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Happy fucking new year. I’ve set fire to my hair already.

1 Jan

I’ve been away for a few weeks in the U-S-of-A, and there is far too much to rant about for one post, so I shall come back to that soon. I probably won’t.

In the mean-time, have a happy 2013. It baffles me that the world went schizo over the Mayans predicting the end of the world, yet nobody has yet thrown a hissy fit over the fact that for one whole year, we are going to be all about the big THIRTEEN. Hashtag unlucky.

Within hours of it being the new year, I have managed to set light to my hair whilst cooking myself a drunken feast (note: if you have exceedingly long hair, it’s best not to lean over the cooker. In fact, it’s best not to cook whilst drunk. In fact, I should probably go and check that I turned the fire off.)

I also managed to have a run in with the school bully on the way home. How is it, at 25 and a half years of age, Fat Lee still makes me quake in my boots? Actually, probably ’cause he’s Fat Lee – the earth trembles beneath him. Yo mama.

One more gripe – I am so inanely bored of seeing Facebook statuses telling me how many “ups and downs” everyone has had this year, or how they’re going to “kick this year’s arse”. We all know in a year’s time, the people who thought they were going to kick this year’s arse will be complaining over how many ups and downs they’ve had this year. That is life. GET OVER IT. And don’t shit all over my newsfeed.

Bah humbug and a merry fucking new year.

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Goodness. Gracious. Great balls of SNOT.

12 Nov

This isn’t so much a rant as a limp verbal excrement. I don’t have the energy to feel passionately angry about anything today. Why?

Because I have the Snot Disease. I am one huge walking sack of bogey. I have the Lurgy. I am having as much fun as I would be if I were sticking heroin needles in my eyes and licking sandpaper. I’ve just blown my nose and half of my brains have made their way out of my head and into my tissue. I literally feel as fresh as a gorilla’s arsehole.

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Added to this, I am nursing a hangover. I had the unfortunate experience of going on my second ever “date” last night, and God knows I needed to intravenously hook myself up to the alcohol to get through it. My goal of getting married before my 893rd birthday is getting slowly farther away. Still, at least I’ll be able to boast a top notch immune system after this shit-party of a cold has departed my body.

Feel free to send me gifts, cards, food, treats, maybe even a hot gentleman to give me a rub down. Or else I’ll have just my nose tampons to comfort me.

Yes it’s Hallowe’en. No I don’t want to see your gooch.

4 Nov

I love Hallowe’en as much as the next fat kid. I’m all over it like a tramp on chips. It means for one day of my life, I can wake up, get out of bed, not put on any make-up and generally walk around like the munterish slob that I am, and yet people will still think I’ve made a conscious effort to look that fugly.

It’s an excuse to eat even MORE junk than usual. You can be creative and cut shit shapes into large fruit. For some girls, it’s an excuse to knock on random neighbourhood doors in the hope that your future husband may be waiting behind one of them. (I don’t do that…) For some guys, it’s a way of hiding in dark alleyways ready to commit the most violent crimes, and fob it off as a Hallowe’en “trick”. It’s a valid way of scaring the bejeezus out of unsuspecting small children without getting arrested, just because it’s funny. Everyone’s a winner.

Everyone, that is, except for anybody that has EYES and happens to be outdoors after 7pm. For beware the Curse of the Exposed Flange.

Somehow, somewhere, appear a generation of females that think it’s OK to use Hallowe’en as an excuse to LITERALLY get their wounds out. I, for one, do NOT appreciate seeing readily available gooch wherever I turn my head.

The other night I had the absolute displeasure of sitting at the train station opposite not one, but TWO peeping vaginas. Added to that, my eye was nearly poked out by an unsheathed nipple. Apparently it is now effort enough to wear what I can only describe as NO CLOTHES, draw a couple of stitches on your neck with an eyeliner pencil, et voila, you are now a zombie prossie. I know the look is meant to be monstrous, but this really takes the word “growler” to a whole new level. Whatever happened to just wearing a bed-sheet with eye holes?

I honestly do love Hallowe’en. But please, ladies, for the love of GOD (and for the sake of my visual and mental health), put your minge away.

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