Saturday, 30 March 2013

More On A Passing

Hearing about a school friend's passing away the other day knocked something a bit off-kilter in my way of thinking.

I feel numb/almost shamefully indifferent about it one moment, and then I'll burst into tears of grief and shock in another. I've fallen asleep crying and woken the next morning with a sense of guilt that I don't feel as awful as is required of me. I don't think my brain knows what to do with the information that I'll never see that familiar face again. It doesn't know where to put it and therefore how to treat it. Right now, death to my brain is a mostly foreign body as I've not experienced it since the age of nine. Nearly sixteen years ago.

The news has made it dawn on me just how meaningless life is. And I don't mean that in a let's-just-slit-our-wrists-and-be-done-with-it kind of way. It's actually lifted a huge amount of pressure from my shoulders. I constantly berate myself that I'm not living life to the fullest. I'm not rich, I'm not super-skinny and model beautiful, and (the one I kick myself over the most) I'm not happy 24/7.

Only now it's hit me. In the end, you don't get brownie points or marks out of ten. There is no grade you have to make in order to pass or fail at life. No one is going to be there to give you a prize or a pat on the back. No reward follows death.

Sounds depressing as fuck, but this knowledge feels quite freeing to me. I spend so much time thinking that I'll need (insert thing here) in order to be happy and in order to make my life "worth it." That's basically my brain telling me "well you can't be happy now, because you don't have this thing yet! Let's obsess over that and then get depressed about the fact that you can't get it!"

Fuck it, though! Who cares? Even if I do make millions on writing some book, and even if I learn to overcome my self-sabotaging behaviour and my weird relationship with food, those things would be nice, but I'm not going to be around in the years following my slipping from this world flipping back through my achievements, smugly going "yeah, I did quite well, didn't I?" because I simply won'

I know I'll continue to have mood swings, bouts of crushing insecurity and moments of head rending anxiety. The only difference now is that I finally accept that this is fine. Because it has to be. And I don't have to reach some emotional nirvana to simply get on with living my life as it happens. Sometimes life just plain sucks balls, and others it's great. You get what you're given and then you're gone. That in itself is more than enough for me - I won't fail at life, because I can't.

Egg Head

Taking my magnificent, egg-like forehead for a "run" along Aberavon beach today. Who needs Botox when you can just freeze your face off naturally? C'mon, Spring! Where you at,mun?!

Wednesday, 27 March 2013

Sad News, Gay Poem

I learned today that someone from my social circle and someone I more or less grew up maybe not exactly with, but in parallel with died in their sleep this week. The second I got home, I cried like a little kid and then felt immediately guilty for it because I don't feel that I was close enough to him to be allowed to feel the grief I did. I'm not his brother nor the housemate who went to wake him only to find that he couldn't. I've pissed around with him on nights out and made small talk with him at gatherings of mutual friends. He was silly, snarky and chilled, and the first person I know personally of my age group that has passed away.

The news shifted something in my perspective. My problems aren't problems at all. I should be grateful for what I have, because any one person in my life could be gone on the other side of tonight's sleep. I thought somewhere deep down that being relatively young meant that we were indestructible. Death was something that happened to people you don't directly know and the elderly. Not to you and your friends. Not now.

Sorry about the tone of today's post. No funnies today. Just a poem that he would have taken the piss out of me for writing. I think he would accuse it of being "gay." My thoughts are with and cannot stop drifting back to his closest friends and family.

The First Of Many

And so our little generation
Starts to show some wear.
You, the first thread plucked,
And with you ebbs away
A small but so incredibly significant
Trace of warmth.

We were indestructible once
In summers of "study"
Lying, basking fatly,
Our fingers spread between sun and metal.
Our minds between vodka softened then
And fresh, unmade now.

It would be you, court jester
To slip so quickly away
At the first bloom and fade
Of frightful, matte reality -

To go
And not like the the rest of us
Begin to truly know
That what comes next is nothing.
May you rest in peace.

Sunday, 24 March 2013

Weekend Roundup: Sucky Faces, Superman & Foot Fluff

This weekend went a little differently to normal. The highlight of my Saturday was purchasing the very first vacuum cleaner I've ever bought myself - a Henry Hoover. One of the most grown-up purchases I've ever made, and I insisted that I needed it to have a face on it. Henry and I are getting along famously. He's nothing short of fricking awesome with his majestic, impressively sucky nose. I have hoovered the house twice in as many days, which is more times than I did aaaall last month! Maybe everything I dislike doing should have a big ole smiley face on it to up the novelty factor and make me do it. Can you put a smiley face on mornings?

Today, after vacuuming the house for the second time and settling myself down in front of the Xbox to gleefully sap all the productivity from my day off like sucking poising from a snake bite, I received a text from A. He needed a lift to A&E after training for his football (soccer) coaching course had gone a bit tits up for him. A tackle had left him unable to walk on one of his feet.

Got to the hospital where A was urged to bounce like a human pogo stick to the doctor's room to be prodded, poked, x rayed and sodomised (I don't know what they do in those rooms. Just hazarding a guess).

I'm fortunate in that I've rarely had to sit in the accident and emergency section of a hospital. And so on the rare occasions when I do have to go, I fully expect to be met with a gory scene of spraying blood and bawling adults rolling around on the floor in agony as their limbs dangle from their bodies, held on only by thin strips of flesh...Like a hammed up world war movie scene. Not so. Just a group of well behaved people politely obeying the unspoken, unwritten waiting room rule of "Thou shalt not speak....but though shalt quietly cough from time to time to prove that there is actually something wrong with you and that you deserve to be seen next".

I was in that waiting room for a good hour or so (quite speedy compared to the usual bellyaching you hear about the NHS....Politics, motherbadger! Go team NHS!) on my tod, and here is what I saw:

- Woman on crutches wearing a Superman hoody. Unsure if the hoody was intentionally ironic. Made me smile either way.

- Small child of unknown diagnosis (she had a bit of a puffy eye...allergic reaction?)torturing her littler brother by shouting "Iiiii'm infecteeeed!!" and running after him as he frantically tried to flee her diseased clutches.

- Teenager proudly showing off what looked like a large dog bite to a modest crowd of "oooh"ing people.

- Other teenage girl of a curvier stature in bum flashing denim hotpants and those fake-suspenders-type tights making the gaggle of pensioners present gasp and giggle like toddlers watching You've Been Framed (british clip show mostly featuring people falling over and accidentally flashing their pants - popular before we found Youtube and cat videos). "You can see her bottom, Doris!"

A eventually called me over to the waiting room he'd been wheeled to, and I got to see the INSIDE OF HIS FOOT WHERE ALL THE BONES ARE! I haven't seen many x-rays in my time either... and, and, I got to watch them put the plaster on his foot! Nurse practitioner declared that there is a little knobble on the x-ray that looks unusual and "a bit fluffy" (direct quote) and that we'll have to go back in and get it checked on again tomorrow to see if it's actually broken.

Next on the agenda for our Sunday adventure fun times was to rescue A's Volkswagen Golf from the leisure centre car park it was sitting abandoned in. As the only one of us with two functioning ankles, I had to drive A's car. To give you a background of my driving experience, it took me a year after passing my test to stop squealing like a pig whenever I hit a bump in the road, and every car I have owned was and is the power equivalent of a hair dryer...and not even a fancy, expensive hair dryer. In cars, instead of horse power, I opt for donkey power.

Ass power, if you will.

Compared with my car, A's Golf has the power of an army of asses, and I never want to drive it again, as I may inadvertently kill someone else or myself. You might have noticed that I have included less swear words in this post than normal...this is because in a fifteen minute drive, I've used up an entire week's quota of F-bombs and S...grenades (..?). A girl racer I will never be.

Anyhoo, home now, along with A and his fluffy foot. Any footballers out there, take heed - tackle correctly, or risk being the reason someone loses their footballing career to foot fluff. No one wants to be that guy.

*solemn head shake*

Here's a photo of the injured bit of the patient's anatomy. Please leave messages of sympathy, well-wishing or condolences for A's foot in the comments box below (please do! The attention might distract him for a moment so that I don't have to pick things up for him for a while. I'm trying to play on Tumblr. Cheers!)

Hope your weekend was smashing, darlings!

Saturday, 23 March 2013

Taxes, Motherfucker!

Sorting out my taxes, because I'm one grown up motherfucker!

.... Once I've finished throwing back coffees and stopped taking pictures of how grown up I'm being.

Shit, this looks quite difficult, actually...

Friday, 22 March 2013

Game Of Thrones: A Belated Review

So, I've started watching Game Of Thrones. I'd heard from several sources that it's good and worth a watch..also that everyone on the planet has watched it and I'm the only one left to catch up.

That being said, I did do a bit of heel digging before I parked my bum on the sofa and finally gave it a go. Reason being that all reviews I had were from people who enjoy the female form in a different way to the way I do(I.e "yeah, it's really good! The women are so fit and there's loads of sex!! Oh the sex!!" Etc...kind of. It's not a direct quote...but feel free to use "oh, the sex!" In future if you so choose). All I knew about it was that I was about to subject myself to many hours of bare boobage. I knew nothing of the plot line or characters. For all I knew, it was about a bunch of kings and queens gaily flashing their genitalia at each other whilst a court jester danced around spanking their bare bottoms with a lute.

Or if I only had the title to go by, the world's first game of musical chairs.

I'm three episodes deep now. I'm in love with a ballsy, sword wielding child and have sworn that if I ever consider reproduction, I'm either having one of her or none at all. I've been introduced to a surprisingly eloquent prozzy boinking imp and yeah, rather a lot of boobs.

But, see, even the boobs are good! The boobs I'm being subject to are not the balloonish bubbles hanging off of painfully arched frames like the ones I'm accustomed to seeing in music videos and other forms of popular culture. The boobs of Game of Thrones are as human and unique to each girl as a fingerprint or a face. Boobs that aren't identikit floatation devices hoiked and strapped into place solely for men to look at. Boobs that make me look at them and go "yes! Mine don't stay put when I lie down either! I'm normal! NORMAL!!!"

I have nothing against surgically altered lady bubbles, as long as they are only bought for the woman wearing them's benefit. And that's another topic for another day. All I'm saying is that I'll continue to watch the band of grumpy faces and furry coats (and gawwwjuss dire wolves! I know they're meant to be badass, but aww, lookit the puppiiiiiieees!) to my heart's content, and it won't be in spite of the "look, boobies!!" factor. In fact, I will be mentally high fiving my shirtless sisters whenever I make eye contact with their many splendoured and varied nipples.


Wednesday, 20 March 2013

Relationships: How To Make Yourself Miserable

1.  Analyze everything he/she says, because they obviously have an agenda.

2.  Tar all members of his/her sex with the same brush.  He/she is of that gender and therefore must be a liar/cheater/crazy bitch/emotionally needy person (circle as required).

3.  Refuse to trust a word he/she says, because someone with the same private parts (same kind - not exactly the same.  Too weird.  Penis twiiiins!!) hurt you this one time.

4.  Constantly worry about how you weigh up to their exes.  Sure, he/she is with you now - but they were with him/her there must have been something they liked about them.  Something they had that you don't. 

5.  Spend every hour of every day wondering when he/she will figure out that you're not all you're cracked up to be and leave you when they realise how gross/dumb/ugly you are compared to the plethora of better people out there waiting for them.

6.  Your partner is being quiet/grumpy/distant: Blame yourself and rack your brains through the hundreds of things you might have done that made them this way.  Await your imminent dumping in between parroting "Are you okay?  Have I done something wrong?  Tell meee!!"

7.  Totally rely on the moods and affections of one person to act as the foundations of your already shaky self confidence.

8.  Don't do anything for yourself.  Only do what makes him/her happy.  Torture yourself if you feel you have failed in any way to do this.

9.  Forget to like yourself because you're too busy focusing on him/her.

10.  Forget that whatever happens between you two (great or horribly painful), you will eventually emerge from it okay.  Because, in the end, you have to be.

Want!! a bruddah out.

Where can I get my grubby, greedy mitts on this in the UK??

Tuesday, 19 March 2013

Why Sleep Is Bad For You (Me)

Britain is a nation that when not discussing the weather or food, it is talking about how much sleep it's had. We refuse to win when it comes to catching some ZZZs. The number of ZZZs accumulated are always either too few, resulting in caffeine induced mood swings, or too many, resulting in the sleeper being "over tired" upon waking - That strange phenomenon where you sleep so much that it knackers you out. Another term for this condition is "being a student". I am allowed to say this because I used to be one. Not bitter or anything about no longer being one.

Boo you students.

God, I miss drinking snakebites at midday...Made everything so much more interesting.

As I mentioned in a post a few days ago, I've clocked up an impressive amount of hours in the sack this past fortnight because I seem to be on a run of late-starting shifts where I get to rise from my crypt after nine o clock before having to head to work.

Score. Or so I thought.

Getting at least eight hours of coma time a night has not been the refreshing, health-giving experience I'd expected. Quite the opposite. Since starting my run of lie-ins, these things have happened:

- I have developed some kind of aggressive cold that is making my throat, ears and nose itch on the inside, turning me into a meat sack of itchy fury that sounds like it chain smokes.

- I've not been allowed to complain that I've slept too much. Turns out people don't like people who don't appreciate the fact that they've been allowed to linger in bed longer than them. What gives?

- My brain has melted into some kind of jellyfish that cannot function in daylight hours. It only wakes up at about 4am, when it showers me with an array of disturbing dreams that make me question my sanity.

- I have had no motivation whatsoever to move my body any more than is absolutely necessary. And by necessary, I mean when I need to bring food to my face.

Don't sleep, kids. It's bad for you. Because at least when you're kicking your mind's ass with Red Bull, it's stressed enough to think thoughts deeper than "That was a weird dream I had last night. Is lunch soon?"

Sunday, 17 March 2013

Picture pretty much sums up last night's festivities. House party followed by boogies at a gay bar. Met some new people, was told by a white, homosexual gentleman that I "dance alright for a white girl" and stroked the inside of a dead hare's face. Standard.

Friday, 15 March 2013

Wet Dreams and Happy Meals

I know! I know why I can't write anything good this week!

I've dreamed all of my mojo away. Wet dreams of creativity, if you will. I've spent the past few nights enthusiastically beating my forehead with my fists for ideas, and now I realise why they're not happening!

You recall my post about the fucked up dreams I've been having? Well, I've been working late shifts at the office for the last couple weeks, which start closer to midday than actual, terrifying, soul-draining morning. This means a fortnight of nine hour sleeps for this she-thing. I'm so well rested physically that I could run up the walls and scurry across the ceiling if I wanted to.

Trouble is that mentally, I'm even less perky than normal. Add this to my total lack of common sense that I'm blessed with on my "surprisingly well-functioning" days, and I'm basically a mindless terrier, shaking with pure energy.

All of my creative (for want of a better word) thoughts are going into giving me dreams so lucid and disturbing that I have to talk myself back down to reality every time I hear the alarm clock. Last night, I dreamed that A decided that we needed to buy a flat. In an ex mental asylum. That was kind of still a mental asylum (for want of a more p.c term) with actual horror movie mentals still living in it. I've also had another one where I had a heart attack whilst at my day job cleaning my mum's mansion (fyi - she lives in a modest 2 bed semi-detached abode and cleans for a living herself. No mansions) and couldn't call for any help because at that precise moment, I lost my voice. When suddenly I woke up at 4am panting and palpitating, my first instinct was to run to the bathroom and check in the mirror to see if I was looking a bit heart-attacky.

Seriously, brain. What?!

I've come to the conclusion that sleep is bad for me and that I should no longer do it. I hereby renounce sleep.

On an unrelated note, here's a picture of a tiny mouse thing that a human child (A's niece. I haven't neglected to inform you of any spawning on my part) gave me from her McDonald's Happy Meal, because she thought I'd enjoy it more.

Lookit its cyoot little FACE!!

Wednesday, 13 March 2013

Chill. The Fuck. Out.

I have a post for you! Yippee hooraaay! After my previous plea for inspiration, I decided to give up on blogging completely for the evening by forcing myself to do something that I rarely do. Relax. There are only two activities that can make this pent up ball of "aaagh!" chill out, and I can't do one of them because he's sleeping (haha, I can hear you sicking up in your mouths as I type!), so I did the other - I took a bath. At eleven at night when I should really be sleeping too. It's way past my bed time, you guys.

A good chunk of my post ideas come to be while I'm in the bath or shower - now there's a mental image that'll stick with you. Sorry! Something about being immersed in skin sloughingly hot water makes my mind go a bit melty round the edges, freeing it of all my usual self inflicted destructive thought patterns (I'm not joking - my brain's voice is like the Magic Roundabout theme. Deeply unsettling and without apparent end.), so that the ideas get a shot at swimming to the top.

I wasn't exaggerating when I said that there is very little that I can do to relax. I think I was born without that bit of the brain. If I'm not doing something productive, then I'm losing precious seconds as I'm forever inching closer and closer to death and GOOD GOD, DO SOMETHING NOW, FOR YOU COULD DIE AT ANY MOMENT!! ACHIEVE STUFF IMMEDIATELY!!!!

So, naturally, most typically "relaxing" activities aren't for me. I will give you some of my reactions to things that are supposed to calm people down and make them all peaceful and shit:

- Reading a book: I like that character! I HATE that character! Actually, they're alright now. Even kind of loveable. Wait. Why are bad things happening?! Aww, it all worked out in the en-.....WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE DIED??

- Jogging: I'm doing great! Look at me go! Lovely day, nice smooth road....getting a bit out of breath now, actually. Must have got quite far...keep going...all good...fuck...have to stop. Get breath...back.

*turns around*

How can I still see my front door from here?!

- Listening to slow music: So many emotions!! Who did this to you to make you so sad? I will hunt them down and kill them for you and we will run off into the sunset begin a new life together!

- Watching TV: Wasting time wasting time wasting time...why aren't I doing anything productive? Maybe if I clean something while I watch it, it'll alleviate the guilt...

*knocks over lamp with arse as turns around to watch pivotal scene*

Ah, fuck. Forgot I couldn't multi task. Wait. What happened? Did someone die? Stupid lamp!!

- Comfort eating: I LOVE FOOD SO MUCH, IT MAKES ME WANT TO DANCE!!....I feel sick.

I think it's pretty evident that I am not a chilled out person, and I don't expect I'll ever be. At twenty five, I think I am an adult equivalent of a toddler bombing around the house between fits of crying, raging, snacking and uncontrollably laughing until they eventually pass out suddenly at the end of each day from pure exhaustion... Only to arise wise the sun and do it all again, much to their long suffering family's detriment. And I think I'm alright with that. Sometimes. Maybe. I mean, should I be alright with that? Or is it bad for my health? Maybe I should Google it. Ooh, I haven't watched 30 Rock yet, have I? No, TV is laziness and laziness is wastefulness. I'm hungry. Is it midnight already??



I have serious writer's block, peeps.  Help!

What do you want from meeee??

Saturday, 9 March 2013

A Fun Game

Okay. So. I'm off the Eng-uh-lund for a night out tonight as the tag-along girl on a lad's (haha iPad keeps changing "lad's" to "lady's" ...sassy little tablet!) night out. I was going to do a post about general drunken behaviour or something along those lines, but I'm now thinking I'll opt for something a little more interactive. You can play along!

Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce you to...The Pisshead Checklist....Gaaaame!

Fine, I'll never win my millions by thinking of names for board games. It's simple. I'm going to list the typical things I've been known to of a night out, and when I get back, I'll tell you which happened. Whoever guesses the most correctly wins..something. Awesome points. Here goes. Will I....?

1. Accidentally offend someone by mimicking their accent. What? People like that, don't they??

2. Buy rounds of drinks for people I don't/ barely even know because I'm drunk. And drunk me doesn't think money is real. And that shots buy people's love.

3. Fall over in my excitement because "they're playing my song!!!" FYI all of Drunk Becky's songs are her song.

4. Decide that I should be someone's wing man and "help them out" by shoving them into circles of strange women.

5. Make bff's with a woman in the toilets that I've never seen before and will never see again.

6. Attempt to make small talk with the bar staff:

What I think I'm saying: "good evening, sir! I hope your shift is a pleasant one. May I have a Strongbow?"

What bartender hears: "hahaha, hi! Have you seen my shoes? I like your face! Drink! Strongbow!! Dancing, hurry HURRY!" *hurls fistful of coins in bartender's direction and clacks back to dance floor*

7. Dance with my arms getting higher and higher as the night progresses until I am just thrashing with my palms to the ceiling.

8. Promptly have a mental breakdown at 3a.m. Kind of like Cinderella. But instead of my dress turning to rags, my thin veneer of sanity falls away, leaving me gasp-sobbing totally unprovoked. Until I hear MY SONG, immediately cheer up and return to the dance floor.

9. Dance-off.

10. Despite the fact that I shrink away from other people's cameras like that witch from The Wizard of Oz (I'm meeeltiiiiing!!) in my sober state, I leap into other people's photographs like I've been let out on day release.

11. Claim that I'm "channelling" a celebrity. So far, I've been Kesha, Beyonce, Will Smith and Bear Grylls. Whoever could be next?

12. All of the above. bet's on number 12.


Tuesday, 5 March 2013

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of Lesbians & Rednecks

So, my attempts to win A's attention over the Xbox failed. Can't think where I went wrong. I was trying to be romantic!

Me: Hey. Hey. *poke* Hey!

A: What?

Me: Would you still love me if I had no teeth?

A: No.

Me: Are you thure? Look! Look how thexy thith ith!

I continue to gum "sexily" in front of A until I eventually get bored and wander off for attention elsewhere. Facebook entertains me for five minutes while a friend tells me about a near fatal tooth brushing accident she had today (birds of a feather stick together). I make sure that the bleeding has stopped. She assures me it has. I tell her to keep me updated if she does feel she might die tonight and move on to Blogspot.

And now here I am!! I came here to talk to you because I know you'd love me even if I had no teeth in my mouth and a big, bald head full of spots! Heh.

...I mean, you would, wouldn't you?

Truth be told, I wasn't sure what I'd write about because I'm still going through some kind of Tina Fey obsession that's taking up a worrying amount of my time and mental processes. So, I thought I'd go for that usual small talk that people just love to hear!

1. The weather: It's Wales. It's cold. It's wet. Next!!

2. Dreams: I have an overactive imagination (yes, it's true!!), and this still rings true while I'm sleeping. I don't tend to get the ones about flying or falling. Mine tend to veer more on the psychotic and weirdly detailed side than that. Funnily enough, the most recurring one I get is a frighteningly vivid one about all my teeth falling out. Huh. Am I seeing into the future? A never seems to be in them, so maybe I am!

Anyway. For any hip and funky wannabe psychoanalysts out there care to take a wade through the murky, piranha infested depths of my sleeping brain, here are a few recent gems. One with a highly accurate pictorial version at the bottom of this page. Oh, how I spoil you so!

Dream #1: I am at a trendy, dark bar full of beautiful, sophisticated lesbians in their thirties, as this is my age and sexual orientation now. Bit of a surprise because I thought I was a hetero in my mid twenties, but hey ho, sometimes you skip a decade and wind up in a gay bar for the gorgeous *hair flip*. Who am I with? Oh, I remember now! I'm with my best friend Holly - wife Holly. Funny how you forget these things! We've come out (see what I did there? SEE IT?!) on one of our nights out, leaving behind our home full of cats (really, brain? Can you get any more stereotype-y??). What a laugh we have at these things! Such fun, isn't it Holly?

...Holly? Oh, Holly's over the other side of the room fawning over some tall, blonde giantess in a black and silver sparkly bra. They must be friends. I'll go over to say hi. Maybe she's my friend too.

Holly: "Hmm? Oh. Sorry. I like this girl now. She has a better bra on than you."

Me, dumstruck: "Oh.."

Holly: "And I want a divorce."

Dream #2: At home with A and a few others because I live in shared accommodation, just like I did in uni. A's got a friend staying over with us. A timid, bird-like girl who won't come out of her room. Aren't we nice, housing the cripplingly shy like this? So nice. I head up to my room to do some blogging after a long day's sitting around. Bird Girl peeps her doe-eyed face around her door frame and "pssts" at me to come in and talk to her. I'm touched that she wants to speak with me. Perhaps I can coax her out of her shell by giving her a make over by taking off her glasses like in those films I used to watch as a teenager. Oh, wait, she doesn't have glasses. We can get her some glasses and then dramatically take them off!

Me: "What's up? You okay?

Bird Girl: "I'm okay. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

Me: "Yeah? Why?"

Bird Girl: "I slept with your boyfriend."

Me, baffled: "Oh right...How come?"

Bird Girl: "He said we needed to sleep together to see if there's any chemistry, so I'm staying over for a bit to see if it works out between us. Is that okay?"

Bird Girl looks so adorable and timid that I can't help but laugh and pat her on the tiny head.

Me: "It's okay, I'm not angry."

I hug Bird Girl and serenely leave the room as forgiving and placid as an angel. Or Jesus. I am girl Jesus. I float down the stairs, saving my strength ready for when I beat the living shit out of A for making Bird Girl feel bad about herself.

Dream #3: I am the host of a gameshow. The contestants are heavily stereotypical rednecks. I ask them multiple choice questions, and if they get enough right, they win their children back.

What do these dreams say about me? Anyone want to hazard a guess? Or am I better off not knowing?

Sunday, 3 March 2013


Heeeey guuuuys... I promise you that I was going to write an awesome, mind-blowing blog post tonight, I really was, honest.... But I've just found out that I am the last person on the planet to discover how brilliant 30 Rock is, and I am now in some kind of weird Tina Fey vortex thing, and I can't stop eating frozen yogurt, sooo...

...yeah. There's that. Picture evidence?