Diary of a Glitter Splashed Britney Lovin' Lesbo

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

Name:Miss Fee


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Currently Reading:

The Outsider - A Camus

Choke - C Palahnuik


Thursday, May 8

Since I last wrote…

Friday was pub night. Five hours of drinking ‘press the button happy hour’ drinks, at least 7 you’ll be astounded to know, with the usual rabble of ten which culminated in the welcome return of Fee spewage. It was grainy, painful and vile but still it felt better than the spinny double vision my pathetic amount of drinks had bestowed upon me.

Saturday saw an early, hungover and sweaty morning which got sweatier after 2 hours of dancemat and which got hazier as the day progressed due to the intensity of the hangover and the effort it took to string a whole 500 words together on gay ethics, a topic I once thought I may be interested in and now I give as much as a turd about it as I do naked cock. Or any kind of cock, clothed or otherwise, for that matter.

Evening came and so did big balls. Bowling balls. I won, The Queen of Fun won, two poofs won, the other four were last, everyone was moody and the arcade version of the dance mat was out of order. No, me and my large weight had not previously been and pummelled my whole body weight into the machine causing it to break down. Conversation was limited, alcohol did not flow freely and someone won 30p in a machine. Bed was very much welcomed.

Sunday was a blue sky day, unusual but true. A further 1500 words were concocted from somewhere on that subject I now care for as much as I care for my 15 bellies. The words were immature and rushed and the skates were donned and I fell over not once. My glittery wheeled boots were the bomb but I lasted only 15 minutes because someone couldn’t get off the ground in her roller blades and I can’t skate alone. Along comes our lift and out the window goes our hoped plans for hanging with certain people who stayed in because they are dull (or lazy) and talk to you like you are an oaty turd they just scrapped off their gay shoe. Dance mats in full working order but too much of an audience ensured the dollops would not make an ass of themselves publicly. Some coppers were won, some air hockey played, some competitive streaks shown, a burger consumed, too much wind in hair and a heap of ice cream devoured before the return journey. On return, the double dance mat made an appearance and Bombs were dropped, new songs discovered and the perspiration dripped as liberally as an over-eager fanny. Bed was not early enough.

Another early morning on Monday saw dollop numero uno on the dance mat for 10 minutes before ‘the annoying jerk from downstairs’ came by, arms folded, big calves bulging and smug grin etched across face to demand no more dolloping on the dance mat (again) as now dollops and their lardy dance-matting-ness have made cracks in his ceiling. Had I not have answered the door in make-shift pyjamas (was only expecting the postman and my glorious pyramid belt), with chuff hanging out I would have asked Fat Calves to show me his crack. Or maybe I would have left that till a day that Beautiful Boy was over. Whatever, days of dance mat are well and truly over, as it the possibility of me losing any one of my 15 bellies.

Still having around a week to do two of my remaining three courseworks, I figured I would take advantage of the warm weather. So on Tuesday, once again, the skates were wedged onto wide feet and I whizzed round the park slower than a lazy eye and wobbled and wibbled like a large belly free of clothes. Sleep was well needed. The dollop exhausts easily.

Wednesday was much the same, though someone got off the ground in blades this time, I fell too close (not close enough you may think) to a water fountain, had a picnic, had some lovely kisses, watched cottaging fags who were over sixty years old and had on cooler jeans than me, and went for coffee with The Gentleman before getting 76 lectures at work over many things from the state of my unironed shirt to the positioning of my badge on my unironed shirt (too close to nipple) to not charging my phone at work (I wasn’t) to me being a spoilt kid to the amazing televsion genius of ‘I’m a celebrity, get me out of here’. The hours between 9am and 5pm clearly made for an enjoyable day while the hours between 6-9pm were as dull as those people who sit on their arses all day all night in favour of fresh air and dare I say, a walk.

And so while my week has been vaguely more entertaining than I have described, yes really it has been, after next Wednesday, I plan on day-tripping, drinking up to seven drinks every two days in celebration of being finished with this school crap, and learning to actually stop on my roller boots before I reach the wall so be warned that the misadverntures of Fee and Co will hopefully begin real soon. Summer party season is just about here and I have my flip flops, water gun and paddling pool all ready. And maybe just maybe then I will think about getting a real job. We’ll see.