here in a city of shit, I have also become acquainted with many other bloggers from just about everywhere.
First came a woman named Charmin who I believe to be a bit of a ladies lady. The lady uses words such as 'poly-amorous' in every day sentences while I have trouble even spelling them so this lady had to be mine. In a sense.
And there was a young lady called Ariel, after what I do not know and if truth be told I do not even know this lady's real name. I was won over by pictures and of course the writing. Maybe you will be too.
Just as I was getting used to having a good number of blogs to visit, I was visited by a girl named Kitty. Anyone with the name Kitty would win me over but this was the start of something beautiful. In my head at least
Finally, I want to mention Greta, a very hot lady who is nu to my site. I think you will also approve Gobby Bobby... check this girl out but remember, her 5% lesbo is all for me... well we can dream.
And so, I do hope you take the time to visit these links cos it fuckin hurt my hand sorting them out so so me a favour and read at least one. I have nothing of interest to tell you today or no grotesque opinions I wish to voice. I feel I have become rather stale of late, hence the slight change in my colour scheme. I decided the old look was slightly too brash, even by my standards and I hope you all approve of the move away from the blue and massive letters. I can now view my own page without the shame of a huge
Glitter Splashed Britney Lovin' Lesbo
screaming at me and the entire university.
You know, it's even been at least a week since I spotted an accentuated fanny and that was the Queen of Fun's so I don;t suppose it counts. I havent seen a classic blue jeans arse in about 4 days and the last time I saw a perm? A good few hours ago. At least I can always count on tapered jeans making an appearance wherever there may be people. And I will leave you now so I can go home and eat some good food and not worry that Rose Street is on fire (which it is by the way) but before I do, can I just say that stonewashed denim will never be fashionable. I'm tellin you there. Yeah you who barged into the sandwich queue with your sharp nose who thought that flared stonewashed was the way forward, that I, The Fee, should stand aside for you because your stonewashed get up was not tapered. I doubt it. I know they came from somewhere as tacky as New Look so don't stand there with your fake adidas and crap jeans and think you are trendy because my arse clad in leopard print is more trendy. I've seen more style on a naked man. Oh and by the way, your dad is gay. Not only gay but a cottager so the next time you come near me with your snidey looks and your short tie dye legs I will tell you this, loudly.
Listening to: The sound of my angry fingers banging on the keyboard.
Thanks to all those who took part in my usually vile poll. It seems as thouhg I am not the only brute around here and my opinions and stupidity are followed by many.
Sometimes I just wish it was socially acceptable to spit on people. Not because I long to have strangers' flem dripping from my hair but because often I find myself wanting to gob on people for no particular reason. It's not because I hate these people or because I think they would look marvelous with my venom ozzing down their cheek, it's just because spitting is a very intimate thing and I wish I could greet people and hack too in their face instead of the regulatory 'hello'. Hellos can be so boring. Call me weird if you like. I've been called much worse.
Can you imagine getting to meet the one [famous] person that you completely adore and want to slip a digit? Imagine how excited you'd be if you were to find out that the very wo/man you think about every night before you go to sleep (twice) was coming to your town and that you had as good a chance as any ned in tapered jeans of meeting her. You'd be pretty excited right? I know if there were even a chance in 1 million of me meeting my britney then I'd pretty much do anything to see it through. So, having followed my semi hate for one woman that my lovely friend obsesses over, you will know that hearing that Jordan was to be appearing in some shit straight bar would have The Queen of Fun as excitable as a lesbo at her first touch of someone else's minge. The Queen does not do emotion. The only declarations of emotion that I have witnessed from the lady in 4 years is an over show of self-love so when I got the call from her trying to tell me that her woman was coming to visit her, I myself was elated, if only for the fact that I got to see what The Queen looks like when excited. It was a pretty sight. We had to go. Just for The Queen's sake of course because you all know how much I dislike the trollop right? Anyway, we arrived at the straight bar in question in planty of time and were faced with more men than in a gay sauna and more burberry than celebrity party. It was vile. It was smokey and filled with groping lads with gelled forward hair and long shoes. We had half an hour too long to wait but as soon as she took a diminutive step out of the door and propped up the bar with her infamous breasts, we lost the Queen. She propelled herself forward with only adrenaline keeping her alive in the squash. She elbowed grown men with beards out of the way and slipped under BO ridden arms until she was facing Jordan and literally begging the slag for her autograph and a photo. Her bolsheyness impressed me greatly and if you ever have the pleasure of meeting The Queen or have already done so, you will understand why. The Queen is a petite, hot, femme who is quieter than a fanny fart and she will not even buy a drink at the bar so to see her in there, in the rabble of all them sweaty lads was a sight I will never see again but one which makes me smile. She put up with abuse from the men around her and the 'flattery' that was thrown her way and when one such filthy brute told The Queen he'd rather shag her than Jordan, she hastily replied that she'd rather shag Jordan than him anyday. Go lesbo. I myself only attempted to get to the front because it was I who held the camera and it was all for The Queen that Gobby Bobby was climbing over the furniture trying to get a picture of more than just her tits. I'm surprised there wasn;t an injury or 8. Needless to say that we left as soon as the goods were delivered to find a more comfortable, ned-free bar so The Queen could tell the world and anyone else that she had met her lady. The once fresh autogrpah now has prize position under her pillow and only makes an appearance once the lights go out and Pam comes over to play.
Anyway, am still deeply traumatised about the leering men in the drippingly sweaty bar and must go bleach my entire body to erase any trace they may have left behind as they patted and caressed their way to get to Jordan before launching into a humiliating rendition of 'get yer tits oot for the lads' Oh I love Aberdonians I really really do.
I don't want my blog to turn into an extensive shopping list where I tell you all about the things I want and the things I have recently bought but I just have to tell you that I, Miss Fee, loather of all things brown and detester of all shades of cream and caramel and sun dried jobbie and loose sphincter beige, bought a pair of dark turd brown cords with the sexiest size of flare you ever did see. I bought them from a foul shop I have never shopped in till yesterday and I probably will never shop in there again but I saw these shitty delights and had to have them in my wardrobe. I don't understand why because there's nothing I like worse than the colour of a healthy jobbie and even noted it in my 100 things about me list because I have that much of an issue with it, so why I found myself as good as drooling over these huge bowel movement trousers is beyond me. I even defended myself against all those fellow brown wearers who I have dissed for all my life and had fully accepted my dip into the brown lifestyle. I took a lot of twig brown stick from all those I have abused for their love of poop clothes but I thought it be worth it when I strutted out looking as gorgeous as I ever could in my new sexy cords. You'll understand then how devestated I was when I took them home, looked after them well and eventually decided to try them on. Oh my good lord! I had purchsed skinners!! Brown skinners at that! Who the hell did I think I was? Stepping out in trousers too tight? The Queen of Fun?? And to top it all off, I couldn't even keep these evil bad boys in the back of my wardrobe hoping that I may eventually fit into them as not only were they tighter than a virgin poof's asshole, the seam was burst! It wasn't me I swear it wasn't! It was that other dollop I saw trying them on in the shop who couldn't get them past her ankle and broke quite a sweat trying to do so. Honest! It was the large bird with an 80s perm and leggings who was eating a beefy pie at the same time. It was she who spilt the seam with her wide legs and broad feet, struggling to get her oversized everything into these pretty trousers. Yeah, you're right. It was me. I'm going now to return my disgusting purchase. Why did I ever think I should wear brown? I will never make that mistake again. I hate skitter brown. I hate it more than I hate GAP staff. That's a lot of hate for 2 days blogs.
Listeing to: Someone wearing brown remarking how it's the most beautiful colour ever to grace the earth. They must die.
I bought a new bag the other day. I thought it was the most beauitiful bag in the world. Well, the most beautiful bag for £5 that would carry the heavy uni books that I have anticipated buying eventually. I previewed the bag only hours after purchasing it, filling it full of bubble warp and cloth to pad it out and I was instantly jeered at, pointed at, gobbed at and a culmination of this taunting led me to be peed on from a height by a boy with cloudy, rotten urine. People resent my bag. I don't know if it is the horse print that people think is funnier than an accidental fart because I have to admit, I don't like the horses either. But honestly, from a distance it looks like blue camoflage. Well it does if you close your eyes and think really hard. I was told that had I bought the same bag with pink horses instead of blue ones it would have been accepted into the family better but with blue horses in all their blueness, the bag has been put to a place in my wardrobe with all the other silly items of clothing I wear daily for people to mock and crease up in pain over. I'm sure at least half of you readers will know which bag I'm talking about and anyone who shops in GAP will certainly know. It's that bag you all point at and comment 'jeez that is the worst bag, ever'. You know the one I'm talking about right? I am very offended at the sheer disgust expressed over my latest, once loved (for a good 3 minutes) purchase. As offended as I was when someone asked, 'did you buy that bag because you liked it or because it was from GAP?' I hate GAP. I hate the thin jeans and the airy store but mostly I hate the aroogant nobs in headsets who work there. It's full of pointy featured, flicky haried, breakable skinny jerks who offer a sickly smile and 'size help' at any opportunity. I can add 4 thank you very much, I'm not as lacking in intelligence as you. I hate the girl with the mole most. If I knew her name I would complain about that lank haired thing who walks around with her long beak in the air while caressing her 3 bits of hair. Her attitude reeks of aloofness and eau de BO. If it weren't for the pretty shirts I'd refuse to shop there on some sort of principle but the shirts... oh the shirts are so lovely. But I digress. Where was I? Oh a hateful GAP tantrum. I loathe GAP and I loathe their stupid bags that make people like me a target for bullying in the workplace and on the street. But, despite all this, I will continue to wear my mockery of an animal print bag in pride, even if I do look sillier than a butch in a frock. At least it gives the people something to laugh til they die over.
And so I go to GAP to get accused of shoplifting and to shout obscenities at moley girl who's bound to trip over that lip soon enough.
Listening to: the voices in my head tellin me that I should poison all GAP staff so they must close the shop due to a skitter outbreak.
I hate fireworks. I hate returning home on fireworks night to squidge around in all the pee that my dogs have released all around the house. My mum also hates it as usually it is she who follows around the dogs with her mop and bucket but there's never enough time to get it all. They just never stop. I don't know how dogs' bladders can hold so much liquid but there must be enough liquid in their to fill an olympic sized swimming pool. One of life's little mysteries I guess.
There's always a sneaky puddle somewhere you least expect it, like behind the toilet as though they were trying so hard to aim for the bowl or in the washing basket on all the clean clothes and you dont notice till you put your best tee on and your ready to party that it stinks of doggie urine. Pee is better than poop for cleaning up though. I'm sure we've al had the experience of getting up in the middle of the night, blissfully unaware of the turd delight that is waiting for you in front of your bedroom door, right? I'm sure we've all stood in a fresh jobbie barefooted when all bleary eyed and not fully awake, right? And I'm also very sure we've all proceeded to wash the soiled foot in the sink and pick out the stubborn pooh with a tooth brush, right? What? It's just me? Oh well, it's only happened once. Oh but then there as that other time...
Anyway, I don't appreciate fireworks night, not simply because of the frenzy it sends my dogs into but because I knew someone who had their face blown off by a firework. I went to visit him and was freaked out by his melted face which healed remarkably well and have hated them since. Also, I'm a bit like a dog, I'm nervous. People of a nervous disposition shouldn't be allowed near fireworks and should cower in their bedrooms with wax ear plugs wedged in their ears to eliminate the noise.
This is waht I should have been doing last night but instead, I went to a fireworks party. Actually by the time I had gotten there there were only about 4 left and I stood so far back I was in the next street. It was Big Boy A's girl's party. There were girls from my uni course there that I had never spoken to in my 4 years here so I was slightly apprehensive about walking in their being a big old lesbo. I have not been in a room with that many straight girls since I was a fat ballerina at dance class where I was surrounded by flat chested chicks who fancied the bloke from 2 unlimited and wore shiny lycra. They were good times. Anyway, I was glad of my late arrival as we had missed the earlier trauma when fireworks started shooting directly at the bystanders which caused them to throw themselves into bushes and trees and had them picking shubbery out of their fluffy hoods for hours. No one else seemed to be really drinking, there were glasses of water being passed around and sausages and pie but I drank vodka out of a miniture wine glass and got wasted on about 3 of them. It was weird being with all these 'new' people and when I did utter a word, I made sure my every 't' was pronounced, that I didn't mention anything about jobbies and that I asked for 'toilet roll' as opposed to 'bog roll'. It was quite odd but it was a pleasant evening and despite my reservations I was glad I went. I wondered how J Bo or Gobby Bobby or Beautiful Boy would have reacted in this situation? I wondered if Beautiful Boy would have found a dress to put on? Would J Bo have played 'Tiffany' on repeat as we all ran around the table and would Gobby Bobby have been yelling and checking our every ladys' ass? I can't answer these questions but I can go try on my new puke-like jeans while watching yet more Tipping The Velvet as I eat enough to feed a starving country eight times over.
Tell me something. Since when has it been 'law' for a lollipop person to escort everybody across the street? I was storming up the road when I came to a usual set of traffic lights, the only difference being there was a lollipop lady with a cheesey grin propped up against the wall. As soon as I stepped up to press the button she closed in on me with her large pole and her flourescent coat so bright it nipped my eyes. When I protested that I was old enough and certainly ugly enough to make the 3 meter journey across the road on my own she kind of scowled at me and told me it was the 'law'. And we couldn't have a lollipop woman breaking a law she probably passed herself like a case of bad wind could we? And so, humiliated I was marched across the road with my head hung in shame and muttered a 'thanks' as I sped up the road quicker than a boy comes with his first wank. There was not even a child in sight for me to pretend I had been with but there were plenty of car fulls of neds who pointed at me as though I was the highlight of their day. I probably was. It was the highlight of my sad day afterall, even if I'm still frantically fanning my face to get rid of my beamer which seems to have stuck like shite to a grippy shoe. Why would it be law for an eldery person in luminous clothing to make sure every person makes it safely to the other side? I would have felt safer crossing the road with my eyes shut in the pitch black on a motorway. I was at a pedestrian crossing, wasn't it enough that I pressed the button and dutifully waited for the green man before taking those 5 small steps for mankind? What would Mrs Pop have done if I had suddenly leaped out while the red man was still on?? Would she still have helped me across the road while lugging along her huge stick which she could barely carry? I don't think so because maybe that would have broken another law in her little land where jay walking is illegal and lollipop ladies are the 4th emergency service.
I met Straight Man A, Lil Red and the J bo after a hard one hour of uni that I bothered to attend on Friday and we headed pub-ward. Revolution was Friday's pub of choice due to needing a comfy seat, good coffee and excellent vodka. We got a seat, one of them square stool things that would have me walking with a bigger hump than usual the follwing day and this lack of good posture made sure that my saggy boobs would now be tucked into the elastic of my socks. Anyway, droopy boobs aside, we were lucky that this seat was in prime position for Bitch Fest Daily to commence. We watched this woman arrive at half five with her jumbo bum squeezed into brown leather and with her wiggy hair do which wouldn't have been out of place on my gran 30 years ago. We watched her deteriorate pretty quickly from a sober-dont-get-out much early 30s kind of woman to a drunken annoying woman who's wig kept slipping foward so we could no longer see her bleary eyes. I haven't laughed so much in days. Her friend was getting more and more irate with our every yell of 'what a state' but still we continued with our stories that we conjured up about this unknown woman with stupid hair and a voice louder than gobby bobby's. We watched in disbelief as she adjusted her fanny on leaving the toilet and we watched in total belief as she put her size 12s upon the table and posistioned her face around her sister's bush as she was unable to sit upright any longer. She'd only been there 1 hour by this point but she had already spiralled out of control and her sister (we have no real evidence that the skinny with the tapered black PVC trousers on was bad bum's sister aside from the hooked nose that they shared) and the rest of the 'we want to be 22' crew watched in mock amusement. We could hear her conversations perfectly as she hollered and bellowed about nothing that mattered to anyone, not even to her bushy eyebrowed friend who looked like she was noel gallagher's evil twin. I could barely hear myself think about my fairy wings and trapped wind as she threw herself around her table like a family member at a bad wedding. We thought about calling an ambulance as we left at 9pm because there was no way she was going home on public transport but we thought better of it when we realised the horror the paramedics faces' would show as they would be forced to surgically remove this woman from her fake leather trousers. They would reel back in shock as everything would flop out and they would choke on the talc fumes that she had used to get herself into the skinner trousers in the first place. There must have been enough powder in those sweaty breeches to talc an entire retirement home full of perms.
We wondered how she managed to pee with them on. I reckon she'd been reading my weblog and had taken up my idea of pissing in your pants. Although she would be doing this not out of lazyness but out of necessity as once those babies were on there was no way they were coming off, unless she hand picked all the stiching from both sides. Maybe she had a bag attached somewhere so she really could pee of her own free will and at any given moment. Maybe that's why her face was so contorted and looking like she was having a sly jobbie, because maybe she really was. I couldn't see any plus sides to these never fashionable dark turd brown trousers so I wondered why she bothered to go through the hassle of getting them on. There was also no way she was gonna pull cos imagine getting that home and after having finally peeled off the cheap material, imagine the whiff of sweat, talc, baby oil and stale puss? I think I'd rather not to be honest. Too late, the smell is already clinging to my nostrils.
It was a pity we had to leave our slurring friend whose boobs were too comfortable on the table and who's fanny was as global as her bum but I had to save myself for the Halloween party the following evening. And that was quite an event, even if I still palpatate at the hallucinations and even though I did vomit only twice.
As is usual for this slacker, I'm forgoing uni in favour of pretty much nothing so I need now to go and do that pretty much nothing in order to justify my absense to myself, as much I'd like to tell you all about the others who were so kind as to look so bad for our benefit the other night. I could tell you about 'beige and caramel the ugly Geogre Michael' or even the neds at the bar in their tapered jeans, pig faces and shiny bright whites but really, I have pretty much nothing to do. So instead I will go in search of flavoured cheese. Straight boys need not apply.
I discovered 2 things about myself over the weekend. I have no depth and have an incapability to take part in any even slightly intellectual conversation (or basically any convo that is not about turds or vomit). I was pretty sure about these 'revelations' beforebut in the past 3 days they became clearer than my conscience. I don't mind so much about my lack of intelligence and substance, I just wanted to clear it up incase any of you had doubts. No, I didn't think you would have.
Just wanted to clear something up... no, not the piss off the carpet after having haphazardly pished in my pants but I just wanted to say that I didn't actually piss myself in a computer lab... It was merely an outloud thought but I did closely consider it out of pure fat arsed lazyness. Sorry if that revelation has disappointed many of you :-)
PS As much as I'm dying to share my weekend goings on with you, I'm still suffering from stoned paranoia and keep thinking about the hallucinations that were so vivid last night. At least I hope they were all figments of my stupid imagaination. Either that or there were diamonds in my vomit and I missed an opportunity to be very rich and very famous. And if the things I witnessed were all real, someone was doing beautifully constructed ballet poses and now I'm very disturbed.
On a cold day, do you ever wish you could just pee in your pants? Even for the warmth it would deliver? Isn't it such a chore to go to the toilet and undo your trousers and then pants and freeze your ass off waiting for a mere dribble? I think my lazyness has gotten the better of me. I knew it would happen one day but I didn't think it would come to pissing myself in a computer lab.
The other day I fancied some fresh orange juice. Despite the warnings to the contrary I proceeded to down a litre of the purest, sweetest orange juice you ever did see or taste. It was so good that I just couldn't stop guzzling it. It was dribbling down my chin as I drank and drank and drank, hoping the boottle would never finish cos it tasted that good. Everyone was like 'fee you're gonna puke' but the more I drank the better it tasted and the more I wanted. I sucked up the last drops after a whole minute of drinking and then my head started to go all fuzzy, to match my freshly blown dried hair. I began to wobble slightly and before I could say 'hmmm juicy goodness' I was bolting up the stairs, throwing everyone out of the way, waving my fists like a bad 1960s horror movie zombie, not caring who was in my path. I made it just in time to the toilet as I projectile vomited my complete litre of delicious orange juice and watched in horror as it sprayed not only the bowl but the walls surrounding the toilet and my new pale coloured track top. It was quite beautiful and took a mere 20 seconds to empty my guts in such an artistic manner. Jeez it felt good but the wallpaper looked like a work of [f]art and had me scrubbing for days to remove all traces of my indulgence. What a waste of 89p. Jusy thought I'd share.
