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I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else My Profile
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I’m a day off being 25. That’s 25 years not 25 stone although judging by my current eating habits I’ll be reaching that milestone very shortly also. Twenty five. Five and twenty. To me, twenty five signifies perms, high waisted mummy blue jeans, clerical work and Wet Wet Wet. I always assumed that when I hit the ¼ century mark I would automatically turn into a clone of that geeky older cousin who even when she was 14 had all the makings of my nightmare vision of a 25 year old. It’s been an issue which has stayed with me since I was about 8 and a vision which is as stuck in the 80s as Duran Duran but it hasn’t lessened any over the years. I am convinced that I will awake tomorrow to the screams of Lil Red who will witness my overnight transformation before I can wobble to the mirror and view it for myself. The Fee she knew and loved will be lost to her forever and now in place of odd Miss Fee with her mismatched style and her sometimes cool hair will be Fiona with her huge side shade marching around in stonewashed jeans and nameless skinny plimsoles while knocking passers-by flying with her mammoth shoulder pads. Oh help. Oh no. It’s the all new 25 year old me.
I hope to be able to quash this issue tomorrow when after initial, ‘holy craps my hair is massive’ I will realise that no perming lotion has taken over my hair in the night, nor has a new romantic stylist taken over my wardrobe and I will be free from the worry that I may start listening to easy listening music just because I am 25. And maybe now that I am a grand old age I will start to make more of an effort to get out of retail and into something I am interested and qualified to do. I will not have to sell Royal Duty or The South Beach Diet to anyone ever again! I will not have to reveal my sweaty crack to the passing crowd as I stock low shelves or retrieve a wayward book from the window! So 25 can only mean good things. And so I go drown my sorrows with asparagus soup whilst remembering the days when all I wanted to do was be a gardener and ensure the smooth running of my insect cemetery and not have to worry about power suits, quaffed hair and half mast trousers. Oh and what the hell has happened to Trisha’s hair? I tuned in this morning and thought I was in a time warp. How can these people take advice from a woman with an acid perm in 2004? This week I have been disturbed by: Some woman who had Burberry checked fake nails. Classy as the Aberdonian accent. The old guy in the cinema who gobbed into his cup at regular intervals. My double chins making an appearance in the next ScotsGay magazine. Not attractive. Not cool. My frazzled hair extensions which doubled in size and frizziness due to being straightened. Even less cool that I didn’t notice these dreadlocks in my hair for days. The fact I am 25. With a face this youthful??! The amount of low flying boobs there was in this house on hangover Sunday. The huge snow shaped Fee I made when I caught my jumbo shoe on my flare and landed belly down in the cosy snow This week I have been overcome by Jennifer Anniston in Along Came Polly. The gasps that escaped our lips when she first appeared caused neck strain and spitballs amongst our fellow viewers. Oh what lesbos. Champagne fuelled snowball fights. Knowing I will get to see Pink and Sugababes in the same week which in turn has led to a road trip to Manchester and Glasgow with Lil Red, J Bo and The Beast. Gay Bar Gay Bar. Dawson’s Creek Season 1. All that 90s hair and pompous drivel they spout is rocking my off work world. The fact that I finally managed to finish Widow for One Year. What an epic read that was for me. Britney Wannabe 
3/04/2004 03:54:00 PM
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Adventures of Charmin |
