I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else
That's two visits to the gay bar in 5 days! What on earth? It was mucho spontaneous fun but today it's all blurred vision and puffy eyes. What a treat.
*Reality Tv Star Alert*
Remember Shipwrecked? Remember the year when lesbo Lucy got herself in a state over a gay flag? Remember Stuart the camper than Kylie dancer? I can't imagine why but he was in the gay bar shaking his teeny booty on Saturday amidst a mild flurry of attention from those who have been wacthing the Shipwrecked repeats on Trouble.
*Reality Tv Star Alert Part Two*
Lynne Moncrieff sans trademark hat but instead sporting a massive fringe.
Two in one week. It's all too much.
My non frizzy hair but how long can it last?
A whole week off with my Lil Red
The oddly deformed look that toe socks deliver
The return of the tapered jean. Top Shop, I blame you.
Break ups :-(
Beautiful nails caught in vicious cheese graters
Being surrounded by whiffy arses
Two days left of holidays :-(
2/19/2004 03:13:00 PM
I love it how these days I don’t have to wait with sweaty anticipation for a Valentine card. I was always one of those who would send out about 40 cards in the hope that at least one would be sent in return (even if it was a ‘return to sender’ deal). It never happened though. No matter how hard I tried I never once got an unexpected Valentine card. I think the boys could smell the desperation as well as the cheap Tribe perfume on my cards which I would send out about a week in advance so someone may take pity on the girl with the white slouch socks and moon face and have time to fold a piece of paper in half, draw a loose heart and post in through my letter box. I even sent cards to the proper mingers, the pubescent boys who were acne and BO ridden and wore polyester and ‘I love Coast del Sol’ T shirts but even they shunned me! How rude!
Once I grew out of the baggy socks and tights phase I started to send to the girls who would be repulsed to know that it was I, the master beaver hunter, who sent them the sickly cards and not their current wandering hands boyfriends who took all the credit for it anyway. I never stooped as low as to compose my own poetry however and stuck to the customary, Roses are Red and other obvious and stupid hallmark ditties. Maybe that was my failing. Maybe if I had personally crafted a poem for each poor bastard receivee I would have had more grateful respondants. But you know, some how don’t think so.
Thankfully my days of kicking the postman in his empty sack are over and now I can enjoy not only a card but all the goodness that goes with having a lovely girlfriend on this special day. Vomit.
Speaking of which, Lil Red may be vomiting tonight as I am in charge of cooking an entire meal. We decided not to venture out amongst Aberdeen’s hetero couples for a meal tonight after last year’s escapades but will instead consume Fee poisoned food, washed down with ample amounts of voddie and proceed to the gay bar to shake our gay asses in a better fashion than we did last week. All high kicks are banned.
And so I go attempt to roll pastry with a bottle of vodka and a beefy pair of clammy hands. Sweet.
2/14/2004 04:30:00 PM
Firstly, I bought Wrong Turn on DVD despite the fact that I watched it in the cinema and quote shit myself unquote. It was a hideous film that I found especially difficult to watch and which induced months of nightmares. You would think a sane person would not wish to put themselves through all that again but I found myself counting the days till its release and struggling over whether to purchase this or Tomb Raider, having money for only one. So, basically it was a fight between Angelina in lycra or Eliza Dushku in bootcuts, desert boots and wife beater. Sorry Miss Jolie but even If watching Wrong Turn would wreak havoc with my mind for weeks after, Eliza in all her hotness was something not to be missed. And yeah, watching it twice deifintely did not make it easier on the mind but at least this time we had the beauty of a fastforward button.
Secondly, despite being so completly frustrated, to the point I wanted to yank clumps of my hair out with each stupid page I turned, with it I read Powerbook by Jeanette Winterson to the painfully shite end. It's a book I have been meaning to read for ages because the blurb was completely alluring and inviting but I swear it was the biggest waste of a week ever. It was so flowery and disjointed and didn't deliver any of the exciting plot it promised. At least someone knows how to write a good blurb because the book did nothing it said on the package. I persevered because I so desperately wanted it to unravel itself and reveal what I was hoping for i.e less unrelated spew and more hot plot but alas I was utterly disappointed and have vowed never to read another Jeanette Winterson. Others I have read of hers previously have not disappointed but here I think Winterson ruined a chance at a completely original plotline by filling it up with regurgitated bile.
And the third example of my masochistic tendencies which are lingering around of late is that despite having caught my thumb on the grater and being in total agony, I am still madly texting away albeit less vigorously than usual. With each click of the worn down buttons this searing pain goes shooting through my entire body eventually delivering a spasm of sorts but still I text on. I think I am addicted to text. Like there is any disputing that fact.
Anyway, I am going to sit through (though not actually 'watch') River City which is a clear demonstration of my masochistic ways. Why else would I sit through this atrocious Scottish soap which boasts the worst acting, the ugliest cast and the most harsh array of accents TV has witnessed since Baywatch. At least Baywatch had red swimmers and boobs and not shell suits and scrunchies.
Listening to: The Rapture
2/10/2004 08:22:00 PM
Not to worry, I have suffered the consequences of all that today and I have been in my pyjamas so long that they are welded to my aching, hungover body like a leotard. It's not pretty. But in general, hangover days with hangover food and hangover TV rock, though the hangover bit I could clearly do without. But now I must go limber up my jaw because there is a clever little poached egg muffin calling my name.
2/08/2004 06:00:00 PM
Did you catch my screen debut on MTV's Rich Girls the other night as the girls relived their individual 'blackout terrors'? You surely must have seen my sweaty moon face charging past the camera as I made my seven mile journey back to our overheated hotel? Come on, in amongst the millions of freaked out people I must have stood out, if only for my period red face which was perspiring more than my armpits? Ok, maybe not but you must have noticed those puffy, mud-caked ankles that kept blocking the camera? Maybe you mistook those beefy treats as pigs on spits?
It was so cool watching that. I fully panic attacked as much as Jamie did. My meagre life flashed before me many times as my certain death loomed. It was more likely due to dehyrdation and the effort it took to carry this hefty body all that way home, supported only on a pair of flimsy flip flops. I swear had it not of been for Professional Party Boy, I would have curled up in a doorway and allowed myself to be mauled and eaten by humans or animals rather than face the prospect of walking any further while thinking that I was going to die anyway so why not make it sooner? It was so bizzare. The Beast and PPB did nothing to make it any easier by lolling around in big white pants and smoking cigarettes respectively in our cramped room which gave less air than a blocked ass.
Alas we survived the blackout and more importantly, each others' body odour and bad humour and still remained friends even after the ring sting, poo fishing and escaped genetalia. I wonder how Jamie and Ally would have coped had they been together at the time? I think their neurosis would have been magnified beyond recogition and they would have found themselves in a doorway being mauled and eaten by humans or animals. There is no way they would have coped with the amount of sweat that we handled between us. At least when our 40 bottles of water ran dry we had the salty belly button pools at our disposal.
And so I go rewatch Rules of Attraction because I am oddly fascinated by a wanking and shitting Dawson.
2/05/2004 08:29:00 PM
Adventures of Charmin
Ariel Pay it Forward
Come to the Dark Side...
Dirty Little Homos
Fash Mag Slag
Het (aka Quickfit)
Hit the Jag Spot...
Knee Deep In It...
Life and Times of a Desperado
On Top of the World>