I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else
How did a night of freeing Pauline the pigeon from the loft and gorging on smoked salmon risotto turn into The Gay Exchange and me being the only people in the gay bar and subsequently bullying our way around the dance floor in straightville with our own, pathetically awful dirty dancing routine? I guess devouring a box of wine will have that effect.
But what’s most concerning (more concerning than making a total tit of myself in a vile straight club)is the fact that the gay bar DJ played My Chemical Romance but did not have ANY Madonna or Britney I mean, come on… What is wrong with the world?
And so I must go stotter around my work because the stench of myself is too overpowering to stay in the same place for long.
Long live boxed wine.
3/28/2007 02:41:00 PM
The Friday night party saw no unwelcome interjections from Ming the Merciless (evil, bald neighbour) but it did see foosty, nose burning poppers, the usual bad rave moves and just general twatiness in the gay bar. Even the belly load of vodka couldn’t keep me from bouncing on the highest podium with The Bo to Scooter circa 2002. And, I didn’t fall off. She did. So did someone else. It was total carnage and I loved every minute of it.
Saturday night saw the appearance of Marky Mark who plied us with Cherry Lambrini and left us riddled with e-numbers. Perfectly lovely.
We went for a Sunday drive yesterday listening to the tunes that Marky gave me (The Venga Bus took us all the way from Cove to Aberdeen, don’t be jealous). Could think of no other way to spend a Sunday, except maybe without the blaring, tacky, late 90’s dance tunes attracting the attention of previously docile cows and sheep. Coronoary heart attacks all round.
And now I must wait another 4 days before I can go do it all over again. Pah.
So I go pluck my eyes from out of my ass… am guessing that’s where they are as I have not seen them in days…
The photographic evidence of all our fabulous nights out
The ‘free the pigoen’ mission on which I am about to embark
Belly button secretions
Still 4 days until payday
Babycham, get it ouf of my fridge
PS if anyone knows that bad euro-cheese song that goes something like: ‘Marryahee, marryaha’ please enlighten me (for reasons I will never disclose)
3/26/2007 03:39:00 PM
My first girlfriend lived down south and in our two year dating history I saw her on two occasions (healthy? Yes). I liked her a lot, even if we were total opposites: she was a nature dyke while I was a lazy turd bag; she liked to talk and I was more than happy in the silence that frustrated her immensely but nevertheless I really liked her. When she came to visit me the second time I was really excited for her to meet my only lesbo chum with whom I shared most of my gay nights out. Bad move.
When they disappeared I didn’t expect to find them in the toilet together. I did expect to get thrown out and barred from the club for the tantrum I threw however. Naturally they tried to deny it (of course they were only talking!) but eventually it came out that yes, they were getting it on.
And so I lost a friend and a girlfriend (de ja vous) and this incident certainly set the path for my increased paranoia in subsequent relationships (sometimes very justified unfortunately).
The years that followed this, the ex-friend and I ignored each other, dirty looked each other, probably tried to knock each other off the dancefloor and as time went on we absolutely loathed each other.
So, I was most shocked and sceptical when this girl, a girl I see most weekends, decided to suddenly apologise to me for being a ‘cunt’. Apparently she’s been carrying this guilt around with her since it happened but why now free herself of this? Maybe she was as sick as I am of wasting energy on hating someone, it's draining. I mean, is it not better to say 'hi' to someone rather than crossing the road when you see them? It doesn't mean you have to have dinner together and pick up where you left off all that time ago, you know? I shall endeavour to accept the gesture for what it was and not stress out and over analyse it, wondering what it really means. Am sure the 2 day hangover doesn’t help the state of mind either.
But again, I had a fabulous weekend. Another two days of partying and hanging out with brilliant friends, old and new.
And so I go obsessively check my Bebo site because unfortunately my addictive personality will not allow me to refrain from doing so.
My Bo in her little red dress, cuuuute!
Gay dinner parties
How straight my hair is when immeasurably greasy
My new greeeeeeen vest
The beans and brown rice diet
Poppers in hot water, there’s nae need
Drip drying, not for Lesbos
People who brush their hair at their desks
3/12/2007 04:00:00 PM
So much for drinking only soda and lime. So much for being home by 9pm. So much for tidying up the pit that is my bedroom ('Help there's been a burglary but they only hit my room') and so much for washing my beast-ridden hair.
I dare not tell you how long it has been since I undertook the mammoth task that is washing my hair. At least the grease is keeping it flatter than the GHDs do. I had to salalom my way to work today to avoid people contact because the smell that is emanating from my filthy locks is definitely puke inducing.
Further note to self: Get your priorities right: wash hair prior to going out and getting pissed on cheap wine before you get a name for yourself as The Greasey Headed Lesbo 2007. Oh. Too late.
And so I go sweep up the dandruff that has fallen all over my desk. Gadzerino.
3/07/2007 01:30:00 PM
The Bo arranged a Gay Rave party which was just perfect.
And what a party it was… There was chair dancing ala Britney, gay whistles, neon clothing, glow sticks, manhandling an underager who subsequently stole my pink glow stick, fights with our bald, unreasonable neighbour at 10.30pm, mock humping (and probably some real), popper fits, 140 photos and the usual tragic dancing that is now customary anywhere we go (am sure we used to reserve the really awful dancing for our living rooms and mirrors but now it has been made public in the gay bar every single time). Thankfully I had a break from podium related accidents this weekend and instead left that to Stevie.
We all had the most perfect time. Although, I am surprised we have not been given an ASBO from the gay bar yet, the nature of the crime being that we are a bunch of excitable nobs. In fact we have decided that we will avoid the gay bar for the foreseeable future. Or at least until Friday when the wine, crap music and good company gets flowing once again.
We really are too cool for school.
Yesterday’s hangover spent with The Bo, making montages...
Our fabulous rainbow nails and gay jewellery
Being a bunch of early nineties ravers
The amount of fun that 2007 has so far turned out to be
Balderino, the nutter neighbour
The cheese savouries I keep finding in my hair
Our bloody beige carpet, well, at least it was bloody beige
Being broad and in my late twenties as opposed to being broad and in my mid twenties
3/05/2007 03:25:00 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>