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


My 100 Things

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Currently Reading:

The Outsider - A Camus

Choke - C Palahnuik


Wednesday, December 31

Hogmany (New Year's Eve) is so over rated. You would think we Scots needed an excuse to get filthy drunk and stay out all hours of the night. It's kinda just an extension of a regular Saturday night except we get an extra days holiday to get over our hangovers. It also seems to be an excuse to slober all over strangers. As soon as the bells toll you are suddenly jumped by randoms who gob on you and grope you just because it's midnight. I think when you are 16 there is some element of fun in swapping saliva with as many people as you can but now I realise the extent of how gross this really is. I know it's all customary to have a kiss to welcome in the New Year but does that mean tongue tickling any available pair of cold-sore ridden lips? Vile.

Maybe I am just bitter because last year I was actually kiss-less, despite the number of lips I'm sure would have been on offer (like I say people will kiss anything on this occasion). Being wary of rampant randoms I avioded stepping out til well after the snogging fest (12-1am). I think last hogmany was the biggest non event of the year. My Lil Red celebrated her one 8 hours before me in Sydney and due to most people's need to escape Aberdeen I entertained only Gobby Bobby who was missing her new girl, The Queen of Fun who was about as fun as dry turd due to mitigating circumstances and Gypsy Frills Anon who was so drunk she fell off usually quite stable furniture. And of course I was a laugh a second, tripping over my lip so it has to be said that it was all a bit, 'right is that it? cool.'

We planned for this year to be amazing, our first New Year together. It would have been swell was it just to be me, Lil Red and a bottle of Vodka it has to be said but we thought we'd try swing a party. I don't know if 7 people really constitute a party. It's the same as last year, everyone wants out of Aberdeen or just can't be bothered with the whole thing but maybe 7 will be the lucky number. After all, it's quality not quantity right? It's not particularly lucky for Lil Red however who is doped up on super strength antibiotics and as she is my main contender I too am so not fussed anymore. Will we even make it 12am? Maybe just but I plain refuse to venture out pre midnight for fear of being bear hugged to death by over eager folks who want a piece of anything on this day of the year, which is probably the only day you will ever manage to kiss that girl/boy you've always wanted but who would never usually look at you. It's amazing what a bit of new year spirit and a bucket of whiskey will do to people.

Anyway, we have party food so it can't be all bad... I hope you all have a fabulous time and manage not to get oral herpes or glandular fever from some twatt who has probably also kissed your mother. But if you do, be sure to be generous with your new affliction and pass it on baby, pass it on.

See you next year :-)


Britney Wannabe

12/31/2003 02:42:00 PM

Friday, December 26

Today is swell because:

I get to see my girl after two hugless nights
There is still over a week of 'fat fortnight' left
Britney woke me up girating on the TV
It's Boxing Day so surely there are more presents still to come...
I actually had time to paint my nails this morning
My digital camera is the bomb
Only one week till Amber Bensen (aka Tara from Buffy) comes to see me
I will actually shower
I am going to see Sugarbabes in 3 months and 2 days...
I have a meal with my buds to look forward to tomorrow night
I don't have to worry about my Lil Red leaving me to travel Oz tomorrow as I did this time last year
I am being kept company by Sugar Tuc
I am hot at my new playstation game
My hair is straight and extension filled
I had such a fun day yesterday, despite the over eating guilt trips I inflicted upon myself
I have 4 more days of work until I get 6 off
Santa still comes to see Miss Fee
All my fabulous presents form fabulous people

Today is turd because:

The veggie buttries laden with cream cheese have given me indigestion
Half my nail varnish is now stuck to the keyboard
I return to the madness that is the January sale in less than a day
Once my garndparents arrive I am sure to be subjected to, 'have you got a boyfriend yet' as they look at Lil Red as though she is non existant
My dog farted in my face as I drooled over my Britney
I am trying not to be so textually obsessed
I am only hot at my new playstation game because it is for ages 3+
My bellies are filled with chocolate
I feel wibbly, maybe because of all the sugar in my gut
My digital camera does not work on this vintage machine
I am still waiting for my prized possession lap top to make a full recovery after her illness
I received a '4 bag set'. Call me ungrateful ["ungrateful"] but hello, anyone who knows me knows I am so not a '4 bag set' girl
Christmas is almost over (despite my lack of festive cheer on XMas Eve brought on by shite customers I am sad that it's officially almost over for another 365 days)

Enough already. I must moan nomore as I must prepare myself for the arrival of relatives and the barrage of unanswerable questions I am set to receive.

I hope you all had a swell day and Mr Clause got your shoe size right this year.

Bu bye


Miss Fee XxX

PS how shite was World Idol last night? Kelly was of course fabulous and Will was cool despite his odd hair but the geezer doing flashdance... what the buggery was that about? I hope the butch dyke wins. Actually I think that was a Belgian plumber called Frank.

Britney Wannabe

12/26/2003 12:35:00 PM

Sunday, December 21

I was mingling with the stars again last night. Nope Jo Guest did not read my weblog and think, "gosh this is the lesbo that rebuked my advances, I shall track her down and make her see the error of her gay ways" but instead I was out drinking with Cameron from Big Brother. How cool? Sorry I must still be well over the limit because I appear to have lost my mind. I hate Big Brother stars. Lynne Moncrieff is the exception...

Actually I wasn't out drinking with him, just drinking in the same vacinity as him but as you know, I have a tendency to spin a tale well out of control and turn it in to something it's so not so today is no different. So of course we were exchanging tales and downing shots and swapping phone numbers... It's so not cool to get giddy over someone who won a reality tv show, unless of course we are talking about Alex Parks. And what the buggery was Cameron, who for religious reasons disapproves of the homosexual lifestyle, doing in a gay bar wearing a body warmer? And why oh why did I find myself lunging toward him as soon as he entered the door, stabbing him in his bingo wing and waving in his face as maniacally as a lesbo on heat?

Just when I worried that I was the most uncouth, uncool person in the world, the queens flocked to his side and pawed and ruffled and clapped and whooped. The cameras and picture phones were out in abundance as they all tried to make their moment of glory last. Poor Cameron, a friendly, timid Orcadian, looked bemused yet overwhelmed and somehow didn't sink into boredom as he was subjected to a barrage of the same tedious questions from drunken queers who all thought he was their new best friend. His pantomime pals had clearly gotten him off his tee total wagon and convinced him to step out to the gay bar and refuel that 'is he or isn't he' rumour. I bet he wishes he'd stayed cosy at the local bar rather than face the warmth of wasted gay lords who all wanted a word or a hug pr a grope to take away with them.

Not that I was any better of course. Come on, you know the closest we get to someone famous in Aberdeen is spotting the local newsreader having a hissy fit in GAP so it's only natural we would swoon over someone we watched on TV for 10 weeks and haven't thought about since. Isn't it?

Anyway, after too much time spent adjusting my standing position to see our 'celeb' and having well exceeded my texting limit I decided it was time to leave before I got so desperate to speak to him that ILil Red and I give him a private lesbo show... Enough already.

I so badly wish I was cool. Maybe my tale of utter cred-less-ness was one to be left untold. Alas, if I can't share my sadness with my readers then who can I share it with?

And so I must go and think about the consequences of eating a pack of mince pies because it's too late to undo the action.

Today's Likes

The Hours, book and film
Christmas shopping
My date with Lil Red last night
Non spiky toe nails
The snow - it's here!

Today's Dislikes

All this Lord of the Rings hype. I don't get it and worry I am the only person not to
Christmas shoppin crowds. The world is full of psychotics, me included
Not getting to see my girl on christmas day
The glitter that has embedded itself into the corner of my eye. Pretty yet painful.

Britney Wannabe

12/21/2003 01:50:00 PM

Sunday, December 14

In my hangover haze I was really struggling to find something to write about that didn’t involve turd. Instead of an original piece of nonsense I have decided to regurgitate one of my favourite Fee tales in the same way as the dinner I brought back last night after too much cherry liqueur, vodka and chocolate fondue. I have spun this tale out more often than I have eaten cranberry cheese and in fact the telling of my story occurs so regularly that it has become part of my daily routine. I continually strive to find someone in Aberdeen who has yet to hear about my magnificent moment but as the days go on it is proving to be quite a challenge. It’s gotten to the stage (actually it was at that stage about 30 minutes after it happened) that when I am out people avoid me as though I’m more annoying than a serial groper. And as soon as my friends here the infamous words, “Did I ever tell you about the time…” I suddenly find myself alone but for a fist in my face. I’m pretty sure I have told you all this many times before and I apologise for a lack of something new. As for those who haven’t heard my claim to fame I also apologise. There’s been so much of a build up that by this time you are expecting, “Did I ever tell you about the time those damn jalapenos helped launch me into space?” Or, “Did I ever tell you about the time I was on one of the ‘Jerry! I used to have a dick but now I’m a chick’ shows?” But instead this is all you get,

“Did I ever tell you about the time I got chatted up by Jo Guest in a gay bar?” It’s at this point you have one of the following reactions:
1) Cool! Go Fee! (Am still eagerly waiting for this reaction to happen of course)
2) That’s it? That’s your one big story that makes you beam with pride?
3) You made that up
4) Jo who?
5) So?

So yeah that’s it. The one story I got that doesn’t involve turd, global bums, Britney Spears or cranberry cheese. It is true though. And for those (i.e. most) of you who are wondering if Jo Guest is a reality TV show builder, Jo Guest is indeed a glamour model. A rather thick, once quite ugly but recently (and at time of chatting up) quite hot titty girl.

It all happened on the same night and in the same club that Boy George threw himself down the stairs more dramatically than he throws on his make-up. It was the end of a sweaty night of dancing in a cool gay bar (clearly not in Aberdeen) and this little minx was shaking her ass on the not-so-crowded dance floor in little more than a rubber dress. After agreeing this was in fact Jo Guest and moistening our panty liners with the joy at having spotted someone who isn’t famous for staring in a reality TV show, I decided to go stand near her at the bar with the intent of saying something clever and cool, even though I had my 4am hair-do and pounds of glitter streaked across my face. I swaggered up to her and thinking of nothing cooler to say, spluttered, ‘wow you’re Jo Guest.’ What an opener. The conversation should have stopped there but no, I actually managed to pick my jaw off the ground and engage in conversation, the content of which still remains a mystery to me today. And then she says she wants to buy me a drink and because I am so cool I say, ‘No I am going home.’ Yeah because that’s what you say when a hot chick you have already seen half naked wants to buy you alcohol. It’s around this time that she starts giving my two male friends dirty looks when they try and get in on the conversation. I make my excuses and leave, feeling the vomit wave pass through me. And it’s all over. Instead of haning around to see what was actually happening I go home and textually harass my entire phone book 5 times over. You can imagine the array of language I was privy to that night.

Is it even cool to be chatted up by a glamour model? Let’s look at the evidence. She gets her boobs out for trashy tabloid newspapers. Never mind, Jo Guest still chatted me up. Of course it is possible that I completely misinterpreted the conversation seeing as I remember very little of what was actually said. But just let me stick to the original story for the sake of my amazing silence filler.

And so I go hang my head in shame for leading you all to believe something even vaguely interesting happened to me this one time about two years ago.

PS Did I ever tell you about the time I got chatted up by Jo Guest?

Britney Wannabe

12/14/2003 07:47:00 PM

Sunday, December 7

I was reminded of New York the other day when I stood in a monstrous dog turd which was so huge it almost crept inside my mule. It made me remember how refreshing it was to step outside in New York and not have to slalom round stale and fresh jobbies of both the animal and human variety. I think in the time I was there the only dog shit I spotted in Manhattan was when the poop was on it’s way out of dogs’ arses. Everyone was so diligent in picking up the turd that before the creamy delights even hit the street it was swooped up quicker than I could say, ‘oaty’. On one occasion I even saw a woman place a plastic bag down and watched in awe as the dutiful dog squatted over Bloomingdale’s and did a massive curly turd right on cue and right on the second ‘o’. I imagine if NY wasn’t so strict with dog fouling laws the stench of the city would be pretty unbearable. You couldn’t even fart in the street without suffocating all pedestrians within a 4-block radius because it was so hot and stuffy so I guess if there were loads of steaming jobbies around the place would be full of disease.

I also noticed that I was the only person staring at the glamour girls and the rich bitches and the fashion fags as they delicately yet efficiently would bend, grab and tie in one swift movement. It didn’t matter that Flower the elegant French Poodle had just done a massive steaming dump on the middle of Fifth Avenue; mummy was on hand (or two hands) to ensure that the evidence was removed hastily and without shame. Not one person took the slightest bit of interest and no one pointed and shouted, ‘Gadz, she’s picking up poo. Don’t go near her.’

Here in ‘I’m too cool for dog poo’ Aberdeen, the stigma attached to cleaning up after your dog is pathetic. People walk their dogs up the main street and as the dog goes into poop position the owner tries to haul the dog up which never results in the dog refraining from doing its business but instead results in the dog being dragged forward and pooing all the way leaving a shit trail from one end of town to the other. The owner then either whacks the dog for taking such a public dump or turns his/her head to face the opposite direction and assumes that if he/she pretends to ignore the pedigree chum oozing out if his/her animal then so will everyone else. The pair then walk on. The streak of turd then lies there till someone (often me) comes along and takes it home with them and smears it into the lightly coloured carpet and anywhere else it feels like attaching itself to.

Ok so picking up dog poop doesn’t feel great, the warmth and texture and often enormity of dog poos is unfamiliar and not very pleasant but hell as long as your bag doesn’t have holes there should be no reason for not picking up behind your dog. A poo in a bag can also double as an offensive weapon when walking your dog at night time, as well as serving to piss your neighbours right off by filling up their skip with Asda shites. So, for the good of my mules and my new carpet can you people please perfect the manoeuvre that New Yorkers have had to?

Mind you, how can you be expected to eradicate all shit from the streets when the city itself is just so full of shits? I figure the amount of shit on a city’s street reflects the kind of people living in it.

And so I go to try and get that sticky turd out of my shoe with a Burberry cap I found on the street. See what I mean about the streets being filled with shit?

Today’s Likes

My ever-improving moonwalk… yes really
Possibility of a dance tonight
Queer Eye
Ally Hilfiger
Being 24 and being unable to change a quilt
Today’s Dislikes

My bad dye job which has resulted in me looking as though a shite graffiti artist sprayed me yellow
Queer Eye’s Carson’s love of a loafer sans socks. Eh?
Ripping the fanny in my only pair of work trousers. At work.
Victoria Beckham
Long white Nike trainers
The fact that the word ‘ski-pants’ is allowed in the dictionary in 2003.

Britney Wannabe

12/07/2003 04:35:00 PM

Thursday, December 4

"hmmmm aren't I delicious..."

Surely colonic irrigation is one of the most humiliating things you can put yourself through? It’s certainly something that makes me colour the same shade of pink as my luminous highlights just thinking about it. I could never therefore actually lie there and have someone shove a tube up my ass, no matter how much of my toxins it promises to eradicate. I didn’t think there could be any other form of self inflicted degradation that could be any more dignity destroying than indulging in colonic. That was until Cheryl ‘Bucksfizz’ Baker decided she wanted her insides pumped out for free. I was horrified, as I am sure all other watchers were, to witness Cherly Baker getting a tube stuffed up her volumptuous arse and having the life extracted from her now expanded arsehole on reality TV show The Salon the other day. I was just tucking into my veggie mince when the show cuts to a portly Cheryl Baker lying on her side in what appears to be pure agony. I’m wondering what the hell is going on when we the camera cuts to a see through tube coming from her ass through which flakes of shit are quite clearly passing. Vomit. Why the hell, especially if you are Cheryl Baker and only famous because you won the Eurovision Song Contest for flinging your skirt off in about 1914, would you subject yourself, and millions of unsuspecting viewers, to shit vacating your dimpled ass? What would have you suddenly wake up and say ‘Hmmm, what to do today? I know, I will make an appointment for The Salon but I wont get my haircut or have a spa in front of 4 million viewers. That would be shameful. Instead I will whip off my tapered slacks, have a stranger part my flabby butt cheeks and shove a wedge of plastic into my sacred shit hole. Yes that’s what I will do today.’ What the fuck? I’m sorry but who could be so desperate for a sniff of fame when their time in the limelight clearly passed forty years ago that they would allow themselves to be filmed with bits of turd flying out their puckered arsehole? Cheryl Baker that’s who. Cherly Baker, you had the shit ripped out of you publicly, in every possible way. Well done Ms Baker, you are officially a media whore.

Today’s Likes

Miss Abby's site
In the Zone
Two days till the weekend
Unusual Hair

Today’s Dislikes

The word ‘quirky’ especially when used to describe me in a less than complimentary fashion
My Britney pics that have disappeared
Choking on peroxide fumes
Ex Big Brother contestants

Disapponited With

Party Monster, the film