Well, that’s another year gone by and as another 53 wrinkles have embedded themselves into my ever sagging skin and as I have added 3 extra bellies to my collection, I thought I should reflect on the year gone by. I have to say that for me, it’s been a fabulous year and there has been so many ‘moments’ that will be engrained in my memory for life. The start of the year was slightly ropey and aside from the time I spent in London and giving birth to my darling weblog, the first few months were totally shite. If I wasn’t in the pub with my three pints, I’d be storming around all angsty, feeling sorry myself and thinking that this was going to set the pattern for the rest of the year. I was all set to let myself step over the edge into madness when Summer came around. Thank heavens for Summer although my Summer started in May which is technically still Spring. I could be here all day if I was to recount all the best bits of Miss Fee’s 2002 but for those of you who have not been with me long and for those who can suffer a run through of the stupidity then please read on. If the reoccurring image of Fee in a turquoise jumpsuit is too much for you then please, feel free to click on a link and navigate yourselves away, I understand. I could be here forever actually, just going over the details of fishy mussels, paddling pools with turds in them, Beautiful Boy in a sparkley catsuit spinning around a tutu clad Bo, our trend setting nasty fashion party which has seen at least 3 trends been picked up of late by the wonderful Girls Aloud, and of course who could forget ‘the lift’ that almost ended in tragedy as Miss Fee was concussed and still has the huge bollock shaped lump to prove it. And that was just the main parties. What about everything else? What about my first date with Lil Red? And what about Lil Red’s three day sickie which saw us, Straight Man A and Beautiful Boy play on swings, play in the woods and break into mazes? And of course who could forget our jaunt up north with the fly infested B&Bs, the lost rucksack, the water slides at Landmark and the lack of any civilisation in the whole town of Inverness? The nights we have all met up in the pub are too countless to remember but I think the one that was the most striking was when we lost a plastic turd over the balcony of a posh nosh bar. And so, while there is surely so much to tell you, so much I probably have already told you in my previous posts and so much I neglected to record in my semi-daily rantings, this year has been unforgettable and I hope our lovely little group, where the dynamics are just that, does not disband and I hope we have even more fun next year if that is at all possible. We can’t wait for Summer season and already ideas for parties are currently being circulated, as well as possible locations for our next new year being cited. The first proper party of the season has already been planned and it is in honour of Miss Fee’s birthday. The theme is of course Britney and everyone has to come as either a ‘Britney’ or something Britney related. I’m doing ‘fat Stronger Britney’ while Beautiful Boy is doing Shiny Red Catsuit Britney. I am hoping The Queen follows through (not on my carpet she doesn’t) with her threat to appear as Christina but she does so at her own risk. We aimed to play ‘pin the piercing on Christina’ using a full sized poster but hell, I can’t think of anything better than stabbing the Queen in various sensitive regions with a sharp instrument. So, while it is still a couple of months till I ripen even more, I’m already far too excited about that event. Almost as excited as I was when Jo Guest chatted me up in a gay bar in London. Did I tell you about that?? Are you sure I did??
It’s a shame that my placement in London is all over and done with. This time last year I was sorting out my best knickers to take with me and looking forward to all the shoppin I would get to do. I had so much fun with the sneaky poos, the lesbo bars, the rotten footed girl, my new friendship with Straight Man A and everything else that meant I was not in Aberdeen and at university. If I could do it all again however, I would do work at my placement instead of spending hours at a time weblogging till my fingerprints had vanished. Or would I?
So, all that rehashed tripe was to tell you that I look forward to having more great years with the same people because I really don’t think you can ever tire of sweaty side ponies, Tiffany and Chesney, the internal tiny squabbles, the turd talk and everything else that goes with what makes us get on so well as a group. I hang out with a bunch of people, all of whom (aside from maybe 2) I knew for some time before and probably never even knew their second names. Now however, I know who will be the first to get emotional at a party, I know who will be chatting politics that I don’t understand, I know who fancies who (aha!), I know who will be stroppy over certain things, I know who will be the first to laugh at my shit attempt at comedy, I know who will be the first to hug you, I know who the serial texters are and I know those who are not. I know when some people are feeling shit and need to be left alone and I know when some people need a hug. Such a differing bunch of people that balance each other out so well that we get on better than any close knit community or religious cult. Ah the joys of friendship. Ah the vomitisness of Fee getting emotional. Ah the smell of garlic and herb cheese roulade. Ah the reek of Fee’s breath after half a pound of such un-vampire friendly soft cheesiness. Ah the joys of feeding a hangover.
So, have a good new year whenever it may happen, mine is in 12 hours and still am planless about what to do this evening and where to spend the looming 12 am. Oh and happy new year to Lil Red who hits midnight in around an hour. I’m sure it will be a good one.
I got the best wake up call this morning. When I stay at home I am woken up religiously by my furry dog jumping on my creased head and farting more than necessary while slobbering all over my face to add to the already huge pile of drool on my chin. However, today, I was so tired that I did not even stir when the doggie and his little bro came to party at 8.30am and they skulked off, feeling neglected. I was also so tired that even my mum's high pitched singing of Britney did not rouse me. This always wakes me as it drives me mad that she finds it impossible to ever get the words right and sings about Britney in a space suit in nebraska. Anyway, I was in that really good part of sleep, you know when you are dreaming about stuff like peddling a scooter (is that not impossible?) and descending spirally staircases with your love to reach the best toy shop in the world, when I was aware of my mum hollering and making her way up the stairs. Now this never fails to wake The Fee, even when I have 5 inches of foam wedged in my ears, the sound of my mum pattering up the stairs towards my room. I'm instantly sitting bolt upright, eyes wide open and running to pick up all my gayness from the floor, as well as all the sweet wrappers and attempting to shut the door in her face with my polished toe. The thought of my mum in my room with all the magazines and dust and crinkled clothes isenough to send me into a blind panic. And here she was yelling the very words, 'Oh it's [Lil Red]! It's [Lil Red]! She's calling all the way from Australia! Get up! She's on the phone! Come on! Are you awake?! It's [Lil Red] in Australia!!!' So, amongst the hyperventilating, somehow I managed to work out that my lady was calling me at some unearthly time of 10am god lord! Ah, a disturbance I did not mind. Some people you will excuse anything :-) I forget about time distance between us. That's a lie actually. I have a cool watch where I can program two different times so needless to say obsessive Fee had it set before Lil Red had even left the country. So, she was off to bed and I was getting out of mine. She called me last night too. I opted to stay in last night in case she called. And call she did, having been flying for 22 hours with her lovely surgical stockings pulled all the way up to the knee. And prior to Lil Red calling I got a surprise call from Beautiful Boy who is living the high life in New York for a week. That's 3 international calls in 12 hours. I have never been so popular!
I couldn’t sleep once Lil Red had called. I was all buzzy and happy. Slightly tired but not overly so but I surprised myself by my energetic leap out of bed as I cranked up the Tiffany and did a body roll (accidently) down the stairs. This surprised me because I am so bloody lazy that all I did last night was lie on my bed fully clothed with a dressing gown and slippers on and watched hours and hours of Buffy. So lazy am I that after about 4 hours I crawled into bed, still fully clothed and went to sleep. I don’t think there is an excuse for sleeping with jeans and jumpers on unless you are wasted and have no central heating. I don’t have either of these as an excuse. I'm just lazy. I would rather go to sleep with my bra giving my fat back a wedgie and wake up in the morning with the skin having been all rubbed raw than actually make the effort to remove it prior to sleep. In fact I am so idle that it’s impossible for me to become a permanent smoker because half the time I can’t be arsed with the whole lighting up process that takes 3 seconds. I would rather site there in nicotine craving hell, sweating and agitated and shaky because it’s often just too much effort to go through the task of moving my hand and using my lungs at the same time. I know I am not the laziest person in the history of lazy-itis but I’m sure I come close. I wonder how people put up with my lardy ways. Somedays I can’t even be arsed with the whole rigmarole of making a cheese sandwich and will instead eat cheese straight from the block even though I know how good it tastes with the pickle. Maybe I am just too greedy and impatient to take the time to prepare it. I also like to torture myself. Today I refuse to be lazier than a perpetual pot smoker and will actually brush my hair (like fuck I will, have you seen how frizzy it gets?!) and I will not wear the same clothes I slept in because I can’t be arsed changing them and I may even take the time to shave my legs. Ok, we also know that that is not gonna happen cos that adds a whole 5 minutes onto shower time and hell, it’s winter, I need a bit a fur to keep me warm. Ahem. So readers, go, enjoy your day in the sun or the cold and I will think about you all when I clog up the plughole with armpit hair because no matter how lazy I get, no matter how much it hurts to dry shave because I can’t be arsed using gel or even water, my armpits will always remain hair free because the last time I got too lazy to shave them was the only day I wore a short sleeved top and gave all the ladies a view of my new perm which went down as well as a lesbo faced with a whiffy, dischargey, crusty pussy. Enjoy.
I'm really concerned about my lack of puking of late and couple this with the fact that I am listening to Westlife, I think my life has either just ended or has taken a turn into the deep wilderness of insanity. It's not right for The Fee to not vomit after over indulging in alcoholic substances or heavy fatty food stuffs. I mean you all know I can handle 3 beers at a push and anymore than that and I am flying to the bog holding my hair back and reproducing my pie and chips. And you all know that sometimes I eat more than double my body weight and there is so much food in this usually very accommodating gut that there is no place else for it go than back out of my mouth. I have always been a serial vomiter. I don’t know why I continue to stuff myself shamefully with cheese and beer when I know the revisit is always far less pretty than the initial introductions but in the last 3 weeks or so I have been as good as puke-free. I was rather happy with this new-found no sick in hair state for the first few occasions when I drank a whole 2 litres of beer(jeez get me, aint I the hardcore?) but it wasn’t until after a recent night out where myself and Lil Red shook our booties that I came to accept the need for after-drinking regurgitation. I’d been to a wickedly fancy restaurant, a restaurant way beyond the standards of Fee and had chosen some licquer-filled soup as starter. I thought I would get to set it alight but alas, I was begged to sip it daintily, not to give the lesbo waitress a dirty look and pretend I was savouring every ingredient individually. This was all well and good until I ate my 4 course meal and everyone else’s leftovers and proceeded to down shots and take my lady dancing, on a very full stomach. After much dancing like a granny on whiz I found myself in bed and all pukeless. I was all ready to congratulate myself for having eating more than the combined weight of all my friends put together and for having drunk more in one night than I had in all the years of my drinking life without even a trace of a gag, when I awoke in the morning with my face stuck to a plate of tomato ketchup and I found myself hurling this body out of bed and spewing for dear life. All that produced itself from my over eager gut however was food, not a sniff of beer or vodka in sight. And that soup! That was possibly the most painful puke I have ever experienced. It was worse than ring sting and felt as though a sharp nailed wench was extracting my innards with her 5” false nails. Damn it hurt so bad. Anyway, my point being (hurrah there is one, kinda), had I of vomited pre going to bed all the alcohol would have released itself from my fragile system but as I waited until the morning for my gag reflex to kick in, the alcohol was all absorbed and there was only food left to make its second cameo. And, wait for it, this is the best part, because of this, because the stubborn alcohol soaked into my liver and kidneys and heart and arms, I was so utterly hungover that I was seeing treble, shaking like a crab in a nun’s fanny and too incapable of even washing and therefore smelling like stale nob and thus got all the personal space I required at work as no one was brave enough to speak to me or even stand in the same room as me and my fresh odour. Ok, for anyone that didn’t get that completely pointless story that I rambled all out of control, I will sum it up. I am gutted I am not throwing up after drinking straight away because I get even more hungover in the morning. I just wasted a good 15 minutes recounting my tale and I just summed it up adequately in less than 25 words. And it’s not even a new revelation. Everyone knows if you vomit after drinking that you feel better in the morning. Well done Fee. What a waste of all that spare time you have on your dollop hands. But let’s just say that my reputation as Pukey Fee will not abandon me because there is no way I can ever suffer the trauma of sweaty armpits and chipped nails at work again and so will make a return to my favoured chucking up way of life. Aaaaah. *Breathes deep sigh of relief*
Actually, I should be more disturbed by the fact I am listening to Westlife and actually confessed that publicly. There are many things in this world that there is no excuse for (such as natural coloured nail varnish, the colour brown and tapered jeans) and Westlife is one of them. I hope you readers are suitably appalled with me and will inform the social services about my crime against humanity. And now it is likely that I will slip into a Westlife induced coma and not regain consciousness for 5 weeks and 2 days.
PS Bo, how’s Westlife’s Greatest Hits? You tape it for me?
Tell me something. When does beer become simply liquid refreshment and not a means by which to get wasted? I hate beer, i hate the taste of it and I hate the way it makes your head fuzzy after only one but hell I drink it to get wasted. However, now I find myself drinking it because I am sat here, after a night with the Queen of Fun and Gobby Bobby and I cant be arsed moving further than the bathroom. There is nothing else to drink in the vacinity aside from really bad Holtsen Pils which I am only drinking because Straight Man A left it behind before he went to shake his cute ass with the love of his life (one of them at least). And really all I can think about is having a real good spew before I have to get up real early before I have to face mopping the floor at work in about 6 hours. It's the only thing on hand to cure the banging head and dry turd throat. I miss my girl. It's been an impressive 11 hours since we parted company, after we drove to the airport in an expensive cab and handed her luggage over to the safe keeping of fucking Bristish Airways and I miss her. I wish she didn;t have to go. I have to sleep all alone in my brother's bed after he also abaondoned me in favour of Leeds for New Year and I would rather light my own farts but I don't have a choice but to cuddle his football cow or hug his girlfriend's tampons . Five weeks isn't that long but it's more than long enough. And so I go to wallow in my pathetic self pity while dreamin of things I cannot have right now so please, do excuse my drunken behaviour which happens on this blog as often as I suck nob so have sweet dreams and think of cheese and crackers with liberal amounts of good pure butter.
Miss Fee has been abandoned! My Lil Red has taken off to Australia for 5 weeks and 3 days, stopping off in Singapore on route, hopefully not to pick herself up a cheap wife. In order to cure my selfish lonlieness I have prepared myself by purchasing the final 2 Buffy boxsets to give me over 8 hours of hot Buffy viewing pleasure. I have also upgraded my blog to Blogger Pro. While Buffy in tight clothing whipping her legs into a frenzy will definitly keep me satisfyingly amused, my Blogger Pro is disappointing me already. I'm trying to back date posts ( one of the features available with such an upgrade) but alas it does not work. I thought that seeing as I may well have too much time on my hands now and for the proceeding weeks that I could bore all 2 of my loyal readers into a deep sleep by recounting all the details of my christmas shenanigans which have have occured since I last wrote but it seems as though my self-generosity was a bit presumptious and luckily for those who tire easily, I don't seem to be able to do this.
And so it looks as though I will have to simply brief you on all the details whcih were actually as entertaining as a wet fart. Actually, a wet fart can be quite entertaining, depending on who the fartee is. And especially if the bubble bursts and a follow through is delivered. Wet farts are amusing when: an elderly reliative drops one into the conversation over tea and scones; when a friend who has never farted in public in their life accidently slips one out when discussing the finer points of marriage and mortgages; when an animal is the bearer of a wet fart and gets this sheepish little look on their face and you can see it blush more than I do when smoking in front of the parentals. Wet farts are not funny when: em, ok wet farts are always entertaining so that was a waste of a similee. Anyhow, now that I think about it, as it has been 9 days since I last posted, I have actually been on so many nights out (damn this festive period) that all the details are blurring into one event and distinguising between them all is very difficult. But, you know as well as I do that once I get a good story out of a stupid detail that I can flesh it out until it is no longer recognisable as the orginal encounter and bears no actual reflection on what actually happened and because of this, for tomorrow I will try and think of something to actually write about and will not moan about being left behind while Lil Red is hanging out in the heat as I freeze my nipples to ice blocks. And maybe now my Lil Red will actually read this webs[h]ite. She is armed with the address so I expect lots of comments from the Lil Red who actually does have more intereting things to do with her time than try and decipher her way through these lines of stale turd. It's like wading through a heap of cow crap with your bare hands - no matter how hard you look, no matter how much shite you get under your nails, there's never anything good to find. Exactly like my blog, you read and you read, expecting to come to the real juicy detail, to find a real beautiful punch line or to find some amazingly witty scandal but alas, as much as you persevere, you never get anything more than a ramble with very little content and nothing but turds and fanny and arse. I appreciate the perseverence however so thanks. One day I will surprise you all. I'm almost sure of it.
And as I wish to console myself I feel there is at least 2 beers with my name on them, not to mention a block of red leister cheese and a pack of 20 menthols gagging for my attention so I hope you all had a swell christmas and are continuing to drink yourselves in oblivion while I plunder on with pounds of good cheese and mince pies by the dozen.
Have a real good time Lil Red and think about me and I promise not to leave your flat untidy or to leave your lesbo iconography around when you mum comes to visit. :-) xxxxx
Ok so I just tried to satisfy my love for sweatbands by trying to find some place other than the crap Aberdeen shops to buy some pretty ones. How and ever, when I typed my question into askjeeves.co.uk, ('where can I buy cool sweatbands') guess which site came up top? My own. Am I missing something? Did I fail to notice that my site has become a sales outlet for the tacky accessories that I adore? Sadly not and so my search left me disappointed and sweatband-less. So, if anyone knows where I can get cool sweatbands (no sporting motifs!) then please please do let me know and I will be forever in your debt because I can't handle my wrists looking the same as every wrist belonging to the wannabe-cool 14 year olds of Aberdeen. Help me.
I went on a works night out last night. I love works nights out. They are an excuse for any rabble of people who have nothing in common but their place of work to get together, get wasted, reveal secrets and generally embarrass themselves to the point where they will never look you in the eye again. It’s great. I like observing other people on works nights out too. They are so easy to spot because no one looks like they fit in and aside from the flashing hats they wear, you’d never associate them as being together. There’s always some standard fixtures at the ‘office party’. For example, there’s always the geeky guy in a musical tie with charicature socks, a slut who is as appealing to the eye as sun dried jobbie, there’s the older woman who only gets [her chuff] out once a year and is drunk on sherry, there is the office junior who has to be smuggled into bars because she looks as young as Tiny Tears and there’s the young boys who all try and slip the office tart a digit as she dips a finger into her xmas pie. They never have anything to talk about that isn’t about work, about that time the boss suggestively brushed past them, and the time when they got their breaks cut short by 2 minutes and of course the time when a customer did not say ‘thanks’. The scandal you hear is astounding, really it is.
Having witnessed more than my fair share of works nights out from a distance over the past couple of weeks, I was naturally concerned that mine would follow this pattern, worrying that once the red t shirts were cast aside that the personalities would also be stripped bare and the silence would be ear splitting. I needn’t have worried. Even if I had been in he company of the most excruciatingly dull people in history (which I wasn’t), the amount of vodka I’d downed in shots prior to meeting would have ensured I would be the proverbial social butterfly, whether anyone liked it or not. Of course it turned out that my ‘just one drink to show face’ turned into a proper session (which saw me drink a further 4 drinks goddamn!) and the conversations were not as strained as a stubborn shit. Of course we got the customary moans about work out of the way where my drunkenness saw me reel off a tirade of abuse about anyone that wasn’t there but after that we found there was plenty to talk about, that our beautiful, xxxl uniform was not the only thing that we had in common. Some left, and the hardcore went to the shittest club in history. On route me and the accompanying Lil Red picked up a Gobby Bobby after buzzing her buzzer at some hideous hour of the morning. We expected to witness the Bobby in her pyjamas but when all three Bobbys (it was treble vision by that point) presented herself at the door, she was all ready for drinking. Impressive. This club, Oh Henrys, was a classic works night out place. You know because you are all so completely different you can’t agree on a place to frequent so you end up in a cheesey tune joint where the only other customers are the bar staff and the dodgy Aberdonian types who wink and smile at every passing bit of ass. Its horrendousness and its emptiness did not quash my desire to dance like an ass however and with delights such as Britney, Pink and Madonna it was all just too much. We slipped out undramatically as the numbers diminished and we’d done enough cavorting on the dancefloor as everyone missed all the beats and danced as though it was a wedding function or a mosh pit or brothel. It was a good night, different scenery and different people to torment with my shit jokes and exaggerated stories. And I’m pretty sure that there were no incidents that will cause me to be the figure of ridicule when I go to work tonight. No more than usual anyway and I didn’t sleaze onto anyone out of sheer desperation (cause I didn’t need to, ha!) and no one sleazed onto my girlfriend thinking I was invisible so yeah, all was well. Although I did try to recruit 2 into the homo crew (sadly the invitation was rejected) but I only talked about tits and shit for two thirds of the night. Well done Miss Fee! I can only guess at the content of the other third.
And so I got to reflect on my unusually good behaviour and wonder how these dead legs are going to carry me to work in 40 minutes.
Tell me something. Why the hell are we subjected to The Royal Variety Performance every bloody year? It's been polluting our screens since forever with people who dance to the beat of basketballs and cardboard tubes, folk singers who sing about 'love' even though their cynical faces tell us they've never experienced it and comedians who muster as many laughs as my flatulance does after a chronic 23 hour burst. It's been going on probably since the Queen Mother popped the funny looking Queen out of her chuff and still I don't know what the hell it's all about. Possibly it's a charity thing and an excuse for the uglier than thou Royals to grace the public with their respectless presence. It's a sham. Last night we were privy to the usual wonderless acts where a granny with spindly legs hollered into the crowd to tell us she was still here, as if we could have failed to notice, an aged never been funny 'comic' used sexual innendo a bit too liberally and all the shit pop acts, who thought it was such an honour to be asked, performed badly in worse clothes. And what's it all about when they get these second rate pop acts to introduce an act, disallow them to sing and make them crack over-rehearsed jokeless jokes which would have left even the Queen Mom turing in her fresh grave. It's embarrassing. And if those acts are supposed to be some sort of reflection on the British culture then we are taken to be a bunch of arrogant pricks with a sense of humour which insists we laugh at the gay 'jokes' because it's cool and that we must listen to humiliating pathetic sexual conotation jokes which leave us picturing Bruce Forsyth (a well past it TV presenter) in the scuddy. I didn't think anything could put me off my hangover cheese and toast until that moment. And how many hours did it go on for? About 48. And who booked Gareth 'Turd Hair' Gates to do his rendition of Elvis? Does that boy need any more excuses to strutt around thinking he is an Elvis reincarnate?
In all the years it has been on, the only memorable act for me was when Neighbours was at its peak and the cast did some sort of shit skit. Now that was classic television; watching dodgy Australian Z list soap actors with mullets and perms and stonewashed jeans curtseying and guffawing in front of our gammy haired, big eared monarchy. If I ever decide to put myself through the torture of this again and am faced with people skipping around like nobs and singing in stupidly loud theatrical voices I will put my fat fist through the television and extract Bruce Forsyth's innards personally. And then we will see how he likes to have the shit ripped out of him.
And so I go to reflect on how good Austrailian soaps really are and thank the lord above for Flick Scully and her bad acting soap family.
The interesting snippets of conversation you hear while out freezing your jumbo nips off smokin a beautiful menthol:
"The only problem with parking your car here [in the uni carpark which is a 20 seconds from the building] is you have to walk to get to it"
"I put on a stone in weight over a year from drinking Irn Bru [national Scottish drink with more fizz than sherbet]"
"I know where my fuse box is"
"She's such a bitch, her decrepit face is always moaning about something. Ssh, here she comes. Hi michelle u r my best friend"
"Oh My God. That girl has fingerless gloves on" [directed at me]
"I'm too scared to tell him I don't like that position It hurts my back and cramps my toes" [don;t even wanna imagine]
"I only drink hot water with a slice of lemon" [I pulled]
"I hate this place. It's on 5 floors" [probably me]
"Do you think he is gay?" [referring to the bleached blonde boy with a wrist limper than his penis]
"Do my arms look flabby in this" [yes]
"My pussy is sick" [I can tell by the look on your face]
"Being at uni is so different to being at school" [aha...]
"I have to go, my boyfriend [in the tracksuit] says i must meet him now or he'll go without me and batter me later. He's really nice, I think you'll like him."
"I was so drunk last night that I slipped off the curb" [wow, those 2 vodkas must have been really leathel...]
"Lesbians are men"
"I was on the phone all night. Jason called me 6 times to tell me he loved me"
"I had soup for breakfast"
"I had nothing for breakfast. Breakfast is so unhealth"
"Is Clinton still president?"
Fuck, I could be here all day. It's the best bit about smoking solo, listening to all the dyed haried, over made-up, superficial girls exasperating over their 18 boyfriends and how 'up' on world issues they are. You'd think I went to 'Kindergarten for Slags' not university for beings with more than a milimetre of brain space.
PS a boy has 'blue' as his rintgtone. He must be gay
I got caught smoking yesterday. This type of thing should only happen when you are 12 and are caught leaning out of the bedroom window puffing on a stolen fag because as you mask a coughing fit you drop your lit end out the window and it lands within your mum's high hair. This type of thing doesn't happen when you are 23 and have been smoking on/off since your were 15. Or it shouldn't. But it did. I smoked from the years of 15-19 and gave up for 3 years and since then I have been smoking 'temporarily'. And yesterday I got caught for the first time. And all because a tabby hadn't flushed right when I tried to discard the evidence. Damn new plumbing system. I never thought to tell my parents I was indulging in the lung cancer sport because unless you get caught when too young to care what your parents think then there is never a good time to drop it into conversation. "hey ma, I've been lecturing you for years on not smoking and getting you upset in the process, do you mind if I spark up and share a fag with you?" I expected the lectures of 'you've seen what smoking does to me and your dad, you should know better' but all I got was, 'hey feel free to light up in the house anytime but watch you don't set anything alight.' She thought it was hilarious watching me go penis pink and trying to rationalise my smoking habits to her. And then it happened. The she imparted this mum wisdom upon me which sent me into full scale shock. She said 'well, you are an adult after all. You are 23.' Fuck. Am I really a grown up? If my mum thinks I am it must be correct. Parents are always banging on about been grown up and telling you that you need to do this so for my mum to turn around and tell me what I have been fearing for all eternity was pretty scary. Mum's know everything so I really must be a grown up. At age 23 I thought I was still classed as a kid. I wanted to be classed as a kid until I was old enough to appreciate wine (which will probably never happen) and watch the news without gawping at the newsreader. I thought by the time I realised I actually was a grown up that I would be watching Countdown with my incontinence pants on while sucking on my false teeth and by that time I would have regressed back to being a kid, needing help to the toilet and only being able to eat mushy food so I thought I would really miss out on the part of actually being classed as a 'grown up'. My mum has shattered all my lillusions with a giggle and a smirk. I think I must go and steal sweets and eat sand and play doctors and nurses again to prove my lack of grown- up- ness. Oh parents can be so cruel.
I wish there were such a thing as taxi queue etiquette. The other night myself and Gobby Bobby found ourselves very drunk and in the midst of World War 8. The taxi queues at the weekend are ridiculous. We must have stood in one for around an hour surrounded by middle-aged people lecturing us on politics and child labour in Kuala Lumpa and polo necked men intent on starting ruckuses. It was embarrassing and actually rather scary. All I wanted to do was go home but the queue was never ending because of all the inconsiderate twatts in shiny shoes who skipped the queue. Usually no one is brave enough or stupid enough to say anything to these assholes because you know they are the ones who will happily swing a fist or bottle at your head but on this occasion, Papa Smurf decided it was his call to tell the square-jawed man with red glary eyes that he must go to the back of the queue. Gone were our awe-inspiring conversations with this couple as the old guy in his large rimmed specs tried to stand up for the whole of Aberdeen to a towering giant. Anything would have been ‘towering’ to this guy whose height would have taken the piss out of a dwarf. I wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter, that yes, I was freezing and soaking and exhausted but that I didn’t want to be embroiled in some fight where I’d end up getting to my bed only after a 5 hour wait in a hospital waiting room. But, neither of us could say anything for fear of turning the brunt of the fight toward us and just as the giant drew so close to the dwarf that he could have been kissing him and invaded any sense of personal space with a fist raised, we saw the luminous body warmers of the never-usually-there-when-you-need-them police. The situation was diffused and I was left hoping that my mum and dad would not conduct themselves in such a fashion in a taxi queue on a Friday night. Maybe we should have been grateful for our ‘elders on a power trip’ who probably did think they were doing everyone a favour but really they should have had more sense because I’m quite sure that old boy didn’t want a shiner to show his mates, he was a perfectly respectable guy who probably had 2.4 children and 5 seater car. I would hope that when I am grown up enough to stay home and drink wine that I will do just that or at least stop kidding myself that I am only 25 again and try and be king of the taxi rank. Sadly ‘age’ does not equal superiority in Aberdeen’s nightlife, grandpa. They should employ a taxi queue warden. You know, someone who patrols the queue all night to ensure that things run smoothly and cooperatively so people like me can get a decent nights sleep. They’d need a hell of a lot of body armour and a skin thicker than horse turd though. Or maybe if the police were more available. Instead they sit in McDonalds scoffing cheap burgers and downing tar-like coffee all night and pretending they are oblivious to the smashed windows and smashed faces. That really helps. It’s just so fucking rude to be standing there and all you can think about is your bed and how you are now only 32nd in the queue when a bunch of arrogant assholes come sneaking in with a ‘alright darlin’ you don’t mind if we stand in here do u?’ Of course the question is rhetorical and you only need to glance at the amount of bruises and cuts they share between them to know that there is no way you will be answering back. These are the same ‘people’ (I use the term ‘people’ but really I mean ‘brutes’) that will grope your ass if you pass them in the streets and you’re supposed to laugh it off or get called a ‘fat ugly dyke’ because you must be fat and ugly and a dyke if you don’t fancy them in their chinos and checked shirts and burberry caps. Far too many people find these vile attentions flattering but I don’t want ned man hands on my ass thank you very much. This ass is for special people only and I don’t want their calluses and warts tainting my new jeans. That kind of pollution is hard to shift you know. There’s only so much Stain Devils can do.
And so I go to do some cheese tasting (as if I am so capable of anything as dainty as simply ‘tasting’…) as a congratulations to myself for drinking 5 whole pints without major spewage last night.
Why do people need to eat their fingers when stuffing no less than 23 crisps in their mouths? Crisps should be banned from being eaten in public. It does nothing for my nerves or my mental state in general.
It's madness I tell you. I'm sat here at university on a Sunday afternoon and it's 3pm. That means I have been here for 4 hours. I was also here yesterday. I should have been at work yesterday but a mild seizure on Friday which caused my brain to cease up completely led me here instead. In the 4 hours I have been here I have smoked 2 cigarettes (I don't really smoke at all normally), eaten my lunch, had some soup (seperate form the 'lunch' part), drank hot chocolate and water, checked my email every 5 minutes and wazzed about 18 times. Oh and I have written a few hundred words. I'm really restless. It was lovely and quiet when I first arrived. I mean who else would be in uni at that unheard of hour on a sunday morning apart from the janitor and Straight Man A? But now I am surrounded by loud talking people who don;t even talk in English and who eat their lunch that smells of stale crap in my face. It's 'forbidden' to eat in the labs and this is why. Because it reeks. I can't concentrate as it is but when all I can smell is curried puke I just wanna get up and punch someone, preferably them that are eating stinkin' food and talking loudly as though they are at opposite ends of the country. It's completely inconsiderate. And then I'll be sitting here shooting them evil looks and they talk louder and gesture in my direction in their unknown language and burst out laughing. It's smart really because now when I fail to get past the 500 word mark I can blame my failure on gobby, badly dressed people who also have nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon. I like to blame other people for my misfortune. It makes me feel much much better,unlike that stench that is going to cling to my nostrils until I die. Or until they do... Hmmm, where's those pills so I can crush them up into their runny shit like food when they are least expecting it? I tell you, I'm thatclose .
I swear I can't take it anymore. I can't remember the last time I was this stressed out. It really plays havoc with your mind. It's all just too much. I chose to do the optional fourth year at uni, mostly because I fucked up so badly last year and thought this would be a chance to redeem myself if you like. Only I didn't think there would be this much work involved. I didn't think I'd be dreaming (nightmaring rather) about dissertations and literature reviews and wondering when I'll be able to relax again. I'm so tense that my fingers shake. I'm starting smoking for the next 2 weeks. I have been sat here for about 6 hours and am incapable of forming a proper sentence. It doesn't help when my 'coursework panic' leads me to take out my rage on everyone around me. It doesn't help when I get embroiled in a text slanging match of my own making. It doesn't help my stress to stress other people out along with me so why do I do it? To take my mind off the 5000 words I must compose before Monday? No excuse is a valid one.
Unlike kitty and maggie and sometimes charmin who often get disillusioned with blogging which causes them to wonder why they do it, I think blogging is the only thing that keeps me relatively sane. I think I'd be a big crumbled mess if I didn't have somewhere to vent my frustrations about the appaling nature of everything in my little world. I love to blog. I can be in a mood more foul than a pungent fart and once I start to write I am instantly lifted up again and everything is put in perspective and I can see that there is more to me than being fraught with anger. And that is why I am writing this, so I don;t reach for the knife or even for the email to mail my lecturers and pathetically beg for an extension because my own lazy arse left everything till the last minute, the way I always do. Self inflicted stress must be worse that any other stress because I know I caused it all on my own but at least I know it is fixable.
And there it is. I feel better. My heart has slowed to a reasonable rate and the sweat is drying from my fingers. I feel calm enough to tell you that last night I crossed dressed. I donned a red boob tube as a skirt, a sleeveless top and knee high boots. It was truly a wonderous sight and I looked like a cross between tank girl and a fat Sarah Jessica Parker. I'm so glad i had that camera out of sight! The sight of my corn beef legs and dimply knees and flabby bingo wings would have been enough to have fainting film processors all over the land! I was not born to wear girly clothes or at least not ones that show as much flesh as a whore in the throes of passion. Truly vile I say, truly vile. And so I will leave you with the thought of Miss Fee posing as a tubby hooker. Not a sight that will make your dreams pretty.
Enjoy the weekend, I'm sure mine will be just swell once my brain starts to refunction again.
I hate that place. I hate the butches in skirts and crop tops with 8 visible bellies who claim to be straight. I hate the femmes with their bleached blonde bobs which make their usually pale features even more indistinguishable in amongst the vastness of fright white. I hate the way vile lesbos sleaze around hot femmes thinking they can ‘do’ them and I hate the way hot femmes are so easily flattered by these pathetic attentions. I hate how there are more straight people than gay people in our only gay bar and I hate how they look at you as if you’re in the wrong place. I hate how the sequined fag hags try and undress every poof with their savage claws. I hate how people walk straight into you so their sweaty pits are in your facial area and you can smell what they ate in 1993. I hate how these inconsiderate up-their-own-ass wankers never apologise for sending you flying into a hideous creature who cops a feel. I hate random arse feelers and I hate people that get excited by a sneaky unknown finger tracing the outline of their ass. I hate how unless you are a have a dick and a pretty face it takes 40 minutes to get served at the bar. I hate how people hold grudges against you for that one time you stood too close to them 5 years ago. I hate people who purposely burst balloons against your leg just because your teeth don’t jut out at a 90 degree angle. I hate the blocked toilets which mean you have to spend 30 minutes in the company of all the fag hags who can’t believe you can be gay cos you have hair and I hate the fact there is no toilet roll in the cubicles but plenty on the floor for you to drag all around the club on your beautiful furry shoe. I hate the two-faced people who speak to you when you are with someone but as soon as all that finishes they only speak to the ‘prettier’ one who could never be offensive or ignore you in the street. I hate it when they blank you in favour of the someone else everytime while I'm left wondering why their lack of interest in me bothers me so much when I can't think of one good thing to say about them anyway. I hate the twatts who spin around on the dancefloor forgetting there are another 50 people vying for floor space too and I hate the femmes who think that because they wear a bad gypsy frill or see through shirt that they are beautiful and that it is perfectly acceptable to walk around as though they have a steel pole up their prim little ass and that everyone should be thankful of their presence and try and do them. I hate everything about that place. Everyone has such an unnecessarily high opinion of themselves. They all think they are so much better than the next femme wannabe or the next shirtless poof. They make me sick. If they looked in the mirror for one single second they would see what everyone else sees, a vain nob with stupid clothes and the personality of a decaying moth. I think the femmes that try too hard are the worst. Who cares that you can wear girly shoes and fitted trousers? That doesn’t make you any prettier than her in the baggy trousers or her with the cropped hair. And at least these people have personalities and don’t go out solely for the reason of being worshipped. I’m sure they will all live miserable existences as despite being some sort of ‘show piece’ for the blind, they have no substance, their conversations are limited to ‘you’re a dick’ and they can probably fuck as well as they dress. So, don’t stand all over my feet again and don’t bother squinting at me in an effort to give me a dirty look with all that eye liner on because I can’t even make out your eye area. I hate you. Fuck off.
So, that was my weekend. How was yours? I feel marginally better, having gotten all that out of my system. It freed up some head space and now I can tell you what I like – to even it out and to make my screwed up fingers less tense.
I like being happy. I like not feeling insecure and I like people who don’t make me feel like an oat from a turd. I like being called ‘favourite fee’ and I like being called ‘baby’. I like my new skirt and I like the trousers I wear underneath it. I like going to the pub in a group and I like phonecalls from my friends. I like a nice text and I like a surprise email (even if I am bad at replying). I like when I don’t have to eat to feel happy and I like eating cheese. I like the way my hair sits somedays and I like my sparkley nails, apart from the one that I chewed right down. I like not being hungover but I can’t remember what it feels like after drinking more than 2 drinks. I like my new cd and I like stupid things that make me smile. I like not stressing myself out by thinking too much and I like not going to that club because it stresses me out. I like friends who don't try and do other friends and I like not thinking about this. I like hanging out with my bitches and I like it when they feel the same. I like mochas and early grey and I like coconut everything and having good smelling hair. I like other people’s hair to smell good too and I like when they remember silly trivial things that I expect them to forget. I love watching buffy which I have missed ever since the new series started and I like watching Sex and the City. I love a night in when our group gets together and I love the stupidity that goes with it. I love how people get excited over immature things and I love how I know all of my friends are always there. I love hugs and kisses and any kind of affection whenever possible from the people I like and I love to return such affection whenever possible. I like all the people who I know from weblogging and I like to blog whenever I can. I like it when I can make myself smile so it’s even better to make others do the same.
I like a lot of things but usually my head is so filled with uncalled for angst that the good stuff gets lost. Now I think I have exhausted my likes for the day but feel kinda good for doing so. No doubt my rage will have returned by tomorrow because as everyone knows, I’m angry Fee but until then I will wander around inside my head and try and catch all the good thoughts before they disappear. And while doing that I think I’m allowed to eat onion rings and ice cream and think about power walking into town.
Holy Shit! Two revelations have been brought to my attention since yesterday. These are two things that I really really did not know previously. The first, wait for it... is that Britney is not a lesbian! I can't believe it. This whole time, since the day I saw her in her long socks and pigtails, I have always just assumed that someone as hot as she could only be a homo! I even thought there would be a day when my Britney would come looking for me, in all her gayness, and invite me back to hers to listen to her records and maybe have a kiss. And in my mind these things really did happen. But now, it transpires that she is in no way inclined toward the beaver. Someone 'normal' called something like Lanelle (like 'flannel' in a French accent I imagine) thought it necessary to point this out to delusional Fee. What the fuck am I to do now? How can I possibly go on knowing that Miss Spears doesn't want to sniff rug? My life is empty now. I'm sitting here with a blunt knife and a head full of anger and I must end it all. Lanelle, I do hope you know what you have done to me? Crushed I am, just crushed. And if this wasn't bad enough, if it wasn't bad enough to find out my love only wants to play with snakes, Lanelle informed me of something else I was blissfully unaware of: I am a freak! Jesus mother of God. I am a freak! I thought I wrote about turds and blue jean arses because I was perfectly sane and non freaky! Oh good lord there is nothing left for me. I am a freak whose true love will only ever see me as a friend because I don't have enough of one equipment and too much of another to satisfy her. Thank you so so much Lanelle. If you had given me your correct email address I would have been able to address my concerns to you personally but alas you did not. And so I go to play with my knife and wonder why 'normal' (whatever that may be) Lanelle has nothing better to do than leave pointless remarks that do nothing but state the obvious and make me giggle and make you look stupid Or maybe you just wanted to split me and my lover up. What's wrong with a love affair that carries on solely in your head? Well, fuck it, I am a freak after all. Goodbye cruel Lanelle and your viscious viscious words. They have pained me so horribly that I cannot say your name without fear of acrid bile spurting from my kissable lips but really, thanks for visiting and do drop by again, incase I make it through the sad and lonely night.
And so I go to pine over a love that never was and never could be.