Today I look like a pigeon. I'm grey mostly with a few splashes of colour and a puffed out chest. I hate the cold. Well that's a lie because I would rather die from frostbite and watch my toes crack off individually than die of heat exhaustion and a sweaty red face. I do hate the way you are often forced to dress in the snow however. Today, to reach my pigeon like state, I had to don my extra huge grey cord coat which I am convinced my mother put wrongly in the wash as now it has about as much shape as a sack of tatties. Not only that, in order to gain the puffed out chest look which was sadly nothing to do with me having sprouted a mammoth set of tits over night, I had to tuck in endless amounts of scarf which really is quite suffocating. It's pink and mohair though. Am I forgiven for looking like a sky rat? Wait for the hair though. The only thing about me that doesn;t look pigeoney. You would be forgiven in fact for thinking I was a rampant lion beast escaped from the zoo because it's vastly out of control and very mane like. Either that or I am Worzel Gummage. I know I regularly look like a combination of many things but a pigeon crossed with a lion is not a good look for me. A bit like hair in the rain. Or my whole self in a wet tshirt. Or my hands carressing anob. It's just all wrong. And you know what made my day even better, after scaring passing drivers inot thinking a half-man mostly-beast type thing was running amok, I then had to wait in a bus shelter with no shelter for 30 minutes. What's worse is the fact that I struggled to get my ginormous body onto the bus, to find one available seat with a fucking lesbian with her hiking boots all over the chair. She shifted them aside far anough for me to see the mega wet patch they had left so I was left perching on the edge of the seat as she grinned her big gay face at me. Vile. So then I flashed my big gay book around in an 'up your ass' kinda fashion and she moved her feet right of the seat, spread her legs wider than the ocean and went all coy. Dyke. Needless to say when I arose from my seat I was now the bearer of the wet patch. Lesbo. Anyway, enough about the excitement of snow having finally rached Aberdeen in good amounts. Well, at least it looks pretty. It doesn;t feel so good however when cars deliberatly splash the inches of black slush against your new jeans. Poofs.
And so I go to hope the snow is still here when Love comes home so I can get even more snuggles. Althought there will be no more sex in public as it is now illegal. I think that's all very well in Winter cos who wants to get their chuff out when its minus degrees but in Summer.... come on! Will the cocktail 'sex on the beach' now be changed to 'sex in the bed with the unwashed sheets that may give you bed bugs and cause a drastic decline in your sex life because of the monotony'? Oh but be glad in the knowledge that gays can still shag in public toilets. As long as the door is shut. That's ok then. I can still bare my chuff with the aroma of stale piss clinging to my adventurous nasal hairs. Phew.
It's amazing what search words will lead people to your site huh? My new favourite search phrase is BLOATED PUS FILLED SWOLLEN SORE RED FANNY. Am concerned about the perversions of John and Dan who found me via this phrase. I mean, I love a fanny as much as the next beaver eater but what's delicious about a puss dripping pus? My teeth would like to remain white and not yellow tinged. And I'm sure John and Dan don't really wanna see the inside of a mangled up fanny do they? Please tell me it aint so boys! Surely you wouldn't want to put your lips to a fanny that is reminiscent of a decaying badger? Imagine the taste of putrid piss that would stay with you forever? No amount of mouth wash could kill that I'm quite quite sure. If the fanny is rotten then the pubes would either be sparse or crinkled and crunchy. Another thought I wish I didn't just have. May go now and think about flavoured cheese. No I think I lost that thought forever. Or at least for the next 30 seconds.
How was the weekend for you? Mine was homegrown. The group was lacking in members, with some with their partners, some in Edinburgh and some at birthday events so there was only Beautiful Boy, Sexy G, Queen of Fun and of course Moi. What party is complete without the Fee ingredient? Sad truth of that statement is ‘every party’. The food run was done in advance anticipation and I was so excited when I came to the ‘flavoured cheese’ aisle that I stocked up my basket with about 40 different varieties, from mustard cheese, to horseradish cheese to turdy cheese. I didn’t care. As long as the main ingredient was cheese. Yes, I’m sure I don’t like dick. Anyway, this was even more exciting that a regular munchie run because I haven’t eaten properly in weeks. I know you will find that very hard to get your chops around, but really, I have been living on babybels and apple and mango juice for about 5 weeks now. It’s not a conscious choice because you know I can refuse food as well as I could refuse the lure of a pretty Britney. It’s weird but I miss my food. I wasn’t disappointed when I felt the appetite growing larger than I know my gut could accommodate. I feasted all night. Sexy G feasted more and I had to keep up. The amount of cheese and crisps and dog biscuits that were devoured was vile. As were all asses after a block of blue cheese. All windows had to be thrown wide open to ensure we would not gas the dog alive. Mind you, I know I wasn’t the only one with ‘sex offenders’ yesterday but at least mine weren’t after having scoffed haggis and neeps. Jesus. I’m glad I didn’t see that person at all yesterday. I only hope their Gary Glitters have cleared up today in case someone is propelled along the dance floor due to more than adrenaline. So, the night was pretty stupid. We lost a Beautiful Boy to his bed I’m sure pretty early and the Queen was lost to the sofa, who of course didn’t feel any effects, she was just tired. Yeah. I got to sleep in the comfiest bed in history and the only thing missing of course was my Lil Red. Planning to make the most of our Sunday off we were up bright and early. The lure of the homegrown was too much however and six hours later the homegrown was disappearing faster than you could say ‘chuff chuff’ and we were still sat around watching the never changing music channels and still talking about the previous nights topics such as rim jobs, cling ons and G’s favourite position. I finally made it home a day later to pass out for a nice 12.5 hours, waking feeling slightly refreshed, and ready to pretend like its summer and go to the beach and then maybe go for a dance.
And what else? My lady is home in 7 days. Everything is all good.
Apolgies for the total 'flatness' and slightly uninspired blog entry. Sometimes my head can't turn dull things interesting or vice versa and this is one of those days.
Today I would like to share two shorter than trimmed pubes poems that were texted my way yesterday. It's just to show you how much my dear friends are concerned for The Fee and her missing of her hot chick.
Feely up Fee
How long will it be
Till your lesbo returns with your fanny key?
And to follow this theme, here's Bobby's effort
Thirteen days til some action for your chuff
But make sure to avoid the dreaded muff puff
So, while I thought my friends were worried for my fragile mental state, really all they are bothered about is me getting laid :-) fair enough.
Actually, now it's 12 days. And as I am waiting for Love to call, I really shoulnd't be on the Internet so off I go to wait for the phone to ring because that's all my life really involves right now. Don't be jealous. I've even started imagining phones ringing. I wake up in the night and will answer any phone out of the three that prop up my bed because I'm convinced i hear it ring. I donlt think that's normal. I don;t think I am normal but this is not a new revelation.
Like most people, I hate exams. I know you gotta do them but when you are sat there, all irate after 4 hours sleep and being careful not to snag your leaky pen in your droopy eyes, and you got to sit far too close to Pen Clicker Pete and Orgasm Oli it's all too much. I can't concentrate at the best of the times but when these two launched into some synchronized form of annoyingness I swear I was ready to blow. What was so damn good about a 2 hour open book exam that Orgasm Oli had to continually demonstrate his ecstatic pleasure to the whole room? Was Pen Clicker Pete doing something he shouldn't have been with that perpetually clicky bloody pen? With every turn of the page (and considering its an open book exam, that's a lot of pages) we were all were privy to a gasp and a ooooh and a urgh and many many more throatal noises that would have made even the gobbiest sex person jealous. It's very off putting you know. I couldn't even look at the orgasmer because how can you look at someone you don;t know when you know what they sound like when they are coming? I didn't want to see the face of this person because I know what he sounds like when he's got his cock in his hands. I can only imagine his face was screwed up in some 'butt plug up arse' fashion but that is only guesswork. And you know what's worse than these two skin-crawlingly annoying bastards? The guy who was sat in front of me with the skinnier than my pinky ankles on full display for my crinkled slitty eyes. I have never seen such pitifully skinny ankles in my life and the amount of hair that was present would have been enough to keep warm all the hairless cats in the world. It was vile. And he had on spit-through sport socks that I imagine were once white, yeah when he put them on 17 days ago. This is why I hate exams. Because the people in them cough and sneeze in flying flem fits, wear dirty underwear, smell up the whole room with last nights tea breath and come on the desks. For the sake of my deteriorating mental health exams should conducted in solitary confinement where I don't have to look at or listen to these pricks who will ultimately perform better than me because I took time out to assess my personal hygiene and social manners.
And off I go to slit my pretty wrists because the image of these fuckers is haunting me and will not cease.
Happy anniversary to my lovely lady and to moi. Well, officially our 8 monther was yesterday but as I was in the rage from hell I thought it better if I didn’t write anything at all. Otherwise, any sort of entry may have read like this:
Jesus Christ. I want to extract the vains from my arms and wrap them round my neck and pull tight until my eyes pop out of their swollen sockets and fall to the ground where I can trample them with my stupid fat shoes.
So yeah, today after at least 6 hours sleep, as opposed to the 3 I have been running on for the past few weeks, I feel slightly less aggressive and more awake. I would also like to warn you readers, that there is a slight chance that this entry may be a tiny bit gooey and may make you wanna see the contents of your gut. So, if you think you can handle The Fee telling you, again, how much she is in love then please do feel free to read on. But, on the other hand, if you think you cannot cope with Miss Fee being sickly emotional then I will understand and you should return another day for more tales of tripe.
May was my favourite month of the year. I can’t stop thinking about our first kiss. When I try to sleep all I see is us huddled in a doorway, just off a large taxi queue and I remember all the tingles that went with those first kisses and those tingles still make a very frequent appearance :-) We kissed for so long that the 2 mile taxi queue had vanished without us having noticed anyone or anything for what could have been hours. And from then on I have had the best time. She makes me laugh so hard and everytime I see her, I cheesey grin so wide I swallow 4 houses, 16 cats and 14 dogs in the process. If the last 8 months were good, with our dollop outings to swing parks, breaking into mazes, running around Landmark like kids and generally having a fantastic time, then once my lady returns with her joined up freckles (he he baby) then we are going to have an even more fabulous time. It’s gonna take some beating but I’m sure things can only get even more amazing.
My lady will be home in 2 weeks 1 day and the amount of ‘missing’ I have done has hurt so bad but just think of all that catching up we have to do… No, don’t you think about that. That’s for mine and Lil Red’s thoughts only ;-)
And so I go to think about my baby some more and hope the happy camper is surviving with all the beasts and a general lack of civilisation.
I think that I am going to have to seek planning permission for my nostrils. I have noticed that my nasal holes are unfeasilbly large and take up to much room in this world. Now I know many people have orifices that they would class as big enough to stuff teddy bears in, like Beautiful Boy who can store enough small change in his belly button to feed the entire homeless population of Aberdeen, and of course all them slack Alices who can house 2 cups of tea and a scone in their fanny but at least these holes can be as vast as the Sahara without anyone noticing until they get naked. With nostrils however, they are on blatent show for everyone to see. It’s a bit like looking up someone’s ass, no one really needs to see that far up my nose and you can even be standing in the shop next door and still get sucked into the empty abyss that is my nasal cavaties. Nostrils are just like fannies, the more you stick in them, the wider they get so I guess I only have myself to blame for all the years of nose picking which has seen me stretch my nostrils from ‘barely get a nail in’ to ‘jesus, a whole fist’. You may be wondering if I am using nostrils as a metaphor for fanny but no, really, I am talking about the hairy holes on you face. I don’t suppose that really cleared anything up but hey. I’ve never been a stranger to inserting inanimate objects up my nose but the best time was when I got some sort of stopper wedged right inside, so far up it was almost popping out of my eye, and I had to be held upside down and shaken like I was the last penny in a jar that had become stuck. I don’t think I have been right since that day. I’m sure it shook my brain further backwards than it should be. I blame my nostrils, or my inability to keep my fingers out of them, for my lack of brain. You look at my face and all you see is 2 waterless swimming pools but thankfully without the stubborn turds that hang round unwantedly. I always knew they were pretty fucking massive but I didn’t realise that they could house a refugee family of 15. Maybe I could claim benefits for them. I don’t even suppose there is anyway of shrinking them either which is a shame. I wonder how I would look with tight little nostrils? Maybe my face wouldn’t be the same without these ‘always room for more’ gaps and I just pray that my nostril hair never grows out of control and doubles as a moustache. Oh please let my nostrils shrink in the night. I can’t bear to keep the entire stock of Dunkin Donuts up here anymore. The sugar tickles my nose and all that sneezing can’t be good for the dough.
That’s enough. I must go and not think about nostrils and think about non illicit passions because that’s far more interesting that nostrils wider than Oprah’s arse.
I just went to the hairdressers. This is quite an accomplishment considering it’s been a whole year since I last did this. And for anyone who has seen me recently you will know that my hair is long enough to dust my crack. It’s been severely out of control for longer than I can remember but when a haircut costs me £31, there has been so many other things I would rather have spent my money on (skirts that are too small and CDs I will never listen to for example) so when my mum paid for it upfront I had no choice but to go get my savage locks cut. I was very excited because I love my hair being messed with (is it possible to have G spot on your head, just behind the ears??) so I made myself as respectable as I could (well hello, with all those mirrors and vastly open windows anyone could have seen me) and headed to heaven. Trying to walk at a reasonable speed with a tight skirt and slippers on is quite a task by the way and for any girlies amongst you, you will know what I am talking about. Finally I hitched my skirt up, walked in socks and made it to the salon, perspiring and smelling like slaughtered cow. Oh it was worth 365 day wait. The only thing I hate about going to the hairdressers however is the fact that they wash your hair all good, leave you smelling so clean and then prop you up in a chair in full view of the street with your hair slicked back and piled on top of your head in a Patsy Stone kind of fashion so all the passing grannies and skanks get to see you at your worst and looking like you have most certainly not stepped out of a salon. A good few inches were removed, I got a years worth of chat (even managing to slip my new lady into conversation through a huge beamer) and was more than satisfied with the results. She then proceeded to straighten my frizzy matter with the ultimate straightners and when I questioned, ‘should my hair be smoking?’ she gaily replied, ‘hell it aint that good for your hair but what’s a few frazzled ends for an hour of beauty?’ Fair enough. And to keep it sleeker for more than five minutes she sprayed so much pink glittery hairspray (oh they know me so well) that when I sparked a much needed (almost post-coital) fag, my whole head went up in flames. Oh the price you pay for looking glamorous. It’s only a shame I’m not a sexy movie star because then I may be able to pull off my straighter-than-Gwyenth hair but hell, if I blank out the face, imagine my body clad in a D&G number then actually, it’s still nowhere near. I know that by the time I face the winds of Aberdeen to go to work (where the hair will be ruined anyway by my ever so unsophisticated red jumper) my hair will be back to its usual larger than life standard and I will whip it back into the silly fashion I usually wear it. Oh to not have hair that’s thicker than a tough turd. Oh to be a glamorous movie star. And oh to just revel in my pretty hair for just 30 seconds more and be happy for once. *sigh*
Oh and it is now three weeks till love comes home. Life is all good.
Sometimes being a lesbo really fucks me off. Not because girls piss me off and I wish I was a cock lover but because I’m so fed up with having a hot lady and being in love with her and not being able to show her off to the world. Not that I see my lady as a show piece (hey, that’s tomorrow’s entry) but I just wish I could walk freely down the streets of shallow minded Aberdeen and hold her hand and tell every passing crew cut and Burberry cap that this is my girl and I’m lucky to be with her. I’m not overly shy with the whole public affection thing because when you need to touch someone, when you need to feel their skin against yours then there’s nothing you can do about it, you just got to have that feeling. However, it is so hard to walk down the streets with your girl here and not fear for a smacking. I don’t think either of us look like lesbos, well I do more than she does but I’m no kd, but as soon as I feel my hand reaching for hers I can feel the cross eyed fuckers in puffa jackets and skinny jeans double chin starring at us like we have the bubonic plague and they will catch it if they don’t make aggressive comments towards us. I don’t understand what the problem is? Why is it such a big fucking deal? And why oh why, unless we want to have cheap lit fags thrown at our faces, are we relegated to kissing each other in toilets and being on permanent watch incase the door is swung open by a 50p bottle blonde slag in a boobtube who will run and tell all her mates that there are ‘perverts’ making out in the toilet. It’s so degrading and vile having the smell of urine permeating your nostrils as you’re about to lose yourself in your girl’s fabulous kisses. And what’s worse is the fact that I cannot object when Mr and Mrs Uglier than thou sit directly across from me, with their cracked faces and food stained shell suits and lick each other’s tongues as I eat my meal. Surely it is a better sight to witness me and my lady having a little kiss and a cuddle than viewing that circus of horrors eating foosty lip for lunch? Why should he with his callus-ridden hands be allowed to feel her up in full view when I can’t even kiss my girl’s soft cheek? It’s easier when I’m with a group of people to be more myself with my girl but there are just so many boundaries I’m scared to cross incase someone is looking and I get a dirty knuckle sandwich for my next meal. I imagine many cities are still like this but in Scotland’s third biggest city you’d expect better. You don’t expect than people have never seen two girls holding hands before or even standing that little too closely too each other but here, the majority of the population are far too content with labelling everyone that does not kiss members of the opposite sex and wear imitation labels, as freaks. I would rather be a freak with a beautiful girl who makes me happy than have so much hate and intolerance in me than be one of these ignorant, badly dressed wanks who have no more words in their voacbularly than ‘dykes’, ‘perverts’, ‘freaks’ and ‘poofs’. I hate Aberdeen and it’s pathetic inhabitants who need to try stepping into 2003 and realising that their chain smoking shit fags and wearing ill fitting jeans and thinking ignoramus thoughts are not the only way of life. And so I go to load up my big gay gun and think of all the public kissing they are going to be subjected to when my hot lady comes back to town because we have got so much catching up to do.
Until then however I am resigned to kissing my pillows and my photos. Oh the wonderfully sad life of Miss Fee.
Why do I find other people’s toilet habits so amusing? Why do I find it utterly hilarious when I find someone else’s log floating in the murky depths of the toilet after an unexpected reappearance? Why is it the funniest thing in the world when someone accidentally let’s go of a huge guff when they do a side stretch? Why do I crease up with laughter when someone slips off for a sneaky poo and leaves the mother of all smells lingering for days as well as a 4 inch skid mark? And why do I go running to the scene of the crime when someone else discovers another’s evil deed? Why do I need this further proof that someone I know has just done a crap? Why do I care about anyone else’s shitting routine? I know it’s not just me. I’ve seen someone leave half their bowel in the toilet and they didn’t bank on a re visit so when the crime was discovered and announced to the room, every person (including the perpetrator who shall remain nameless) ran to the toilet to witness the carnage and to point and jeer and feel safe in the knowledge that they now they know what [nameless’s] turds look like when they are extracted from the bowels of hell (the term ‘short and curly’ is not only reserved for pubes you know…). It’s weird. It’s weird how I never laugh at rehearsed jokes but these moments of spontaneous crap are enough to send The Fee rolling around on her fat gut until it hurts so bad it feels like my insides are being cement mixed. Only today I was in such a messed up, creased face state over constipation. Thankfully I have never had hard excrement sitting around in my belly for 2 weeks. So you’d think I could never imagine the pain of sleeping on your gut, which is harder than a cock after viagra or that I couldn’t imagine the sheer strength you’d use trying to shoogle your rock out with or the colour of red your face would go with all the effort. You’d also be forgiven for thinking that I could never understand what it must be like to shove a nozzle up your arse and squeeze out goo to numb your back passage to prepare it for the eventual birth. However, thanks to the visuals I was provided with, not only can I feel all these traumas in my head, but I am also stuck with the image of the constipatee forcing out a rectangular shaped turd whilst grabbing onto the side of the bowl and praying for a girl. I can see the super pooper’s face all crinkled like a foreskin as the largest, most abnormally shaped jobbie (what happened to the curved edges is what I want to know??!) finally relieves itself from an unaccommodating backside. Finally ridding yourself of such a mass of pressure must have felt like an orgasm. Imagine the little face light up with pure delight, like the first time those fingers went a wandering, as Tracey Turd made her entry into the world. Also imagine the major amount of back splashing that must have occurred. The blonde hair was now mousy brown with a tinge of chocolate. Apparently it only took two extra flushes to rid the house of such an immense poop. It’s a shame it was the mother who had the job of double flushage as the perpetrator was so ecstatic to have dislodged the cushion of shit that had taken up residence for two weeks that he/she was now able to eat, gyrate and wank and so left his/her mother to fend off the attack of the 6ft Poop. All the pooper heard was, ‘Jesus Christ it’s back again’ and then finally, ‘ah sweet relief. I never want to see your oblong of brown ever again’. I don’t know what happened to that jumbo job (although I’m sure it should have been retrieved from the toilet and cut up and sold to stoners) but there’s no way something that solid would ever have dissolved and it’s possible that it’s the only thing keeping the house up. Although, there are rumours that Mr Brown is now a small continent or far off planet with it’s own brown residents doing their own brown things. Whatever the outcome of Mr Brown, King of the Craps, to this day, he/she who delivered the brick of shit has never felt so light and always makes sure there is plenty of Bran in the flakes and never misses a meal of fibre with his/her fruit. I’m sure there is a lesson to be learned here. I have a feeling it will be to never rip the shit (sorry, couldn’t resist) out of other people’s misfortune and I will now find myself unable to let go of my dinner for days upon days, until I definitely cannot fit into my new, already-far-too-small skirt. Bastard.
And so I conclude Tales from the Turd for another evening and go ponder over the new delights inside my wardrobe and wonder why being gay has to be so complicated. But that’s tomorrow’s entry. So goodnight readers. Do return and leave me some comments and make me happy.
Well hello there. It seems like it's been forever since I wrote although in reality it's a whole 9 or 10 days which when you have been doing as little as I have been, it really does feel like longer than my hair which, by the way, is out of control. Now, while I'm sure you all missed me as much as you miss those hard faeces that build up in your gut after weeks of constipation, I have missed blogging. However, the sad fact of the matter is that I, Miss Fee, Queen of Poop and Accentuated Fanny Watching has become dull. Well actually I was well on my way prior to this but now I may well be duller and cloudier than a piss after a Guiness drinking session. Do you know the most interesting thing I did last night? I tried to train my bladder. Really. Trying to teach my bladder that 2am and 4 am and 5.30 am and 7.45 am are not appropriate times to be needing relief is like asking a bulimic not to vomit up that 4 courser plus double dessert she just wolfed down. Is that really how boring I have become? Telling my readers about my weak bladder problem? It's not like I need panty liners or anything but if I did, I'd definitely be a user of them scented ones. Mmmmm, the aroma of stale piss mingled with delicate rose petals... how fresh would my knickers be? Like a cow shit on a hot summer's day. What happens with panty liners if you take someone home? Obviously if it's jammy rag time you feel comfortable telling someone, 'hey, no fingers in beaver today because there's too much jam in the sandwich' but how do you tell someone your bladder is out of control and with one sneeze you may urinate all over their pretty fingers? Maybe you need to find someone who has a pee fetish. Or maybe you just need to whip your soiled panty liner off and discard it before your partner discovers the yellow tinged mass in your pants. Whatever, I don't need panty liners. In fact I don't even usually have a bladder weaker than Superman on Kryptonite. It only happens in the night. Every night without fail I am up at least twice and that's on a good day. And so fed up was I of going to my cold bathroom that I decided I'd had enough. I reckoned it would take more effort to get up and wazz than lying there holding it in. I lay there without much discomfort for the first hour and even managed to dose on and off but after a while I could feel the pain building and building til I was at the point where I couldn't even move to get to the bathroom because any sudden movement would have caused me to wish I had a whole pack of panty liners wedged inside my knickers. Still I wish it were okay for an adult to pee herself. Not just in the computer labs because it is too cold but especially in bed. I mean, no one would have ever known. I could have laid there rolling around in moist sheets for hours, staining my body with urine with my every turn and by the time the sheets got unbearably whiffy, everyone would have left the house and me and my clammy, stinky body would have been ok to wash the sheets before anyone ever noticed. I didn't though. I didn't pee the bed but I think it's a hobby I may take up, if only even for the warmth and confort it may deliver while my sleeping partner is away. I must be sure to give it up before she returns however as I really don't think she'd appreciate the warm gush of Fee against her legs in the middle of the night. And yes, I'm still talking about pee. And while I go to ponder my sad life that has resulted in me telling tales from the bog once more, I will tell you that I miss my Lil Red. My missing of my lady has led to such disatrous weblogging efforts and I apologise for the complete lack of content. Not that thre is usually much point to the crap I speak but you'd have thought that seeing as I haven't written in so long that I would have some real scandal for you but hell, my life is studying and missing Lil Red. It really can't get any better... Oh I could tell you about my new year... if only to re enact the famous Gypsy Frills Anon doing a flying backward roll off her backless chair and landing in a heap with legs akimbo and fag in hand... Maybe another day. So, have a good day/evening and I will be sure to think bout you all when I introduce myself to the peeing in bed game, as long as you promise to think about me wading in hot steamy wee all the way up to my flabby elbows.
Well I was just reading back over some of my comments and I saw one I hadn;t seen before and was posted after my 'I miss Lil Red' post. Here's what amah had to say: 'do you want to feel like a king and to have a very happy life read about islam or be a mouslem and you well see the difrant'
Well, amah, thanks for dropping by and your comments were taken notice of but I have to say that despite my temporary sadness that I think I do have a happy life. And my lady makes me feel like a King ;-) so you know, just cos I am a little miserable right now and am incapable of feasting on cheese at present, it doesn't mean that I am always this depressive. I don't think I need to change my way of life but I will keep your suggestions in mind anyway, so thank you.