It's cold, it's pissing with rain, there are about 40 old workmen running around my house begging for cups of milky tea so i thought this to be a perfect time to divulge all the goings on that occured on my jaunt to the highlands of bonny scotland.
Lil Red and i left in plenty of time to catch our train northward but because I'm me, I knew there was going to be a carry on. I'm the sort of person that can't go anywhere or do anything without something going wrong. Usually my journey 'carry ons' take the form of a forgotten toothbrush or a broken shoulder through too much baggage or having packed dirty pants instead of clean ones. Usually my traumas are small and inconsequential but today was slightly different. In my excitement to board the train, myself and Lil Red picked up our belongings and skipped as gaily as gay folks do to get on board. As I snuggled my oversized arse into the wide chair and began to toast our holidays I realised that I had left the mother of all rucksacks sitting on the bench at the station. There was nothing I could do as I banged on the door to get out because it was bolted up and the train was moving. I smushed my face to the window and waved my rucksack goodbye, thinking not so much about the mini disc player or the camera that was in the bag but really I was more concerned that my bag would be stolen and my nasty teddy bear pants would be found floating around the streets of Aberdeen. To cut a very long and rather unintersting story short, we eventually got back to Aberdeen station and retrieved my bag which had been handed into lost property. I was right enough to worry about strangers rifling through my panties as every member of lost property it seemed had had a great laugh at the belongings in my bag and they all wanted to see who the bag belonged to and came down for a sneaky peak. I was then advised that in future I should pack my skiddy bifs at the top of the bag as opposed to the bottom to deter thiefs from stealing stuff. That's fucking cheeky that is - all my underwear was fucking clean... I hadn't even been anywhere yet! Is it my fault that period stains are like an overweight chubber who's chair is stuck on your coat? You just aint never gonna shift them.
Lil Red, me and my shamed face finally made it to Inverness, this time with rucksack in tow, about 3 hours late. I still dont get it. I swear my rucksack is the size of my whole body and that's a fair size you know, so how the hell i 'forgot' it I will never know. How the hell I remembered a plastic bag containing only magazines and water and forgot a caravan sized ruack sack is way beyond me I tell you.
All this typing is making me hungry which is no surprise but I will be back rather soon. You know I can eat a 4 course meal then the scolding coffees to follow within 3 minutes so you know I wont be long.
Hello there readers. It's been 4 days since I posted last and I'm quite sure no one missed my rantings about nothing in particular or even noticed I haven't been here but I will apologise for my lack of blogs and explain the reason why nevertheless. I've been on a jaunt. Myself and Lil Red decided to take ourselves up north and pay a visit to the highlands aka Inverness and then onto Carrbridge. WHile it had been initially decided that we would camp out under the stars, we ended up in quaint bed and breakfasts where the toilets were shared and the breakfasts were plentiful. We ditched the camping idea after deciding that it was not particularly safe for 2 young lessers to be haning out in the middle of nowhere alone in a tent where there were no doors to bolt and no windows to lock. Or even more so we didn;t go camping because we are lazy fuckers who thought that humfing a tent and sleeping bags was far too much effort. I don't really have time to tell you all the juicy details of dining with grannies and sharing a room with 40 flies and getting stuck on water slides because my eyes are sore and my fingers are listless but I will return very shortly ie tomorrow to tell you about my 3 days up north in amongst the heather and wildlife and beasts unwelcome so please feel free to tune in, sit back and not enjoy. Right now I'm going to think about the consequences of too many fast food meals and fresh air that have been apparent over the past 3 days. I'm thinking wind, I'm thinking my arse, I'm thinking stay away.
It's become clear that certain people are using my weblog as a means of 'checking up' on those they pretend not to love and it's slightly bothering me. Generally I don;t care why people read this thing I call writing but please, if you wanna know what your mates/love interests are up to, ask them because I know you really have no interest in what the hell I'm doing. Maybe I will even change the names of some main players just to confuse you 'checker upers'... and off I go to tex bitch from benidorm and call chunky monkey and fart on the leg of fixy and foxy.
Now readers, I know as well as you do that I am no Sarah Jessica Parker in the femininity department but I also would have to say that I am certainly no kd lang in the testosterone department either. I don't really fit snuggly into any of these lesbo labels and everyone has their own differing opinion on 'what' I am, be that man, woman or beast. I guess on a good day for me I'm more girl than not so what I'm wondering is when I'm put in a room with real life pointy shoes wearing and tiny handbags carrying girls, how come when there's a jar to be opened, a lightbulb to be changed or a lawn to be mown then I am the first one they come to for 'masculine' help. I know I aint a weedy type but I don't imagine I'm any better at cracking those nuts than any of those straights but still they assume that when there is no real man about that they should ask the next best thing ie me, the lesbo. I don't know if they think they are doing me a favour in making me feel like a man because obviously being a queer means I wish I had a cock and facial hair and long toes... Yeah that's right. It's odd how as soon as that bog needs scrubbing or the ornaments need polishing that I'm never even considered in the equation. It never occurs to them apron clad ladies that I may like to slip on a pair of marigolds and get on my hands and knees and scrape the skids of the bowl. I wouldn't like to carry out such a gruelling, gruesome task but that's beside the point. Cleaning is a 'ladies' task and therefore I never get asked to do it. Although, how scratching poop away with a tough brush can be considered as a 'womens' task I do not know. All ladies I know would rather die that even mention theword 'jobbie' so why they are expected to clean other people's shite I do not know. But anyway, why do those ladies never say 'hey fee, why don't you get in there and do the washing up for a change'. I wouldn't do it. I have pretty nails. I'd like to keep that way as much as they do but they do need to understand that being a lesbian does not mean I'm born with knowledge on cars, the ability to change a fuse or it does not mean I'm going to watch sport on television. Just cos I wanna do women, doesn't mean I have to take on the role of a husband. I do love a good stereotype I do.
After being classed as 'the man of the house' on too many occasions the other day I decided that I needed a quick femininity fix. The choices open to me in order to have this were vast, considering I have a lady who is just that and the concept of football or slipping into overalls is completely foreign to her. Jesus she can;t even hold a pint in one hand. And so, while I could have switched on a chick flick or cooked a delicate meal of salad and healthy chicken fillets to soothe my build up of masculinity, I instead chose to slide my rather large feet into a pair of very pointy, very lady-like, very high boots. The results were rather comical but not to be sneared at. I had problems zipping up the bad boys and caught my leg hair in the zip but once they were on and my kick-flares were resting well over them I actually suited them. From the waist down at least. Maybe they didn;t go with my bright yellow tee with a big kids car on it or with my shag bands a plenty but hell it really did make me feel all woman for at least 10 seconds and it did give me the best laugh I've had all week, seeing me in womens shoes. It's all very wrong. While feeling like a woman can be good in small doses, personally I'd rather just feel a woman.
After surfing through various blogs I discovered Yankee. Yankee gave me the idea to try and create a '100 things about moi' list which Yankee has launched as a kinda project. Being a self-centered, up-my-own-ass dyke (despite having no known reason to be), this task appealed to me more than a young lesbo fledgling so I put my whole body (and we all know that's a lot of body) into compiling the following list. Like I even need an excuse to think about nothing but me, myself and I. So here is 100 things you may or may not know about me and probably couldn't give a fuck about.
My 100 Things
1) I had stitches in my tongue 2) I first kissed a girl when I was 15 3) I had to dress up as Harry the Haddock when I worked in a fish restaurant and have never been right since 4) The 1st record I bought was 10 good reasons by Jason Donovan 5) I once had a dream about a huge pubic bush and have been fearful of them ever since 6) I have attended 2 Shakin' Stevens concerts and am very proud to own souvenir 'silk' scarves... 7) I was a bit too comfortable in my turquiose blue jumpsuit 2 at the nasty fashion party 8) The 1st gay bar I went to was the Blue Moon Cafe in Edinburgh 9) I used to smoke Cutters Choice tobacco, badly 10) I have the entire Steps back catalogue 11) I abhor wooden spoons 12) I got sacked from a tele sales job after 3 months of smoking too many rollies 13) I clean my ears with cotton buds at least twice a day 14) My favourite colour is pink 15) I have an issue with the colour brown 16) I want to work in publishing, in New York 17) I went on my first beach holiday this year and came home with a powerful dose of the shits which lasted about a month 18) I've never had a one night stand 19) I was centre forward for my school hockey team despite the fact I can run as well as I can not eat 20) I have seen Britney in Manchester and Glasgow 21) I've never been upside down on a roller coaster 22) I am wearing massive pink slippers 23) I have 3 ace of base singles 24) I love Sash! 25) I used to have a tank girl tattoo 26) I hate shaving my legs 27) I have 35 baby beanies (OH PLEASE) 28) My house is all purples and pinks and fully fabulous 29) I collect smurfs 30) I have around 400 books, only half of which i have read 31) My shoes are UK 7 32) I like Diesel clothes and trainers but can afford neither 33) I've been to Mardi Gras 3 times and Pride once (london) 34) My favourite cheese is cranberry wensleydale 35) My fav perfume is Burberry Touch for men 36) Burberry clothing offends me 37) I'm scared of death 38) I like dogs better than people 39) I have chronic fatigue 40) I don't get people who can't admit who they are 41) I have £2 in my bank account 42) A boy called 'ugly dawson' unknowingly stalks me 43) My fav ab fab episode is 'fear' 44) I did dancing from ages 4-16, yes in a leotard goddamn 45) I prefer Saunders to French 46) I like silver butch rings 47) I'm on friends reunited - no one contacted me 48) The last film I saw was Girl Next Door. It was ace 49) Two teachers at school told me I was fat 50) I have yellow leg warmers
phew, that's half way, now take a breather while we have an intermission
51) I told my English teacher I fancied her 52) I stole porn from my friend's brother's collection 53) I got a 2:1 for my degree (and a prize!) 54) I weigh too much 55) I got 2 As and 4 Bs for my highers 56) I used to be in a 'group' called Baby Splats 57) I used to study European Business Admin with German. I hated it 58) I have 2 dogs 59) I used to like Andre Agassi in the mullet stage and have the tshirts to prove it 60) I have an older brother who is at least 6"6 tall 61) I have around 10 fag burns on my body 62) I think I am 1/4 dutch 63) I can fit my whole fist in my mouth and nowhere else 64) Full fat mayo makes me gag 65) I'm scared to go missing incase I'm described as 'mid twenties and broad' 66) I'm a tomboy 67) I like to sing, however badly 68) I did a boy 69) I tried to shave my head, once 70) I've had my nipple pierced 4 times 71) My hair is often cool yet often large 72) I used to wear tye-dye, seriously 73)I adore redbush tea and drink around 5 cups a day 74) Converse shoes rock my world 75) I wish I were slim but would never go to a gym 76) I’d like to work for a lesbo publisher 77) I hate the word lesbian but frequently use the word 'lesbo' 78) I fancy most Americans 79) Generally I go for blondes 80) If I could turn back time it would be last Summer and I’d be in NYC 81) I hate people who copy what I do 82) I have a squint smile 83) I've read Tipping the Velvet 4 times 84) I know the script for Home Alone 85) I don't like thongs 86) I'm over £8000 in debt 87) I can't handle alcohol 88) I've had 63 driving lessons and still can’t drive 89) I've had 3 stalkers 90) I hate using public bogs 91) I like sparkley nails 92) I have no boob preference 93) For the record, I don’t have my fanny pierced 94) I like karma beads, especially in black 95) Tapered jeans drive me fully mad 96) I like my wrists, my only slender feature 97) I hate sci-fi 98) The last text message I had was from J BO 99) I like cuffs on my wrist 100) I’m bored of this list
If you have reached the bottom of this list and have actually managed to read more than 2 itmes then I applaud you. If not, don't worry cause I bored myself to death just writing the list. Gee I wish I were a more interesting person.
I'm listening to Babuska by the odd Kate Bush and it sums up exactly how I feel about my head hair today. I tried dyeing it the other day to not much avail. My hair is a non descript colour that remembles nothing I know, is rather long right now and thicker than any hair I've ever come across. Well kind of. And so hair dye takes to my hair as well as I take to eating fruit and vegetables. I dyed it supposedly lighter but trying to avoid the yellow common slag look that so many Aberdonians are fond of and not a soul noticed. I bought a further paket of 'lightest blonde' and tried again. I had a panic attack when I caught a glimpse in the mirror as I was waiting for it to develop. It was fucking bright piss yellow. Having a major 'I look like a whore' trauma I removed all traces of the dye from my head to discover it was the harsh bathroom lighting that gave my head a flourescent look so my hair remains the same dull 2 tone colour and I'm gutted. Hair dye so does not come cheap but with the amount I've spent in the past 2 days on such products (including the brown I bought for low-lights) I would have been cheaper packing myself off to Nicki Bloody Clarke in London for the full works. INstead I'm left penniless and looking no different with my haste to perform a DIY hair job, knowing I'm as good with hair as I am with boys. Some people are so impatient and so damn cheap. That'll teach me not to go to a proper hairdressers and will also give me a good excuse to go visit my hot hairdresser and get her chat about her holidays that I really don't care about as she lovingly cuts and shapes some life into my lacklustre hair. Now I'm happy.
It's been a long day and it shows no signs of getting shorter. I have visions of being up again all night. These are only visions. In reality I hope to be fast asleep by 10.45 to give me a near 10 hours sleep to face the strenuous day that lies ahead. If you can call surfing the internet and eating pastries strenous that is. I'm meant to be going camping on Sunday. I was supposed to be going for 4 whole nights. This dwindled to 2 nights and has now drifted away to zero nights. Instead I will stay in a guesthouse with shared bathrooms (shared until a flaoter has greeted them in the morning taht is) for 3 nights with Lil Red. I was actually rather looking forward to spending time in the open air, cooking up marshmallows and veggie burgers on the stove, really I was. Yeah, about as much as I look forward to the day I wake up straight. I have as much experience camping as I do having a girlfriend. The only time I have ever been camping was with beautiful Wendy the manipulative girl who I adored but who tormented my mind. We went with her parents and their Rottweiler who was rather friendly and did not live up to the name Krugar. I was about 11 and was so made up with getting to share a tent with the girl of my dreams that it never occured to me I would have to learn to piss outdoors. I kinda forgot I was not 2 years old anymore and that my mother would not be there to hold my legs up to make sure I did not wazz all over my patterned leggings. My first outdoor piss and I knew there would be a carry on. I ran into the woods on my own, leaving Wendy whistling and thinking of the boys she'd left at home. I ran quite a bit into the woods, scared that wendy would appear to take a photo of my ass way up in the air to pass around to everyone. She was that kind of girl. Maybe that's why I thought I loved her. Or maybe it's cos she was the prettiest girl in my class who could run real fast and was freckled all over. Anyway, as I whipped down my oversized pants I was unsure in which position to place my feet and all the commotion of running into the woods had made me desperate. I didn't have time to think about my feet and the wrong position they were in and I definitely did not have the time to consider the fact that I was supposed to avoid the jeans round my ankels and I just peed straight down. Of course I simply peed all over myself and not even one drop dribbled on the ground but instead lay in a pool inside my pants and jeans. Knowing that Wendy would tell everyone at school, including the boys who would not kiss me during spin the bottle, I knew I could not tell her. And so I did the only other thing there was to do: I found a ditch and threw myself in, ass first, and rolled around in the mud, cow shit and bunny poop til I was satisfied I no longer smelt of kid wee but more of wet turd. I can still feel the animal jobbies squidging about in my socks but telling Wendy I fell in a shitty ditch was definitely more appealing than having to tell her I urinated all over my elasticated waist jeans, believe me. And because of this, and because of Wendy shining the torch at my naked ass as I tried to recreate the pee outdoor incident in the night for a second time, I have developed a fear of the outdoors. Of course I can pee rather well outdoors now and only sometimes do I manage to soil my socks these days but even still I still get jittery and lose all colour when I think of having to experience that with someone I like again. There are varying other reasons we have ditched sleeping bags, midges and salmonella for the comfort of a b&b actually. Too many reasons to go into at the moment, considering it's 10pm and I still have to book said b&b before lights out at 10.45pm. So, goodnight or good afternoon to you readers, depedning on where you are in the world. Away to dream about the fun I'm going to have at Landmark on wednesday where I will pee outdoors from a very great height.
It's day number 4 of my holidays and I'm at work. Having 2 jobs and only being on holiday from 1 is kinda a pain in the fat ass but my kind boss from job numero deux has said I can have all next week off instead so at least that's one full week of doing zip. I have travelled far and wide in the past 3 days, to the likes of Stonehaven and the Duthie Park. For all those unfamiliar with these places, Stonehaven is a town a few miles out of Aberdeen whose main attractions are a fish and chip shop and an outdoor pool. Hardly national tourist attractions as I'm sure you'll agree. While the Duthie Park hosted such names as the Sugababes and Gareth Gates only 1 month ago, regularly it's a regular park where regular poofs cottage their asses amongst the cacti and sandstone. Clearly I lied when I said I had travelled far and wide. While all this might seem as interesting as steak and kidney pie, I've actually had a great deal of fun and having a severly limited budget of zero dinero I think myself and Lil Red have done surprisingly well. Not only have I managed to acquire even more tacky bracelets to add to the 43 already housed up my wrist and forearms but these big calves have done more walking in the past 3 days than they have in a lifetime and the pulsating muscle at the back of my legs evidences this. Really. Yesterday was supposed to be another day of 'day tripping' and despite having arisen at 9.30am with all kinds of good intentions it was 3.30pm before we actually managed to leave the flat, having farted around like a bad case of wind for too many hours. The plan was to find a particular park that is real pretty and quiet and drink wine and get drunk. The only problem was, the park I had in mind was somewhere in Cults and I hadn't actually been to it since I played 'spin the bottle' solely when I was 12. The memories of this game are painful. It wasn't that I was sat there in the park on my ownsome, I mean there were other people there. The only problem was that when the bottle landed at me people would desperately kick the bottle and re spin it around in order to avoid kissing even my cheek. Tantrums were thrown when it looked like the acne ridden youths would have to kiss me and people would abruptly leave the game, gutted cos they didn't get to kiss Wendy, the girl everyone wanted to kiss, me included. I don't know what was so offensive about me. Was it the large fringe that had taken over my face and neck and allowed only my huge gob to be visible? Maybe it was the green C&A anorak I was so fond of? Or possibly it was the face chubbier than an elephant's ass that scared people who didn't know which part of my expansive face to kiss cause there was so much choice. Or, now that I think about it, maybe it was because I myself used the knock the bottle so it would point at the pretty girls so I didn't have to go within spitting distance of the boys. This wouldn't have caused such a big problem had I not tried to slip the girls a digit as I dived in to kiss the wrong set of lips everytime. Maybe that's why I was battered so frequently. Maybe that's why I thought lesbos were destined to live a life of bruised solitude because I didn't understand that not all girls were thinking about games to play with beaver and didn't appreciate the over eager tongue of The Fee prodding their lips. Aaaah the memories of my younger developing queer days do make me smile. And so after many failed attempts to get to the park and after a panic attack on the railway line because I felt trapped, we finally made it to the park. It was kinda pretty, kinda how I remembered it but a little on the quiet side for my paranoid self. This fear was curbed once the cheap wine made an appearance however. 2 bottles of cheap shit wine and 2 outdoor pisses later (goddamn me for never missing my jeans) we were drunk enough to want to go shake our gay asses at The Priory. We stocked up on evil food delights (pot noodles and mirco noodels and pringles and cheese slices) and jumbo alcopops to get us further in the mood. We got all excited, ran home boiled up the kettle, unscrewed our lids and the next thing we knew it was morning. With all the walking, all the excitment and all the wine that made me fart like it was going out of fashion, we had exhausted ourselves and so the opportunity to go do our thang in the straight club was missed but I know I feel better today than I would have had I had even a couple of more drinks, despite looking like the last time I slept was in 1986 with stupid wavy hair to boot. So, it was a real pleasant surprise to arrive to work this morning to a croissant and tea and to find that the boss would be out til 12.30pm as it has given me ample time to attend to my weblog that has been so neglected over the past 4 days. I'm sure you are equally excited about my return. No, really... I will leave you for now but there's so much more I feel like talking about so it's likely I will be back before the day is out.
Hearing from people you haven't heard from in awhile
Calling Turkey on someone else's fone bill
Sleep, plenty of it
Getting up before 9.30am, it's all wrong
Bastards on holiday
Fixing dud tents
Indigestion along with chronic wind, not a good combination
Lumps in odd places
Listening to: My ass playing bass to 'oops I didn it again'
So, my weekend has been surprisingly quiet after weeks of partying like a fanny. As a last minuted thing we hung out at The Queen of Fun's place of residence as she furiously packed (more like stuffed) her case all ready for the land of Turkey. Why does Turkey and stuffing always go so well? There was no burning, no theft this time but loads of stale wine and dope. We desecrated every music video as we all got a bit excited at having Sky Tv at our disposal, we ate too much pizza and peanuts and left the Queen to tidy the mess we left behind. It was unlikely she'd be sleeping that night after the ichy stuff we put in her bed as a parting gift. On the clean sheets as well and considering the Queen likes to change her sheets as often as I change my pants (very rarely) then this was a particularly mean thing to do but I'm sure the stains left behind could be no worse after she and Pam were finished with their business.
And so readers, I am on holiday for 2 weeks from my shop job and this is very exciting - no more customers hurling abuse at me, no more swanky knee length tshirts and no more porn buying sleaze meisters asking for my number. I'm sure you see the plus sides too. And because Miss Fee is on holiday she is retiring to other lands where she will park her tent and her cooking stove somewhere moist and chilly and will not be seen til rabbits find her and massacre her large body. This may take some time so I'm afraid that my blogging activities might be somewhat limited for the next couple of weeks. I will do my best to post you details of my wonderful and exciting life whenever I can and will return to you in proper form in 2 weeks so there will be no need for those tears that are falling aplenty. I know how you all love my tales of puss, poop and podgers so so much but you will have to cope with less frequent entries until I return home and have proper access to my computer again. Until the next time which will actually probably be sooner than I think, have fun and keep ahold of the hankies and teddies to comfort you in your time of need.
I think I have a new favourite film. I just bought 'But I'm a Cheerlader' and while I'm sure I have laughed harder before at other films, this had me creased up in painful knots of laughter. And it has also sprouted 2 new obsessions, the first with Natasha Lyonne who was also in American Pie as the frizzy haired non virgin, jessica and of course as the once again fuzzy haired feminist. She's quite lovely and makes me fluttery. My second obsession is Clea duvall who I liked before from Girl interupted and since I saw her in a Buffy episode where she was all invisible and playing a game of disect Cordelia. Am very excited to have something new in my life.
Since our shameful fashion party which occured almost a full week ago, a few revelations have been brought to light. I've heard tales of illicit kisses, sex behind the shed, unrequited crushes and even more sordid, cakes that were laced with not hash but grit after someone sent the whole plate flying into the earth and scooped them back on, in their squishy cakeness and watched in delight as revellers scoffed the lot. Worse wtill, while this has yet to be confirmed or denied, rumour has it that there was no actual alcohol in the punch that we blamed for dancing like aunties at a wedding, playing kids games badly adn frolicking in the grass. I can't reveal the source that let this slip but I will say that it was the same person who told everyone that someone had entered the party and pooped directly on arrival. I don't know how reliable this source is but let's look at the evidence and see if I can draw my own conclusions. If there was no alcohol in the punch, of the bottle of voddy, the bottle of wine and the 1/2 bottle of rum was really a bottle of lemonade, 3 of fivealive and 1 of pineapple juice, would Beautiful Boy have been strutting around in heels, a frock and fishnets? Possibly. Would the J bo and The Fee have been perfecting teh Dirty Dancing lift despite ending up face first in the grass to much disfigurement? Probably. Would Mad A have changed outfits, each time into somethnig more putrid than the last, more times than a gay man changes partners? More than likely. Would Babs have been sailors hornpiping in a ladies wrap around blouse with jumbo nips on show? Debatable but it's very likely. And finally, would the Queen of Fun done a full striptease, pulling off each item of granny wear from turquiose tights to floral skirt to very big pants to reveal her black woman discs which had been burnt on the sunbeds? Defintely not. Ok, it's been proven. There definitely was mucho alcohol in the punch so thanks Queen of Fun for clearing that one up. Now I know that the shitness I felt on Sunday was not because I had overdosed on fruit juice and foosty cakes. Thanks for that. I will sleep soundly knowing that when I am not allowed to return to 4th year, having done my essay on the day after the party, the day before it was due in, in a ridiculously hungover state, that it was all well worth it.
Beautiful Boy 'dropped the kids off at the pool today' and texted me 'while they were on the water slide'. I was then texted 5 hours later to say he was having 'trouble with the kids and they were back at the pool'. That boy need to eat something substantial and not just babybels and hula hoops and then he wouldn't have kids and swimming problems.
An ode to mi chicas who are fuckin off without me...
Do have fun in Turkey
Try and nae miss me
Watch out for bad men
Unless that's what you are looking for, ken
Queen of Fun don;t be a slag
Specially if on the jammy rag
Have a swell time
I cannae ryhme
But I will think about you
Everytime I c a poo
All leathery and brown
So dinna act the clown
Enjoy the sun
Have lots of fun
Miss me lots
Check out lots of bots
And come back all hot
I'm so glad you are back
You suit your rain mack
I feel kinda bad
Cos here you will go mad
Enjoy the ladies
But Watch you don't catch rabies
Do try to have fun
And don't be sneakin off to Lon -don
That's all I have to say
So have a pretty day
Tell me why none of the shops I visited in my quest for porn sold Playboy. Why do they all have either no porn at all or so much sleaze and nastiness that I would have been there all day sifting through the Readers Wives, Asian Asses and Granny Gashes. One shop had more porn than sweets and still no playboy. Playboy is as classy as porn gets but nowhere seems to stock it. I didn''t have a real good rifle through as I was being observed by the spotty teen with a boner in his jeans and didn't want to give him cause to prod me with his stick. But i know it wasn't there. Playboy has a bit of sheen to it while the others scream homemade wank mags. I'm very disappointed. So is the Queen of Porn who wanted to delight her work mates with her magazine. Or at least give them something to do of a lunchtime. But that's enough about Pam and her 5 sisters. I must go. All this talk of porn is making me itch. Or maybe I caught something from flicking through the well read magazines in that little corner shop with the neon flashing sign outside.
Hair in Ponytales
Inciting mechanics to yell 'lesbo' at you
Dreams about bombs and dead people
Chewed up gums
Boons busting (ahem) out of shirts
Spussy shoes, specially red or dead ones...
Can i just say that I think i have the biggest belly in history which is really not hidden in this pink shirt
It had to happen sooner or later. Nope, I have definitley not developed a love for gypsy frillls or a sudden adoration for bad punk but guess who I saw today as I close to literally ran to town to buy flowback? The one the only Lynne Moncrieff! It's very rare that i ever express joy through the use of an exclamation mark so you should note how happy I am. For anyone that does not know who Lynne is, and that's probably everyone that reads this, Lynne was on the British Big Brother 3 and resides somewhere in or around Aberdeen. She was unfairly booted out after 1 week and it appears only I missed her and her uniques tones. She is hot. Well she looked pretty hot today as she cycled her bike in the Aberdeen semi heat right past me with a flicker of eye contact to boot. How could she not look at me, we were the only 2 people in a quiet street and I did have rather large headphones on so it's not like she could have missed me really. The only thing that concerned me was the amount of make up that was caked on her pretty face. It reminded me of turd caught on the back of the toilet it was that thick. I even forgave her for her long shorts which i hasten to add were definitely not peddle pushers. NO way. Anyway, I had to share this with you because I have been crossing my legs in anticipation to see her and that really hurts you know. I even spent my last credit in my phone telling someone about it. They never even replied. How rude. I know it's only me that gets excited over things like this but considering teh last 'celeb' to come out of Aberdeen was someone like Evelyn Glennie (who? i hear you all cry and that's a very good question) then it's no wonder my little heads gets all fuzzy and my gut gets all swirly when I see someone who has actually been on national Tv, as opposed to the local channel being interviewed cos they done good at an after school club. Too tired to think now. Goodbye all, it's been swell but swelling's gone down.
Jesus. I have to buy porn. Nope, I'm not on another self made nasty filthy perverted porno mission, this time I'm doing a favour to a shy lady who needs to have playboy in her life but would rather I embarrassed myself buying it than buy it herself. That's how good a friend I am. The reason this lady needs some porn, apart from the obvious reason that people buy porn, is because Jordan is her obsession and apparently features in playboy this month. I don;t get it personally. There's too much lips and too much tits and put together the package is not always particularly pleasing but hey, each to their own. The lady that has this odd fixation shall remain nameless but The Queen of Fun, this picture is all for you. You owe me big.
It’s sunny. It’s Aberdeen. It’s all wrong. Very wrong. I just missioned for 50 minutes uphill to meet the Queen of Fun in this heat which I’m very unused to and actually rather unimpressed with. I like to moan about the shite weather as does any regular being but I think the sun gets to me even worse than the torrential storms and hypothermia weather. I mean after my slightly less than brisk walk to meet my lil lesbo I was dripping with salty sweat and the patches under my pits masked the entire shirt while my big red face stopped traffic. Such a pretty sight but I know for a fact the lady has seen me look so much worse. Hello I used to wear tye dye. Anyway, after having scorched all visible bits of skin (that’ll be my face then) and chatting lesbo things and eating good sandwiches I made my way home to face a terrified couple f dogs who were frightened by the stench I had trailing behind me. Bloody sun. It flatters no one. Having said this, I am now away to meet Lesbo Bob (aka Young B) who is now back in Aberdeen for the foreseeable future. I’m getting to check out her batchelorette pad where she will make many a young lass happy and then hang out in more sun which means a change of clothes is imminent. At least it will mean we can do our usual of bad ass spotting and other such immature sports that we are so fond of. And because of this sudden and one off popularity of 3 lesbos in one day (am meeting up with Lil Red later) I must leave you with this excuse of a blog entry but I’m sure you are all quite used to it and probably rather glad.
Having finished my coursework and now feeling slightly less stressed I will have time to surf other blogs and let you into my findings. I know I have already mentioned this but because I haven’t had time to check out much of it myself I would like you to, so surf the dykewrite webring when you have a moment. I know you won’t be disappointed with the results. Don’t expect the same stupid humour as me. I know that’s a selling point in itself for you all and these lesbians can actually write about stuff that matters so go, surf.
Listening to: Tiffany. I just can’t get enough I am sorry.
My better mood
Sweat bands which are so handy for today and still so cool
Camping (more to come on that)
Trousers with zips up the front which look like a split beaver
Not enough time for fun
Too much time working
Turkey, the place and beast
Looking like poop because: lack of sleep, too much sweat and not enough water
Having had a 9 hour sleep and having been furiously typing up my coursework I think I am almost fit to tell you about the party. The fact that my hangover has stretched over 2 days is another story completely and the fact that I have built this party of silly clothes and even sillier people up to be something huge, I guarantee you will be disappointed. It’s one of these things that no matter how well I think I’m describing the busted bushes and food fights that you really had to be there to appreciate the whole thing. There’s too much I can tell you about the ‘fashion’ that made an appearance but it was all rather Breakfast Club and Working Girl esque with massive phones, an assortment of heels, hideous blouses and turquoise tights. That was just the boys. Beautiful Boy is becoming far to accustomed to doning women’s clothes and the worst incident of such a nature was the spangly black and gold number with fish net stockings. This was bad in itself but with the removal of underwear and jumbo sausages poking through the tights it was quite a sight to behold and one that refuses to eradicate itself from my memory. The fruit punch had all guests rolling around in the grass either demonstrating sexual positions (oh how my eyes were well and truly opened), doing double rolls (although I was so heavy that I couldn’t get my shoulders off the ground and thus ruined it for my partner) and being thrown quite literally into thorny bushes as Lil Red thought it was essential to spin me around faster than I’ve ever moved in my life, and then let me go, narrowly missing the washing line and landing into a bush, story of my life, much to the dismay of Babs the host whose parents are quite proud of their fuschia bushes. With the introduction of a terry towelling leotard to the group ala Mad A it was only a matter of time before the rhythm gymnastics were to follow. The number of highly pulled up trousers was impressive although poor Straight Man A who was Geek 2002 had difficulty with sitting and braces stretched right up meant there was little cavorting for mr visible balls. One of my favourite things was the party games. A violent game of musical chairs broke 2 chairs, 1 nose and 3 relationships as people fought and pushed and bit to get a chair. Musical statues was more subdued and lasted a mere 30 seconds with drunk people incapable of standing still for any length of time. I think I was out first as my side pony kept fluttering in the wind. The other party game that was a hit was ‘pin the pubes on gareth [gates]’ which is pretty self explanatory and guaranteed that many people were floating around with hair in places hair should be illegal. There was a momentous occasion for me when after a food fight broke out between myself and Lil Red and Queen of Fun there was an egging. Not content with smearing cake in The Queen’s cheeky face I made a grab for an egg and satisfyingly smashed it over her head. She then ran around like a 3 year old on poppers screaming ‘I’m a pastry I’m a pastry’. There was an incident leading from this that led her to have her head in the oven to prove the point that she could be an ‘apple danish’. We managed to get her out before the hairspray fumes in her hair caught alight. The party lasted til 5am although the host and his man were out of the game by 1pm but I’m sure I could have danced all night. I’m a slave to the 80s rhythm. It’s all wrong. As was trying to start and finish an essay for university after 3 hours sleep and waking up still twatted. It’s done and dusted but really is rather vague, pointless and crap. That’s what I get for having too much fun at silly parties where the main themes were ill fitting clothes, side partened hair and party susies. Off I go to wonder why when I tell stories they sound so dull and find a possible remedy to this and also to recount my bruises from Saturday night of which there are at least 14 new ones as well as bumps down the front of both my legs. Curious. It’s not a good night if you don’t wake up battered or like Straight Man A who came away with singed eyebrows and lashes and doesn’t even smoke. Maybe he got caught in the cross fire of the lesbos lighting flammable substances in an attempt to ‘accidently’ burn each other. Hmmm.
Concerned about: The amount of dry skin falling off my face
Wishing: I could do it all over again
Look out for: the photos that are sure to follow although apparently my side pony takes up most room
13 cups of tea, 2 cheesey delights, 18 phonecalls, 1 visit and 600 words of coursework later I am still trying to find the momemntum to spoil you with party details such as musical stutues, white stiletoes, eggings and 2 pukes. Oh I just did. I know you can't wait for me to tell you all about the nastiest fashion party in history so I will hopefully return when my head doesn't think of online journals and fits of rage and hot tomatoes. And maybe when my fingers are capable of typing faster than a slow eye trying to adjust to morning light.
I hardly slept last night. After watching Graham Norton which featured the lovely Lynne Moncrieff and after flouncing around in nasty nasty clothes that my mother thought would add to my outfit for sat (they so did) I tried desperately to force myself to sleep. I did all the usual things such as counting lesbians jumping over gates, splashing lavender on my pillow to the result of really floral hair today and I even drank milk which when you drink pure skimmed milk is a mission in itself and had me throwing up clumps of stuff in the early hours. Being still awake at 1am I tried reading lesbo porn cos it's always dull enough to send me to sleep but I was still wide eyed and bushy [tailed] so the last resort was Classic FM played gently in the background while munching a lettuce sandwich and drinking red wine (a classic cure for insomnia I am led to believe) which washed downed a couple of boxes of Kalms. 3.13 am and my legs are restless and my arms are beating the side of the bed. The more I think about the lack of sleep I am having the more irate I get so I shove on the telly and am faced with the news and some poe faced imbicile doing his best to keep his quiff from floating in the wind as he reports on some flood somewhere I don;t care about. I laugh myself to sleep at the idiocity and ugliness of 'foreign correspondants'. And people wonder why children are so uneducated. News readers are dogs. Why would they want to listen to the news with the sound down when there is monsters only to perv over. I mean, the choice is either Neighbours, soundless, or news soundless. There's no contest really. News needs real eye candy and while Kirsty Summit is quite beautiful from an adult perspective, kids of 12 + want real lustful sluts presenting the news. A bit of blonde hair, a nice set of teeth and tits and everyone is concerned about the goings on outwith the home. Trust me, I've been a pervy kid. I know what they want. Most are bored with anything educational so you might as well dress it up with some real hotties to make it worth watching. As much as I love Jenni Bond the royal correspondant, I'd much rather see someone that looks like Britney or Brad chatting away about the Queen's bowel movements, wouldn't you? And i really can see a foxy Holly Valance esque reporter chraging her way through a war zone trying to keep her boobs in and trying to stop her freshly done hair from snagging on a bullet. Am off now to think of the possibilities of Angelina Jolie in a power suit.
Too excited about: My crimped hair for el party
Worried about: Being the only one dresssed up
Hoping that: no one soils my jumpsuit
I suffered emotional trauma yesterday. It wasn't the kind of emotional trauma where I was provoked into giving up food again although I did pray so hard that my trauma would affect my mental stability so severely that I need never eat again. So far this has not been the case. This trauma was more of a tapped in polyester nightmare. I bought a snazzy little number for Lil Red to wear for teh party. This bad boy was pure polyester heaven with a silky cheap, spit through, feel about it and coloured black and shiny silver. NOt only did this creation come complete with shoulder pads but it also had a wrap around effect around teh front which made it look like a cross between a ballet cradigan and a gypsy fril (argh they torment me so). Alexis Colby would have been proud. Being bored at the office I felt it my duty to entertain the troops by putting it on before the boss came back from lunch to witness such a spectacle. The shoulder pads clearly made the blouse look generous in size and as I puffed and panted in an awful manner I finally managed to squeeze my not so heaving bussoms into this rather slender tacky housewife xmas getup. I strutted my stuff through the office with whoops and cheers all round an generally made the day less dull. I thought I looked quite swanky and was just parading catwalk style when I hear the click of the boss's office door. I'm thrown into a wild panic, being that I'm on my last warning for frivolous and annoying behaviour, and I rush off to the adjoining filing room to remove the utterly offensive garment that caused such vocal hilarity. I tried everything to get the blouse off but nothing would work. I tried even shuffling it downward so I could try and slip my fat ass out of it but it snagged on my hips. I tried to undo the wrap around I was horrified to discover it was all joined on! I then tried to raise it over my head but it was wedged tight and as soon as I lifted my arms I knew it was a mistake. the more I struggled the tighter it became adn my arms were stuck upwards. The stress and the panic was almost too much and as I stood there close to tears and in bitter pain, the boss walks in. There was nothing I could do to make matters any worse or any better and what a sight I must have looked. Face all twisted like I was suppressing a fart, hideous blouse all scrunched up and sweat still managing to trickle out of somewhere. And so I said nothing. Just stood there motionless waiting for a tirade or a sacking, none of which I received. The boss merely smirked and remarked how he'd like to see my blouse make an appearance at the xmas night out and if not, then there might be a sacking. OH how cruel and oh how undignified I am going to look amongst all the ladies with their satin numbers and floral prints. Oh fuck, I think I will fit right in. The relief at no sacking was short lived as I still remained packed into this blouse. I felt a rip down both sides but I still couldn't move. I had to get one lady and her friend to cut me out! I felt like I should be in an emergency room and with the amounts of skin that I lost in the fight I really could have been. That'll teach me to wear clothes worse than my gran would I tell you. And with the disappointment that this now unwearable blouse caused I had to make up for it somehow. I bought a bumbag. In all its puma, leather, flourescent glory. Nuff said.
I have been transformed! No longer will I sit with my legs wider than the north sea and never again will I hold my fag in that manly way and certainly I will not fart in public anymore. The checked shirts and the men's jeans have been thrown aside in favour of tassled belts, touseled hair and plunging necklines. Yes it's true, I Miss Fee, girl tomboy extraordinarre is now an honourary girl with hope this will led to being an out and out real life girl who looks in every mirror and moans about a curl gone wrong or a smudge of mascara. I am part of thr femme crew and am now qualified to talk clutcheys, pointy shoes and hair product with the best of them. This dramatic transformation occured last night when I found myself questioning the authenticty of a designer handbag and when I found myself agreeing that delicate scarves around the neck were sometimes fashionable depending on the wearer. No one could believe it when I leaned my freshly shaven face across the table to enquire as to whether or not tapered denim jackets with shoulder detail were in or not. Not because they were astounded by my lack of fashion knowledge because that's to be expected but more so because I was even taking an interest in the wonders of Top Shop as opposed to Top Man. I was in disbelief myself and even swapped my butch Marlboro Reds for the more feminine, dare I say trendy, Marlboro Lights. I know this is all exceedingly hard to take in because I know I suit a frock as well as I suit dating men but you'd be surprised with the results of Miss Fee in a dirty denim skirt teamed with a gypsy frill. Oh that killed it. For anyone that knows even the slightest thing about me, apart from my odd obsession with puss size cos that's the most blatant thing ever, then you will know I made this entire rant up because I fully despise a gypsy frill. I don't get the 'gypsy chic' thing and I never will. Who needs a bit of ruffle that stretches all the way up to your cheek bones and who even wants droopy sleeves that bunch and catch on drinks at the table? They are just plain stupid. Stupider even than me turning into Miss Femme 2002. At least that thought is only semi laughable and maybe even passable whereas gypsy frills are ridiculous and uncalled for and who cares how daring your neck line is, if it's encased in a gypsy frill then it's just all wrong. I don't care that I follow trends as well as I kiss men, I don't think I need to be qualified in all manners of fashion to make comment on all the idiotic ones that smack me in the face like a wet fish. I just don't agree with gypyt frills cause who ever had a nice thing to say about them gypsies that camped and pooped in their back garden? I'm sure the last thing you were thinking as they drove away in their caravans leaving a trail of poop and pish was 'oh gee I wonder where she got that stunning blouse with homemade frill, I really must catch her up and get one stinkin' of jobbies too.' Rarrr, oh yes the PMT is out in force, and I really am looking forward to my nasty fashion party tomorrow cause at least i wont be faced with every second slag in a bloody gypsy frill. Give me a shellsuit and heels and a pair of leggings and sandals anyday. Off I go to re assess my wardrobe and to remove all items of manly dress. Yeah, like I have that much time.
Wondering: how many times I can say 'gypsy frills' in one weblog entry
Concerned about: the sudden acne eruption to have taken over my face
Bothered about: The lack of time I have to perfect my outfit for the party
Listening to: Lasgo
Revolution (the bar)
Glittery watery bracelets
People reading my weblog
Queen of Fun in a brownie uniform
My new stupid shoes that have bubble gum prints on them
All my scabs that make me look like a disaster victim
My hair, again, cos of its hugeness
scuffed ankles due to pretty shoes still hurting
Pubes in places they never should be
Tight shirts that cause BO
Today I feel like a bad person. There are a couple of reasons that have determined this feeling, none of which are interesting or appropriate enough to divulge to you. But, I will tell you that I was awoken from fine dreams (like the one where my best friends forefitted my party in favour of Coronation Street and apples) by a 5 stone animal (nope, not spawn of The Fee) masacring my duvet at some ridiculous hour of 6.30am. Subsequently I was unable to return to my evil loner dreams for even 10 minutes and this has left me feeling as ragey as a lesbo sans shag and as tired as an ME sufferer on a come down. My appearance reflects this adequately. My unbrushed hair looks permed and my unironed clothes make me look neglected. My face is as sunken as the Titanic and my breath smells as though the 5 stone animal took a dump in my gob. It's not unusual for me to look and smell like i have been sleeping rough in the sewers but today there is slight cause for concern. I am drinking post work with actual real life girls. I don't really know any proper girls aside from sparklecat who's generally more girle than Shakira but these are as good as unknown girls which means they will take one look at this butch affair and leave the bar while pointing in the direction of the mens bogs and trying to cop of feel of my genitals 'just to check'. I mean I know I'm no Lebso Fred with a skin head and boiler suit but compared to these ladies I am as butch as Arnie. I even dressed in all Lil Red's clothes in an effort to give me a hint of feminininity but jeez i could wear a pink dress with matching bag and gloves and look like a transvestite. I hate when you really want to make an impression on someone and you just end up looking like a freak show and making the usual ass of yourself. I shouldn;t care what people think but I do. I should think that if other people don;t like me then it's their problem but i think if someone hates me then it must be my fault. I think it's the years of 'fat fuck' taunts that have made me feel like this but I'm getting over it, really I am. Just because you have felt one way in the past doesnt mean you always have to feel like that. feelings are not habits. I'm just ranting here to myself now so feel free to take no notice. It's unusual that I'm serious and it's unlikely to happen again, until I eat all the pies and homebakes and undefrosted icecream and get all ragey and depressed that is. Anyhow, I prefer to take a lighter look at things and all this seriousness is making me itchy, or that could be the fleas I have acquired from an unknown source, so in order to make myself feel humoured I will go and think about massive minge, plump pussy and beaver burps. And Pam.
Chomping my way through: fruity toffos
Word of the day: clambering
my slinky new phone
having time to blog furiously
lilac shimmery nails (who said I wasn;t girlie?)
trousers wedged up fannies
jealous straight girls
my maniacal hair
scubby arms that look like they have been torn apart by freddy krugar
I would like to draw your attention to a new link on my page. Under the 'cool links' section you will c a link to dykewrite. Now, I have joined various webrings but this one is very impressive. People actually use it and the commentary on the webpage is real good and one day i would like them to ask me to write on it :-) You should check out some of the blogs from this page cause it's pages of endless lesbo goodness.
I made a new friend yesterday. Considering I'm about as interesting as a brown pair of chinos and my conversational skills reflect this, this is an impressive feat. I attract people like kd land attracts men. People instantly flock to be around fresh turd rather than hang out with me. Basically I'm a people repellant. I have tried to change many (every actually) aspects of my personality and my appearance in order to have someone show some interest in The Fee but nothing seems to work. Even when I looked like a model citizen with my flat shoes and power suit and perfect hair no one talked to me. I understand that when I went through my all over fish net phase that no one dared approach me for fear of what they might get a close up of. And after all these playing with identites I was back to the beginning. I still go red when more than one person talks to me, when all the attention is on me I just kind of crumple (like a muffin being crumpled onto the body). This may come as a surprise but really, it's true. My face goes a shiny purple kind of shade and my eyes twitch and cross over and people are left standing laughing and pointing at the jibbering wreck I have become. And you thought I was pretty all the time :-) Anyway, once again my self pitying mind has taken me on another trip so where was I? My new friend. yeah, the last time I made a new friend was when I volunteered at the RSPCA and all the stray dogs took a fancy to my leg for various reasons so as you can imagine I'm pretty excited. The fact that this new 'friend' (the term 'friend' in my translation is "someone who speaks more than 2 sentences to you over the space of 10 minutes") was a 10 year old kid could be laughable but as I have more than an issue with small adults (regarding age and height) because their squeaky insulent tones make me vomit, then this is even more impressive. Her hame is Jennifer and I liked her. An intelligent girl who was more than capable of saying 'what's all that metal in your face for you look stupid' and 'mum, this [lady] has farted' She also adored the numerous plastic bracelets that adorn my arm from wrist to elbow (the only part of me that hasn;t washed in weeks...) so I will pass her one the next I see her I think. She also related a story about her mum's neighbour being called 'Fanny' (a very hip and fashionable name in those days you know) much to our delight and her mum's disgust. That's my kind of kid. It's not that my opinion of kids is changing after one experience of a regular kid or anything because they still scare the shit out of me because you really never know what they are going to say to you or do on your leg but it kinda makes me think that maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to say I would never ever, not if the world depended on me having bastard spawn, have the stinky little people of my own. It's more of a consideration for the people of the world that I do not inseminate myself with the use of a turkey baster because imagine what the fuck they would look like and act like? Some people should never be allowed to reproduce and I am most definitley one of them. And so I go to think about being a fag ash Lil mother who'd rather pawn her kids off for smokes money than play Ludo with them.
It’s a funny day today. My mind should be thinking about the coursework I have due in on Monday which remains unstarted but all I can think about is Saturday night, the one that is to follow. As it is Beautiful Boy’s birthday we have arranged a party at the house of Babs and have set a fancy dress theme of ‘nasty fashion’. This was my idea as I could turn up in my regular everyday wear and pass well (and maybe even win the prize for best/worst dressed) in this category. My possibilities are pretty much endless and so far my outfit (the only 2 stipulations are that nothing must co-ordinate and we all have to have at least one item of clothing reminiscent of Luscious L which will cause no problems as everyone has a pair of socks that can be cut up and placed over the arms) consists of a turquoise jumpsuit which was a C&A (aka Cheap&Affordable and/or Cunt&Asshole) special and has an elasticated waist and wrap around belt, a pair of jazz shoes which are 17 sizes too small but will serve me well when I come to do Flashdance, a hand fan with a Spanish print and a hairband which the lovely Babs brought back from Blackpool for me, says it all. All I require now is a shoulder padded tee or something far worse and some Pat Butcher earrings which J Bo will probably be able to supply. It’s all very exciting. I have also heard rumours of mullet wigs, ski pants with high heels, dungarees and shell suits. It’s like heaven. And with the choice of tunes that will be booming around Cove this really will be a party to die for. Well it will be if anyone tries to slip on my patchwork hat without my permission. I do hope to bring you photographs of this event because I’m sure they will be ever so classy and worth remembering. Really. Am going now to find a string of pearls to set the outfit off nicely.
Oh and I told you yesterday about mr trashwhore’s new baby, Flowback… well I knocked up [a lesbian impossibility] a piece which was kinda thrown together from old weblog stuff and the man liked it so look out for my anti-fashion rant in Flowback. Please.
An ode to Pam
Oh little Pam, I do love you so
Even tho I think u r a ho
I know you love a mound
It must be sticky fingers all round
I wish you luck
With your new fuck
You are a lucky ‘chick’
And all the substitute for a dick
Take good care of The Queen
Or I’ll sort her out… know what I mean?
hello all. yesterday i drank beer in the park, got a frisbee smashed of my head, ate too much ice cream, played mini bowling and thought about Cher. It's all very exciting I'm sure you will agreee but as my ability to think about anything aside from Cher and coursework is limited then I will not blog a great lengthy description of every minute thing I carried out yesterday. Actually there is one other thing I am thinking about that doesn't involve plastic faces and ejournals and that is Mr Trashwhore. This is quite an unusual thought for me considering I think of nothing but ladies and shit music and cheese. I guess it could be argued that mr trashwhore loosely fits into all these categories but that's another story completely and one I'm not really qualified to comment on. Anyway, Mr trashwhore has decided to bestow his words upon the freaks and geeks of Aberdeen via a fortnightly fanzine and has said that should I want to show the city of shite how badly I rant about nothing that matters, then I am free to do so. I got a bit excited with myself and thought I would be able to share the delights of puss size and muff puffs with those who do not know me but alas fannies are off the agenda. It's what I talk about best but we will just have to see if I can come up with any other unimportant ramblings that I may piece together from parts of my weblog. You should check this out, it looks all kinds of cool. It's called flowback and this is the site. That's all for now because my head is in burger mode, despite my disliking for the beefy pattis. Call myself a lesbian?
As I was packing up my paddling pool which had been festering in my garden, making my grass turn brown and housing too many indescribable beasts since my 'kids' party all those weeks ago, something was brought to my attention. As I shook out the hedgehogs and slugs and doggy poop and encrusted jelly I noticed a warning on the side of the blow up pool. It said "CAUTION: THIS PADDLING POOL IS NOT TO BE USED AS A LIFE SAVING DEVICE". Jesus and here was me thinking that if I were to choke on a piece of pie and gerkin that I would be able to run out, blow up the pool with my handy foot pump and instruct it to perform the hiemlichen (sp???!) manouvere and all would be good, I would be saved from choking to death. Similarly, I felt safe knowing that were I to get run over by that number 23 bus as I ran across the road to get home for food then I would be ok because I had a paddling pool waiting to save my life at home. I may never leave the house again with this new knowledge that a giant rubber pool will not and can not bring me back to life should something happen to me and I'm in a position where I am no longer breathing. Gutted.
Britney's song BOYS charted in the UK charts somewhere around position 7. I held back a sniffle when I heard the news and wondered why even though it's not that great a song with the remix why the video didn't help sales and push it up to top 5. She's a sexy lady and i need a britney fix so will go find a hot ass picture of my lady to reclaim my sanity after the depression i have fallen into because a paddling pool will not save my life, even if it were the cause of my untimely demise. How rude.