Oh I am dying of a cold.
I know, another cold so soon?
Yeah I have been sleeping in my wet hair again. It’s so long, fuck drying that shit, it’s boring… can’t even hear the tv, or music. NO WAIT! It’s not all about being sick I swear! Don’t leave me, I crave your delicious attention… mmm attention…
SPEAKING of music, I am obsessed with this song right now…
It’s not really anything like what I’ve been listening to lately but… I like it like I like weird porn (sometimes). Kinda awakens something in me that I forgot about…
I have no idea what she is saying most of the time. but I like it. I like it very much.
It drags me out of my depressive socially awkward nerd geek buzz and reminds me that I am also a filthy mouthed woman and I should just go get waxed again and stop being apologetic for being a rude girl and start being like, fuck these boring ass bitches I keep winding up partying with. And stop trying and failing at being something I’m most certainly not.
I’m sure the song is not about that, but that’s the beauty of not having a fucking clue what she’s rapping about. I can just pretend it’s all about me. It’s definitely about having a massive ego though… I think… and she’s being aggressive to some dude… so that’s kinda relevant.
I think this girl is awesome. She’s going on my short list of other women who I respect.
I am in the obsessive first stages of when I hear a song I really like, and CRAVE listening to it, almost entirely because it feels like some cryptic riddle I will understand if I hear it another 700 times. (Update: yeah, I can now hear all the words. Hooray!) I can just make out the word cunt and that’s about it. Rapunzel, also. But I have not been able to listen to it at work because it’s a bit jarring and filthy for my typical hippie customers wearing their unisex clothing, or what I tell them in unisex… hurr hurr hurr. I sold a guy two pairs of ladies pants this morning… There was no one around for me to high five so I just slapped my palm off the mirror. Still felt good.
Anyway Im a sick puppy… not that way, dirty mind.. I mean I’m a freaking slime factory right now. No! Don’t be disgusting. I mean I have a cold. Man, that’s some sick shit right there.
Yesterday I enjoyed it because I got straight home from work and made myself some soup but not like I normally do, with chopping vegetables and sauteeing onions and adding beans and stock and simmering for ages… no. New recipe: minus the foreplay. I want soup, and I’m not beating around the bush to get it.
They sell these bags of chopped frozen mixed vegetables here, that usually have me snorting “fucking Italians, world famous for their cuisine and they can’t even chop a fucking carrot” but then I caved and bought a bag of assorted veggies and all I gots to do is stick it in water, bring to the boil, and then fuck it all in a liquidizer with some olive oil and salt and BAM! A fucking soup. Full of whatever nutrients are still in frozen shit, and also hugely low in calories and also surprisingly delicious and reminiscent of baby food.
I drank two big bowls of that mother and felt radiant with tomorrow’s promise of slenderness.
It would have been perfect if I had stopped and gone to bed at 12.00 am which is what I planned to do cause I was sick.
But no. Sick me stayed up, and at a quarter to one, decided to shuffle in bare feet (I never learn, it’s one of the things you like about me, right?) into the kitchen and make myself a big bowl of muesli and a yoghurt. Also, I had another lemsip cold and flu thing because I love them more than feeling well. Seriously I look forward to nasal congestion just for the boon it brings of warm drinkable paracetamol with artificial flavourings. I’m so in denial, I refuse to have aspartame or sacharine in anything normally because SOME of what my hippie momma taught me rubbed off, and I never allow myself fizzy drinks except when hung over because hello, fattening, except obviously my hung over calories are totally allowed because of all the calories I probably barfed up the night before. But one whiff of a sore throat and I’m doing cartwheels (metaphorically, I am not limber or brave enough for cartwheels) around the apartment (metaphorically, my apartment is not big enough for cartwheels) because yay! I get to have sweet liquids that also taste like medicine!
ANYWAY. Not to get entirely sidetracked from WHATEVER THE FUCK I WAS TALKING ABOUT….
Yeah so I ate a load of muesli last night. BAD GIRL!
A moment on the lips and what not… also late night eating, very bad.
But I am ok really. After lugging a crapload of shopping home from the supermarket (I was good… I didn’t even get muesli this time, I got bran flakes. My theory is, if they are horrible, I won’t be getting up at 1am to eat more of them. Got to be cruel to be kind.) and it was heavy as fuck, I had to admit that I’m actually not really sick at all.
I just used the fact that I have a minor tickle in my throat and have to blow my nose every so often to green light my paracetamol and pity party. I should just let myself have some fucking ribena or something… that’s probably all I want. Instead I keep going for the tasty pain medication.
So why the big load of groceries, you might ask. If you do ask, then that validates my compulsion to tell you every fucking thing I do, ever. If not… I’m sure you can draw your own conclusions.
Well let me tell you. I am making my sister’s birthday cake. THAT’s RIGHT, that cake!
She requests it every year. I wasn’t going to let a little thing like my overblown imaginary illness and desire to play skyrim instead get in the way of my sisterly duties. Oh no.
So I got the ingredients and am right now as we speak (or I speak, to myself, as usual) I am in the midst of procrastinating before I finally have to go wash my hands (groan) put on a frickin apron (where? damn you things why do I never put you in the same place?) and do a load of wiping of countertops and finding bowls and things.
URGH so much hassle.
But it’s my sister, she’s a kick-ass little human being and she still has the metabolism for eating shitloads of chocolate so I wanna live vicariously through her.. hope it doesn’t creep her out when I watch her eat. Also I feel a little guilty because instead of getting something for her in H&M I actually wound up buying myself… wait for it… wait for it… a pair of motherfuckin’ jeans, yo!
Yes that’s right, I have joined the club. I am going to parade my ass around in tight stretchy denim like all the other bitches, and somehow people will think that even though they can see more of the outline of my baby makin’ bits, I am still dressed less slutty than in a dress. Oh you silly mortals. But anyway.
It’s cold, I need a pair of pants for those days when I just don’t give a shit.
I don’t know what to make of myself in jeans though. It’ll take some getting used to. I will of course only wear them like once a week or something, on those really cold mornings… I promise I’m not going to give up on my appearance like some fucker on a desert island who stops building a fire. I will still obscure my real complexion (I am the colour of a baby pig) with fuckloads of makeup and I am going to revv it up a notch with the auld hair brushing.
Shut up, I was in the supermarket and… seriously what the fuck is wrong with the people who pick out supermarket music?
Fucking. Adele: Someone like you. Are you shitting me? I’m pushing around a cart of “food for one” that I have to pay for and eat to avoid dying, but anything I enjoy will make me fat, and all around me are gaunt elderly faces choosing between brands of diabetic jam and getting their trolleys locked on each others trolleys and you play ADELE?
I started the day all pumped up with my Azealia Banks and I felt like a kick ass rude girl again, and then you get me at my lowest point wheeling around my pathetic high fibre food stuffs and chocolate cake ingredients that I won’t be eating and you throw out the lonely person kryptonite? Cold, supermarket… Cold.
And then I listen to the lyrics and I’m welling up in my feeble woman’s heart but like, this shit doesn’t speak to me at all… I’ve never had an ex I would have wanted to get back with, and I certainly have never wished anyone well unless I wished them be happy… with me.
I have a wonderful coping mechanism that stops me from feeling much for anyone who doesn’t entirely reciprocate my feelings. And come on, let’s be honest, if you’ve loved me at some point, you’re not gonna fall out of love with me. I may have trouble getting people to like me in the first place, but if you are one of the lucky candidates who survives the elimination process (also known as “pfff, his loss anyway”) then you are in it for the long run. Unless I suppose if I cheat on you and you find out… I can see that losing me a man. But eh, hello? I am good at infidelity. You wouldn’t find out.
So I don’t really get the emotion of the song, but it does its job anyway. I managed to get out of there without bursting into self pitying lonely tears or worse cracking and buying cheese. I walked home.
I am now going to make a cake.
I don’t think I told you this: but the other day (before I went out and got drunkies) I learnt to make pasta from scratch. Reaaaally easy but awesome.
I started this once a week very basic class – we don’t learn cooking exactly, just a bunch of recipes. The woman who teaches the class is very nice and can clearly cook, but she does this- I can’t stress how basic it is- class for bored wealthy women who can’t fucking fry an egg.
Seriously, they are all mothers and wives and haven’t a fucking clue.
The woman who teaches the class is friends with my dad’s wife, which is how I heard about it. I’m just here to learn to make pasta and pizza. But she told my stepmom that I was miles better than everyone else- all the other women were seriously useless in the kitchen. Had no idea how to roll out dough or anything. My ego soared high like mighty eagle. I beat the Italian women at making pasta… awesome.
She also said I was “a character” and very entertaining, which is baffling because as I knew I was going into a room full of boring ass housewives, I shut the fuck up and kept to myself and played it straight.
Apparently there is no hiding my personality though. I barely said anything, apart from a few self deprecating jokes because I couldn’t handle the compliments on my dough. My dough was pretty awesome though. Years of making cheese sauces and my refusal to dirty two pans to heat the milk before adding it to a roux, has left me with a flair for lump-free mixing. They don’t call me “no-lumps” for nothing. Actually that’s probably more to do with my boobs than anything else… My cup size could be referred to as “espresso”. But I didn’t mention the size of my boobs at all around these women.. I was on my best and dullest behaviour.
Anyway these bitches were all kneading dough near me, and I was trying to be nice and friendly and not mention anything unhygienic or weird and I thought I did great, but I clearly left an impression on the teacher anyway. If with that much self restraint and politeness in just one hour, I still come off as a bubbling vat of exuberance, how the fuck am I gonna handle going back to work for some unknown boss-person?
Although it did remind me I have to stop being so hard on myself for being a weirdo, because if the alternative, to blend in, is to bore the pants off everyone around like these dried out married chicks (no offence to married chicks, in fact I am/was one… just the ones with the shrivelled up fun cortex, who only ever used the rolling pin for beating their unfaithful husbands)
They came out with these crappy jokes like “ho ho, my husband is allergic to vegetables” and I’m like laugh me a river… how the fuck did you manage to make a sarcastic comment sound THAT judgemental and bitchy? And they all titter at each others little shitty family life anecdotes. I am NOT bitter, seriously these parents talk about their kids and their kids sound like the most generic personality-free droids I ever heard of. I have little sisters and they wipe more interesting anecdotes on the tablecloth. My sisters are freaking awesome though. I don’t share their antics with my fellow students of the culinary arts.. I’m not looking for anyone’s approval here. No really, these women are more boring than new-look gmail (amirite? anyone? anyone? Bueller?)
Oh and my first attempt to go unnoticed was really scary. You should have seen me… I got to the place and saw there was a rail with two coats on it so I hung my coat up and went in to where all the women who apparently knew each other were sharing lazy husband stories and looking at me like they just walked in on me sucking their useless menfolks’ dicks.
I didn’t even dress particularly slutty, this is just typical Italian woman bitchiness. Ha you shoulda seen how they liked me when teacher praised my dough.. mwahahahaha eat my floury dust, bitches. I own this shit.
So I got in and then realised everyone else was holding their coats in their arms. I looked back at mine.. shit, was that ok? Was I supposed to just hold mine? I went back and took my coat, shaking nervously because it was a new situation and I apparently have some issues I haven’t had to deal with for a while because I have just been going to work and going home every day for three years.
So I go to take my coat back and out of the pockets fly a whole load of silvery papery confetti which was a chewing gum packet (empty) that I ripped up while my hands were in my pockets out of sexual frustration. The confetti lands all over the floor. I try to scoop it up and put most of it back in my pockets but this only made me freak out more because I had just arrived and everyone else was fine with this minor social outing and I was just breaking down under their ruthless judgement and the fact that keeping myself walking like a normal person and looking like I’m not terrified is using up about 90% of my body’s resources. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Stop swearing under your breath… I straighten up and the teacher tells us there is tea and coffee on the table over there, we can help ourselves as we wait for everyone to arrive.
I leap towards the coffee as having a drink of any kind in my hand will definitely be a lot better than having to add “what to do with my hands” to the list of terrifying tasks I am not able to handle right now.
I can’t get the coffee to come out of the pot. there is a handle you press… I tilt it ALLL the way but it feels light, maybe it’s empty. I debate just not having any coffee… eventually decide no, I want coffee… I clear my throat and croak out “sorry I think it’s empty” to the teacher. She tells me to press the button. I DID. Well, I press it again, and tilt it even further… yeah this time I get a trickle of coffee.
I blush and add a sugar and mix the sugar and… shit, what do I do with my coffee-tainted teaspoon? There is no where to put it. I forget that I am not in my own home and I put it on the table. On the tablecloth. Shit then there’s a really evident coffee splodge, and I am the only person with a coffee in my hand, and I drew attention to myself already with the “uhh coffee no pour out” remark. Shit.
THEN I decide to put the spoon back into my cup, and that splashes a whole load of coffee onto the ground. the floor is tiled, luckily, but I have to wipe it up… I remember I have tissues in my handbag so I run away to the coat area to get my tissues and I sneak a tissue back to the floor… where another married woman is now standing in the puddle of coffee. I pretend to latch onto her conversation about her food intollerances and then when she moves I crouch down and mop the floor with my tissue. People are looking at me so I breezily say “oh I just spilt a drop of coffee.” Then I finish the coffee and put the spoon and the dirty tissue in the cup because there is nothing else I can see that makes sense to do, and it looks quite neat and self contained. But no one else had anything to drink so my cup o junk just looks like an eyesore on the perfectly clean and nicely laid out table.
Anyway that was before we started making pasta. I felt like Mr Bean, I couldn’t move without fucking something up. I picked a spot to stand at by the table and knocked the table into another girl’s legs.
But then she’s like, pour out the flour and make a little well in the centre with a circular motion. And this is where I shine, motherfuckers… little circular motions are right up my alley! (sleazy laugh) So once I was actually making the food and allowed to make a mess, I forgot my Jar-Jar Binx-like persona and was like a fucking penguin when he jumps into the water.
Anyway this aint a cooking show, so I’ll spare you the non-embarassing details.
I really better get started on this cake.
I’ll just listen to that song ONE more time and then make the cake.
Seriously I feel awesome after listening to this tune again a few times.. it’s busted all the fucking ADELE out of my head.
Screw you Adele. Move on. Look at me, I turned my breakup into a online diary full of rage and solitude… don’t be makin’ people sad with your pain.
But she’s rich now so I bet she aint sad any more.
No, sorry Adele it’s a very moving song. I just don’t wanna be moved. Unless it’s horizontally…
That didn’t really make sense, but just go with it.
UPDATE: Damn it I ate a whole bunch of cake batter. Yummy yummy yummy I got raw egg in my tummy!
What kind of fool thinks they can make a cake and not eat any of it and only have bran flakes after ALL THAT WRIST ACTION? Seriously, I have an electric whisk but still, my wrists are pathetic. I couldn’t jerk off a pig… Damn it now I’m gonna get all the pervert visitors. Oh well.. Actually I haven’t updated my list of fucked up search terms lately because they have gotten SICK. Like, I don’t want to encourage these fuckers kind of sick. It’s all fun and games when it’s grannies and bestiality, but underage… in fact, what kind of psychopath does a SEARCH for underage porn? Idiots. I mean there’s loads of horrible porn where the legal aged women have small tits and wear pigtails, can’t the perverts just watch that and pretend they really are school girls? I mean you type “underage” into google enough times, Chris Hansen is bound to parachute in through your skylight. That’s how it works, probably.
Except now I’ve just given them a fresh reason to come to my blog, I’ve written the word underage a bunch of times. As well as porn. Shit, now I’m just feeding the pervert gremlins.
Well. You know me, I am not a fan of the backspace button.
This shit stays.
Paedophiles, please take note if you arrive here on the back of my awful depraved keywords… I am just a lowly atheist with no moral compass and I cheat on all my boyfriends and I spend a lot of time tickling the pheasant or whatever you wanna call it (I wanna call it that) and I am a bona fide pirate and sometimes I am mean to cats (only nasty cats that scratch me. but only a bit mean, not cruel…)
BUT seriously, if you have some fantasy that involves someone else being harmed, like I sometimes fantasize about maceing my annoying customers in their stupid faces, well, that shit stays in your imagination. Or draw pictures of it, I know the Japanese have drawn a lot of pictures of kiddies doing gross shit. I sometimes draw pictures of my customers being analy raped by squids and not enjoying it one bit. I don’t tickle the pheasant to these pictures, but they make me feel happy and victorious, which is probably what rapists say about raping. But I just draw pictures, see?
And I’m not a paedophile.
I hope this message was clear and to the point.
Don’t hurt people or animals unless it is for food or to get their precious leather (animals. People you cannot eat or get leather from, that is wrong.)
That is all.
I love my jeans. I just did a lame little photo shoot on my own to convince myself I look ok in them, and out of 16 self obsessed photos I took, a whopping 4 looked nice. That is a massive 25% of good photos compared to my usual, 1 in 5 bazillion. From the ass down, I look like an overweight Mick Jagger. No that’s kinda redundant. Well I look pretty fuckin skinny basically, compared to how I used to look. I’m going to posterise the fuck out of some before and after photos so you can be all impressed with how mean to myself I have been with all the food restrictions and the ok so no excercise but still.
Oh. I have rooted around in all my photo albums and apparently I was very zealous in my insistence on deleting any and all photos where I looked fat. Oh look, facebook found something… no. On second thoughts, this endeavour is just making me depressed and I should go the fuck to sleep now.
I had to look at a lot of photos of my fat face with my husband beside me, and I don’t want to play look up photos of me when I was ok so 8kg heavier any more… it’s upsetting me.
I wish I never married that stupid fuck. He ruined some pretty good years.
Go to bed. Go to bed. Stop this negativity.
Jeans tomorrow… people better have their socks knocked off, or I’m going back to dresses.