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


Wednesday, April 23

My roller skates are on their merry little way. Imagine the above 'disco' skate in red and blue. That's what mine will look like. The dollop on four wheels? It's all too exciting.

Britney Wannabe

4/23/2003 02:15:00 PM

Wednesday, April 16

The Crack is Back

Summer has clearly reached Aberdeen. The sun peeked it's fat yellow head out from behind the usual clouds and now there is a sea of crack. Just descending the stairs to uni I was faced with 14 lady cracks. Two of which were hairier than an overgrown chuff, 5 of which were spottier than a pubescent teen and all of which were in danger of leaving a tan line where they sat. That's more crack than a girl ever needs to see. What is about the sun that drives people to wear jeans so low slung that their manky pubes creep over the top? What's attractive about knowing that the hot blonde is actually a sweaty brunette? I don't mind a hot ass with a visible thong winking at me but I really can't cope with the amount of brown eyed monsters I have had glaring at me today. It's bad enough that whenever I sit down that because my fat gut forces me to wear my trousers around the fanny area, I feel the cool Aberdonian breeze trying to slip in my ass like a wayward cock but to have to witness the sheer vulgarity of girls with untended, pimply, pockmarked, sweaty cracks simply because the sun wasn't feeling so stubborn makes me quite queasy to be honest.

And so I must go because I feel the irritant in my toe is due to someone having left too many strays in the shower today and I must remove it before it burrows itself into my skin completely and I end up with even hairier toes than my dog. Life is tough.

Britney Wannabe

4/16/2003 01:50:00 PM

Tuesday, April 15

Why is it that at every party I go to I always end up so bruised the following day that I look like I have been fucking in the missionary position with a sumo wrestler? I wonder if it could be the fact that I have a tendency to drink conncoctions of beer and wine and vodka which leads to hurling my large body around in ways a large body should never be hurled around?? Of course, I knew this latest party would be no different. Somehow I ended up spread eagled in the shower with an equally drunken Bo in my lap. It should have been a lesbo’s wet dream but unfortunately it was just wet as someone, namely Beautiful Boy, switched the shower on and made our freshly straightened hair pube-like. Falling, or actually, did a Lil Red throw me? into a ceramic bath is not good for your ass. Neither is pedalling a vintage French-esque bike with a sadle sharper than carving knife while tingling a rusty bell. I swear the wheels on this mummy bike were larger than the bike itself. But you should have seen me go. You should have seen my hideously curly wig bobbing past the window as I struggled to gain control of this relic with skinny yet strangely large wheels. What a beauty. After about the 800th time I passed the window with a grin smugger and bigger than the wheels of the bike, I knew I had to fall. I also should have known that if your cycle an old bike with a few hundred punctures into a gate at full force you are going to do your already fragile arse some more damage. I did it anyway, completely ignorant of the consequences of a bruised fuckin arse. Crashing into the gate I somehow landed in the potted plants which were actually nowhere near the crash site. I can only assume that in my vodka haze I picked my aching arse off the ground and proceeded to butt dive into the hanging baskets just for good measure. One whole person came to my aid. The other bastards were either stuffing their big faces, struggling to see out of puffy eyes or relating tales of lost love and curly turds. Despite my ass being sorer than ring sting, I tore off on the bike again and did another dramatic tumble as I tried to dismount. I knew my poor ass was gonna look more mangled than a whore’s chuff the following today but hell, aside from the fact I am now walking like I have a 20 inch butt plug up my ass, it’s impossible to tell the trauma my fat ass has been through.

Tender arse aside we had a most enjoyable party. There were trips to the nieghbour’s garden where we almost lost a Gentleman to a freshly dug trench, there was the pass the shots of any available alcohol games, naturally there was the customary running around the garden to Tiffany and sadly there was also Westlife Kareoke. Before the Bo arrived we hid the CD. It’s a sad fact that Bo has more than a tendency to slap on the crap and stand too sturdily in front of the stereo, just daring any fucker to try and slip Britney on and then force us to listen to slit your wrists crap until you actually do. Despite all our efforts, a drunken Bo had us on chairs singing into smoked daffodils and singing the wrong words to poofy Westlife with all our drunken hearts. It was all too much. Why would she put us through such traumas? Why I ask you, WHY?

Despite the shite Kareoke and broken butts and bust flower pots and smashed ornaments we had a lovely time. We always do and this party marked the start of the good stuff to come. I only hope the swelling on my arse goes down before the next one and I also hope that my mum forgives me for the damages and the fact that her cupboards are barer than the Queen’s newly waxed tache.

PS I just saw Princess Ann. I feel so special.

Britney Wannabe

4/15/2003 12:33:00 PM

Friday, April 4

Issues of the Day

1. Should men ever be allowed to wear caricature socks? This morning my bleary eyes were were forced to witness a 30 year old man with Tigger socks on. I was repulsed. What sort of message does this send out to potential partners? 'Hello, I am Brian and I wear socks that suggest I am either 5 years old, blind or too lazy to wash my white sports socks that I usually wear and pull up way past my spindley knee'. And of all cartoons to splash across your ankles, he chose Winnie the Bloody Pooh (what an intersting image of blood ridden turds I have cast up)! Not even The Simpsons or some tacky 'beer monster' socks but a poofy tiger from a something that most girlie's obsess over because it's so damn cutesy. Ridiculous. And why oh why do men with snappable ankles wear their socks so high they double as trousers? Poor Tigger's face was stretched so badly that it began around the ankle and finished below crotch area. Why were men not forced to wear slouch socks when they were younger geeks? That would have taught them that scrunched socks are the bomb. Men counting the folds in their socks? Now that I would love to see.

2. These friggin knickerbockers that gather around the calf that wannabe trendy chicks are cutting around in. The majority of fashion sucks because designers are totally taking the piss. They design all these pointless garments knowing full well they are crap but if they are said to be fashionable then people will buy them and wear them and look like pricks in stupid clothes. Aberdonians are the worst for follwoing a shite trend. I swear every second person I see has donned these long granny pant-esque things simply because some designer thought it would be funny to watch over done up girls swaning around thinking they are models. Even the boys are having a go and their twiggy legs look far better in the ruffles than most of the sturdy calved women who wear them do. Even more special is when a pair of knee high boots are shoved on with these pitiful excuse for trousers. Since when has it been even slightly cool to look like a horse rider? None of the mindless twatts even like half the stuff they wear. The just open a magazine, pick an item of clothes from each page and in the name of fashion call themselves trendy. They suck.

3. The annoying bastard who just entered the lab that I was occupying all alone who sat down at every computer despite the fact you can only log on to one at a time and heaved and sighed and threw his large sports bag on the ground repeatedly. When he finally calmed his acne ridden face down he then proceeded to take out a very large packet of Asda own biscuits, munch them down 4 at a time and chat on his phone in some made up language that sounded like he was talking a cross between Portuguese and Gaeilc with a hint of Deutsch for harshness. He spat his way through this conversation for 10 minutes, with cheap biscuit flying a bit too closely to my newly straightened hair and when he does holler his good byes he proceeds to have some kind of crazed fit on the printer. Sheets of paper are flying in all directions and his face is getter bigger and sweatier by the second until her realises there is a camera pointed directly at him. It takes a good half hour before he leaves again and as I mutter 'goodbye prick' under my heavy morning breath, her turns round and glares for approximately 20 seconds, says something in his imaginary language and leaves. Thank fuck. Peace at last.

4. Neighbours. Who needs 'em? Not me and my lady that's for sure. My girl has been in her flat for so long now, with the same neighbours and never has there been a complaint. Along comes The Fee and two incidents occur within a week. The first grievance was our over exhuberant bouncing on the dancemat that caused offence. We'd been throwing our lardy selves all over the place, trying achieve Grade A when the banging at the door stopped us in our merry dollop ways. It was the geek from down stairs, in shorts and football socks thinking he was pretty smart. I answered the door with my swollen face, dripping my perspiration on his bright whites as he told me we could no longer 'do whatever we were doing' because all our heavyfootedness was shaking his chandalier from the ceiling. Mortified. I should have explained that me and my lady were fucking on the floor when he tried to acuse us of using a treadmill! Hello?! The Fee on a treadmill? I so don't think so.

I hoped I would never see 'the annoying jerk from downstairs' ever again because I was so ashamed that he saw me with my trousers tucked into my socks and my big red moon face but alas, when you're a noisy bastard you should expect to face the consequences. After a little get together which saw a whole 5 of us watching hours of Sex and The City, clearly Sporty Man was jealous at the amount of sex the TV was getting and decided to come a knocking again as soon as we switched the music on for a whole 2 minutes. Man I was so annoyed. I maturely slammed the door in his cocky squnit face and jumped on the floor, right above the area where his fricken loose light is/was. I don't think he realises just how loud he 'woo hoos' every time he enters a room or that we can hear him strumming on his geeeetar and crowing some painful rendition of 'Beautiful' til the early hours of the morning. Think I may launch a vendetta against him for being such a puckered asshole. Think I will dance so hard that not only will his showdy light fighting collapse but I will go through the ceiling also. That wouldn't be hard and wouldn't that be such a pleasant surprise for Mr and Mrs Sporty Pricks? The full weight of the Fee being forced upon you from a great height... Should life ever be that cruel?

And so I go to punch the annoying foreign prick in the side of the head for reentering my peaceful little world. And will also ponder why I enjoy such a good moan.

Enjoy the weekend, I know it can't get any worse than today.