No, I didn't get bad dentures. I saw my heroes live onstage at Reading Festival for the third time (Blink 182). Fart jokes and power chords abound! I love that trio so much that, as I sat on A's shoulders and took in their iconic flaming "FUCK" backdrop sign over a sea of thousands of heads, I may have done a little cry. In my pants.
Only joking. Out of my eyes. But I was three days deep into field dust and day drinking, so it seems normal that my face chose to malfunction in such a way. Had a great weekend, as ever.
What else, what else... Ooh! I got some sweet, sweet ink done on a whim while my sister was getting her first tattoo. In true big sister stylee, I obviously felt I had to at least borrow some of her thunder by asking one of the tattoo artists if they had any cancellations. They did. Hurrah! Here is the result:
Hell's Angels membership card pending.
I did write a little (10,000 words or so) story to publish the other week, as I mentioned in my last post. Like my last verbal creation, it's another attempt at "the funnies", but this time, it's fiction. That sounds like the world's shittiest movie tagline.
BECKY'S BACK! BUT THIS TIME... IT'S FICTION
(dun dun duuuuuuuuhn!)
Instead of hosting it on Amazon and making people pay their hard earned 77p's on it, when I've figured out how to host PDFs on a blog (poking screen with a stick doesn't seem to have worked so far) and actually bothered to proof read the thing, I will put it up here for downloading at your leisure. Watch this space and all that.
In some attempts-at-fitness news, I'm still bumming the living daylights out of CrossFit - novelty very much alive and not worn off yet. I seem to get a kick out of making myself waddle with pain most days of the week. Only detrimental result of my new addiction (apart from making my blog title Rebecca Writes & Runs look like a big, fat fatty of a lie) is that I've barely run due to my permanently heavy legs, and when I do, I can't seem to break the 6 mile mental barrier I've put up for myself. I feel every. Single. Step. It's like my brain won't let the handbrake go, which isn't great when Cardiff Half is in a few terrifying weeks. Going to attempt somewhere between 8 and 10 miles today, which frightens the bajeezus out of me. We shall see.
Last bit of my exciting update now. Drumroll, please.
I came to the conclusion on Saturday morning that I have spent a big ole chunk of August pissed as a newt. This has left me poor(er than normal) and given me the energy levels of an old, crumpled towel. Much as I love the demon drink, it don't love me back! My hangovers are reaching nuclear level and only seem to be getting worse with age. I've had some great days and nights out this month, but I'm ready for a break now. And I think my friends deserve a hard earned rest from beauties like this at 3am:
No, Drunk Becky. Spelling obviously isn't the issue here. Go home.
So, in a bid to replenish my bank balance and general well being, I intend to have a sober October next month (can't not drink this month. Going abroad for a wedding next week, and my willpower is about as strong as soggy paper). I know Macmillan are doing a sponsored month of sobriety, but I feel a bit odd asking my friends to fork out money for me to stay at home on Saturday nights, catching up on The Walking Dead (zombies!! Guns!! ZOMBIES!!!) and eating snacks for a month, so I'll probably make a donation to the charity and go on my merry way without pestering those who tolerate my actions enough as it is. Only reason I'm slapping my decision up on here is so that I can't back out. It's out there now, on the interweb, so it's official. Like a relationship status on Facebook.
Yes. So. That's us caught up for the last few weeks. I like your new haircut, and that's a snazzy top you have on there. See you sooner rather than later later this time!