ANUS.

So fucking angry at this world, so fucking pissed off with Jaz, so damn bloody irate I just told TC and Coco to get off my fucking bed and go out in the fucking garden and then I felt bad and called them back in and gave them fucking cuddles. So fucking spewing with so much vile hate that I just sent Jaz a disgusting text that I will probably hate myself in an hour's time but right now I feel that the message does not justify my anger because I want to fucking chuck plates against the wall, run to the neighbours' and chuck their plates on their fucking walls, yell at their pets to get off their fucking beds and unleash my Furies in their living rooms. I want to scream until my throat rips and bleeds and drown me in my own blood, leaving me to gurgle and choke in the corner. If it does not work, I would like to run a warm bath, apply waterproof make-up, put some wax in my hair and style it and just fucking slash my wrists and wait to be found by whothefuckever. Be it Josh, his brother, Oli or fucking Jaz. I don't care. I do not give a stinking shit. I am so fucking angry I would like to top myself off and nuisance every fucking one while I am at it. I am so fucking angry at the pile of crusty, crummy dishes with fag butts in the cups and what looks like fucking spit. I am fucking angry at the toilet seat that is graffitied with piss and crusted with pubic hair of three different colours.

I want to jog on this cold night and catch up with other joggers just to cuss at them for even bothering to jog at this night just to prove a fucking point that they give a shit about their physique and blame the rise of children with eating disorders on them. I want to sprint to TESCO 24 hours at this time of the night and sit in the frozen aisle and just scream FUCK YOU AND CHOICE OF FOOD. FROZEN?! WHAT, ARE YOU SO FUCKING BUSY WITH YOUR FUCKING LIFE YOU CAN'T FUCKING BUY PROPER FOOD?! I want to run up to pregnant women, catch my breath and just stroke their belly and give them hugs and go on my mad rampage.

I want to run up outside the church and SCREAM FUCK YOOOOOOOOOU and then run back. I just want to scream. I just want to hurl.

I want to go to the pages of people on Facebook who type out in their statuses 'F@$K THAT SH%T' and say WE FUCKING KNOW WHAT YOU TRYING TO SAY THERE ANYWAY, YOU TWAT. What, like I am supposed to read that as Eff-At-Dollar Sign-Kay That Ess-Hech-Percentage-Tee? Fucking WHAT!? What?! You are a fucking twat, that is what. If you want to cuss, just FUCKING CUSS. Please.

What, what, WHAT have I done in my fucking past life to deserve this shit?! WHAT. Was I the fucking doctor that suggested to Hitler that maybe he should try bleaching babies to see if it'll make them blonde with blue eyes? Was that me? Was that my fucking fault.

Fuck you fucking men who don't fucking know when to call the woman to say what fucking time you are coming home and expect us to fucking wait, with a FUCKING smile when you get back and ask something so brain-dead like 'Oh, did you have a good time then?' like we have nothing better to do and when we unleash the dragon you say some fucking supposedly-hilarious like 'But you're not allowed to hate me.' WHAT AM I ALLOWED TO DO THEN, MY FUCKING LOVE. Am I allowed to run a hot bath now and slash my wrists while I am in there? WHAT.

Fuck you, Spellcheck, you can go to hell right now as well. I would like to take all that squiggly red lines that you underline my words with and fucking stab you slowly to death with it.

5 AwesomeFaces I'd Like To Get Smashed With.

I got this off katetakes5 and also found out another list by Metal Mummy which was Top 5 Celebs I'd Like To Punch In The Face and that is surely one I'd be doing because being angry is so fun. Punch Punch Punch.

The first get-smashed companion will be Dara O'Briain.

Just LOOK at him. In Purple. Brilliant, I tell you. I'm still waiting for that fabled Sat Nav with his voice and driving-instructions. Not that I drive. Yet. But it will still be hilarious hearing him while Jaz drives.

Eddie Izzard. Bloody hell, he actually looks quite fit in this. I just love his lazy drawl and I imagine he'd morph into something fitter as we both get properly smashed.

Jo Brand. Now this is a woman I would love to claim is my mother. In fact, I'd get her so drunk so that she would sign some adoption papers involving my person. Yes. That is a plan.

Bang Tidy, this Keith Lemon. Because every woman wants to get drunk and have a man with that fucking moustache try to lick her cleavage. And be screaming POTATOES at the top of his head.

Jon Richardson. Because he's funny. And gorgeous. And smart. And has dimples. And look at him smiling there. Surely, he is smiling at me. Yes. Definitely. Wow, I'd love to spill some beer down his front... area. I'd let him smash my back door in.

I'M KIDDING, JAZ. KIDDING. JOKING. KIDDING.

He can smash my front door.

And then you realize my entire list consisted mainly of Stand-Ups. Of course. They are the only type of human beings worth nursing a pint of beer with. Apart from some angry mummy bloggers and Kaz, of course.

Bloody Control Tops.

Control tops are meant for out of control upper torsos belonging to women who either can't be bothered to work out to tighten said torso and/or can't afford the lunchtime liposuction. But maybe that's just me. After years of yo-yo diets and running away from corsets even if just for a minute to properly breathe, it seems like my body has well and truly told me to fuck right off or stick to one fucking plan and get on with it. Just for now, I'll delude myself into thinking that I will take up Pilates One Day. Take up, as though it is something as simple as picking a piece of fluff off your jacket. It won't happen. Unless Pilates is a sure-fire way to survive in a zombie apocalypse and even then I don't see how doing The Plank would deter a rabid undead. The Plank, the exercise routine and not Planking, the favoured hobby for twats the whole world over. Planking that resulted in the death of a bloke who fell off the balcony of an apartment and well... Died. Planking, that I had to endure in the living room of Jaz's mom when his elder sister decided to introduce me to. Planking, that is actually, well... Mind-numbingly stupid. I hope plonking plankers get mauled by Zombies. Look, there he is, planking in between two benches in the park! OmnomnomnomnomOHNOMYINTESTINES!Omnomnomnom.

Control tops. Yes. Almost always made out of some insane percentage of Lycra that if you were to pull it away from your face and promptly release it, it will result in you needing a face reconstruction operation.

The thing with fats is that it will be distributed to wherever the fuck it wants to and it will always be the most obscure place to be padded with fats. Like that area on your back right around your armpits. I have stared at it via a mirror and wondered, exactly why on earth are we built like this? What is the purpose of fats? To keep us warm? Is that area more susceptible to freezing to death? What the fuck? They are like Freelance Donation Collecting People that could be found in front of a Goth Tavern at 4 in the morning. Something that would make you say, What the FUCK are you doing here?! YOU are trying to ask Goths who are monged off their face on pills to donate to UNICEF?

I have never tried Spanx. I have yet the disposable income to buy something worth that much when I can get something exactly the same in Primark which costed me £5. No, I'm too tight-arsed. We got in Primark at quarter to five and it shuts at 6. Are all shops and malls this disgusting in Europe? I come from Singapore and our malls shut at TEN and sometimes even ELEVEN and on Christmas Eve, TWO IN THE MORNING. Fucking lazy bastards. And you're complaining about the nations  lack of spending power to boost the economy. Well, EXTEND SHOPPING HOURS THEN! Then, more blokes will wonder when on earth did he go to La Senza at 9pm and bought 4 sets of knickers on his card. Or maybe in Jaz's case, when on earth did he go to WHSmith to buy 6 bloody books around that time his Ella said 'She's only popping down to the big TESCO to get more fruits'.

So then, I quickly grabbed some control top to replace my Old Faithful One and paid for it and in that time, it was noticed by both of us that it looked fairly small. It's LYCRA, I said. They are deceitful wankers. Kind of like women. You chose them because they looked shiny, tight and compact and very appealing and then you brought them home and realized that they are impossible little, most un-giving difficult shits that slap you in the face when you pull them too far, too fast. Give them a few more goes, they will slip and slide around you and give you support, minus for the few times they roll up and reveal your unsightly flaws during family functions. You have to pat them down and smooth them when they act up even when you have to break a few sweat here and there trying to manoeuvre them.

It was only when I got home and took it out of the bag on the bed to Ooh and Aah over new purchases like women are wont to do that I re-considered that Shit, Maybe It Is Fucking Small. For a control top that is approximately the size of my hand from my wrist to my fingertips, that IS looking painfully painful.

Are you going to try it on? Asked Jaz. I looked up, contemplated and nodded. 'I need you to get out while I try this on.' Why, he asked.

'Love of my life', I began, 'You may have seen all my stretch-marks, you may have been scarred for life when you wake up to see me snoring and slobbering all over your armpit, you may have seen the many faces of my secret bits from delirious to see your secret to dilating because of what your secret bits have implanted in me, but you will never see me in that emotional, heart-wrenching state when I am trying to squeeze my out of control body into a Control Top. Just get ready to call the Ambulance if I crash and bash against something sharp in the process where my face was smothered by LYCRA.'

Of course, he fucked off and made himself coffee, hung out with Josh and had a fag, not at all waiting outside the bedroom door anxious that I might endanger my person.

I moaned, grunted, wailed, bashed my scabbing, recovering, bruised knee against the window sill that was built so low it should never been approved by Health and Safety, and fucked up two hours worth of make-up and hair-straightening. Twanged, slapped and sprained myself. And the fucking straps was one of those that you can slip out of the loop to fashion it to maybe a strapless, cross or racer-backed tops. One of the bloody strap had un-did itself while I was wrestling it, twanged and shot me in the eye.

Resurfaced, tied my hair back in a ponytail and smoothed runny mascara and sat on the bed waiting for Jaz to come back in and say something like OH WOW A GREEK GODDESS or whatever.

He came back down and said 'Oh you decided not to try it then?'

WHAT?! WHAT! WHAAAAAAAAT!

That miserable post of hers.

I hadn't wanted to do this post. I had thought some weeks back that maybe I should but I had chickened out some time last night and had ended up creating a bastardized fashion blog of sorts instead.

But then Roze post Adele's Don't You Remember on Faceshet and I'm left here bawling my eyeballs out with no one fucking around to console me.

See, that was the song I had chosen for Charlie's funeral service. My little girl that was born a stillborn on the 31st of June. My firstborn that would have been due today. We still do not know what went wrong, or what made her give up on me in there. Her heart just stopped. I had made light of the whole situation by saying that maybe Charlie got sick of listening to me talk to her in the bath about my daily events or how her Daddy or her Nan pissed me off and went Fuck you, Woman, I don't want to be born to a yapping cow like you. I had made light of it all. I am not built to come pouring out with emotions. It took me a whole bloody week after the birth before I finally came to Jaz, forced his arms around me and just wailed. The hardest, rawest cry I heard ever escaped from my throat was when the back of the hearse opened up with a white coffin the size of a shoe box and Jaz reached out to hold the coffin into the chapel. She would have been destined for greater things, My Charlie, I know. When I was pregnant with her, my stomach was so bloody huge I kept wondering if there were twins in there or maybe it was just a child in there who loved her space and her high ceilings. A kid that would have told me constantly, had she been given the chance to just be with us, Mommy give me my space. Even with her funeral, we ended up by some strange coincidence, with the first available space and it was a room that could hold up to 200 people. And there it was just, myself and Jaz, the chaplain and the undertaker. I don't believe I had ever cried that hard. I don't think I was ever that close to fainting just from grieving.

I never thought that all those while I kept rubbing my belly and said, I'll see you soon, that it meant it would only be from pictures. That is what they do, you know. They take pictures of the stillborn so that you can look at it and imagine WHAT THE FUCK IF. She would have had my hands, ears and nose, if you must know. My little Eurasian child. I have never been so angry at having something taken from me. Ever.

People have been telling me that it was not my fault. Jaz, especially, since he has been doing a fine job of picking me up physically when I crumple to the floor like a pack of cards to bawl whenever my emotional valve exploded. Why then? Was it because I was an inadequate, shitty human incubator? Does she not want me to be her Mummy? Where has Mama gone wrong, Charlie?

I went into labour an hour and a half after being induced. At least, I can now say I understand what mothers go through with labour pains. Didn't fucking make it worthwhile though when you walk out of the bloody maternity ward with afterpains, empty-handed and surrounded by other happy new parents taking pictures of their newborns AT THE BLOODY HOSPITAL ENTRANCE.

Bless them, they didn't know, said Jaz. Mainly to stop me from swinging at them, I think. Took me weeks to stop saying verbally 'Fuckers' when mothers shout at their little kids calling them Little Shits. They Didn't Know has since been my mantra. Fuckers. They didn't know. Fuckers. They didn't know. Fuckers. They didn't know. WHY DOES SHE GET A KID? Sorry, Baby. Fuckers. They didn't know.

I have developed into a basketcase. A foul-mouthed shithole of a potty-mouthed cunt. Honest.

Even during the labour, I was told to let go. My lower half had refused to let go of the half-delivered child. I can still remember Jaz holding my head and forcing me to look at him and he begged me to let go and I was crying then. I was bawling from the pain and from my little Charlie leaving the building. LetGoEllaYouAreUpsettingJarrod. LetTheFuckGoJarrodIsCrying.

After this whole ordeal, it has further confirmed my theory that most human beings are not worth my time. Most human beings I've known will always be a failure to humankind and it was no wonder I had little to no faith in it to begin with.

My dad, for instance, said to me in a message: I'm sorry for your loss. Don't forget your mother's birthday is on Monday.

What, the same one who disowned me when I called to tell her that I was pregnant? Nice, well you can tell her that she can stop worrying about what her relatives will think of her and what is she going to say when people ask her what had her daughter turned into because not only am I failure by sleeping with An Infidel, I also failed to carry his child full-term. What, your bastard grand-daughter? Oh, she kicked the bucket, you can tell her that.

Another close friend said: Think of it as a blessing because that child is a bastard in the eyes of the religion. You need to move on and go back home and support your family.

THAT child IS MY child and I don't give two fucks about it being a bastard in YOUR religion. Move on, like I had just trapped my bloody fingers under the fucking toilet seat? Mind you, this was DAYS after the birth. I have been my parents' fucking cash cow for years. I have disgusting debts under my name for THEIR SHIT. Really, if I have relatives reading this since it seems like I have some 100 hits from Singapore, you fucking tell them. KNOW for a fact why the fuck I am not coming back. Parents don't do this to their kids, you hear me? They create children, not cash fucking cows. Yes, we are indebted to them for bringing us into this shithole of a world. Yes, we owe it to them for the education they gave us. But if you hadn't thought that having children incurred costs then you shouldn't be having any. You just have just got cats. You don't threaten a child with a bloody bankruptcy. Never. Ever. I could not get fucking study loans for the shit they had piled on me.

So really, fuck the lot.

Jaz's mom said: It was only a foetus. People have miscarriages all the time.

What have this world turned into.

No wonder I never talked about it and it resulted in me self-imploding and turning into one hell of a massive arsehole.

It was only a foetus.

Dear Charlie,
                    You are my world. My everything. I hope you can still remember me, that strange woman who read you John Connolly before bed and asked you for Sudoku solutions. I hope you remember this woman who sang Paramore, Muse and oddly BoyzIIMen to you. I hope you remember that strange man who blamed you whenever he farted. That was your dad. That same man who asked you if you saw that, whatever that was, whenever something interesting came on the telly and Mummy had momentarily, spontaneously passed out. You are our child, something created out of something as simple and pure as our love for each other. You are our child that we had planned for for years but we get it that it was not the time yet. Maybe right now, you are on that another plane in a kiddy daycare somewhere. From what your nan said, I'm guessing you'd be having lots of friends up there. If you meet Amy Winehouse, please don't tell her that Mummy thinks she looks like a horse but sounds phenomenal. Mummy won't like that. Be good okay. We'll come and fetch you one day.

Re-propose to me, Please. Because the last one was shit.

Really, it was. In case you were wondering, I met my fiancé on Myspace and a study showed that 1 out of 8 married couples met on Myspace. And I thought we were unique. It was the mother of all long-distance relationships and we had a relationship based solely on daily phone calls and messages in Myspace inbox for a good part of two and a half years. No video calls. Just phone calls, messages, texts and pictures. Very, very risky, I know.

So about a year or so ago, Jaz proposed to me while I was in Singapore on the phone and it goes something like this, 'No, wait. Listen for a minute. Do you want to marry me?' in the same tone that a woman would ask her child if the kid would like to go to the shops with her and grab some biscuits along the way. Of course, I was delighted that this man would like to make me his wife. Didn't stop me from thinking, and reminding him now that I am here in the flesh with him, that it was a shit wedding proposal either.

We just had our three year anniversary last Saturday. I accept that most men are garbage with dates anyway so I rogered that well into his head a week before said date. I just made passing remarks like 'It's next Saturday alright. Our three years. Don't you fuck off with your mates because I'll have the right hump if you do.' because I am a high-maintenance, demanding little shit like that.

So, last Saturday, after some phenomenal seeing-to, I told Jaz to re-proposed.

'Baby, say we have all the money in the world, how would you propose to me?'

'But I already have proposed to you!'

'It was shit. Say you have all the money in the world.'

By this point, he was quite close to Nap Time.

'But we don't, Baby. We are fucking skint.'

'IMAGINE we have all the money in the world. For fuck's sake. I am the most amazing woman out there and you have the most money in the world.'

He took his time. I went for a piss and had a fag.

'I would tell god to write Marry Me with stars.'

'You came up with that shit with the 15 minutes it took you? That? I thought you said there is no god. What the fuck are you going on about? And what has money got to do with that whole process? Are you saying you are paying this god person?'

'Oh for fuck's sake, Baby. Okay. Tsk. I will get the International Association Of Stars-Arranger People to arrange the bloody stars and I'll say 'Baby look at the skies' and you will see it. And what should you say after that?'

Like my answer was a definite yes. Like you would say to a child to say thank you after her nan gives her a sweet.

'Stars-Arranger People? Are you sure? Do we have that shit? I need to put this in my blog.'

'Yeah we have that shit. Bloody stars have to end up there somehow so there must be a society of stars-arranging type of people. So, I just fucking paid an insane amount of money to ask you to be my wife. What are you going to say?'

I then took my ring off and gave it back to him. To complete the whole process, you know.

'Are you down on one knee?'

'I am lying down on the fucking bed with you.'

'No! In this whole elaborate fantasy! Are you on one knee?'

Bless him, he truly was fucking buggered off his face at that moment and crying to be allowed to roll over and pass out.

'No. It will hurt my back anyway. So listen, will you be my wife?'

'Of course!'

Then he re-slipped the ring on my finger and kissed my forehead and sighed.

'So then, when we have done all this whole proposing, we'll go to Ali Baba's and have Indian, okay?'

'Ali Baba?' I asked. 'That pokey Indian restaurant up on Watford High Street? With all the money in the world?'

'But Ali Baba is the bollocks, Baby.'

'Let's go to the Taj Mahal!'

I do understand that it must be terribly draining for him to be in a relationship with me.

'Taj Mahal for a fucking dinner? Baby, it is a fucking long way for dinner, man. And I'm fucking starving.'

I pondered. He was right.

'Okay, we can go to Watford for dinner then. Can I get a Vindaloo and the lush Tandoori?'

'You can get whatever the fuck you want. I have all the money in the world.'

I'll remind him that when we have all the money in the world and he is moaning about forking out £800 on Louboutins.

Reasons why I am not keen on Satan's cameo.

Allegedly, when the world is about to end, the devil makes a cameo. In my head, he would turn up, all rock-star like, make his identity and presence known ala Lestat from Queen of the Damned and he would unleash a massive truckload of havoc. Being a fan of Anne Rice, I have some concerns about that movie, but we'll talk about that some other time.

Here is a few reasons why I am not to keen on the devil making an appearance when shit hits the fan.

1. Ravers

Apparently, drugs were not made by scientists or bored science students with a curious access to a meth lab. They were made by our good old mate, Morningstar. So, by him being the creator of all that is mind-numbing and vomit-inducing, he would surely bathe the earth with them cutely-packaged pills to be knocked back by the Elixir of Good Times - alcohol, which I am guessing would be his piss. Therefore, Ketamine - Check, Sambucca - Check. Or, Cannabis - Check, Stella Artois - Check. See, in most cases where apocalypse had no part in it, when weed was mixed with booze, the effects were quite hilarious for the onlookers but not the part-takers. So maybe, in this case, it might prove to be quite entertaining to my person. Since I am talking now about Luci being the bringer of Good and Messy Times, let us just assume that the Cannabis seed is really the seed of his loins.

Next, music. As said in I, Lucifer, which is an amazing book that was about Luci, he claimed that he invented music. Fair enough. In good music, church organs had no part in it whatsoever.

Drugs - Check, Alcohol - Check, Music - Check. And there we have it. In a time where the world is going up in flames and we are all flinging poo at each other, we are going to have a fucking rave. Junkies would be shooting smack at the side. I would be there in the mayhem sighing. Why can't we fucking have zombies instead? But then, they might all OD and since there would be no place in Hell for them, they would roam the earth, so maybe I might get what I want after all.

2. Swingers and leather-clad Gimps

Obviously, Sex was created by Luci. Dutiful sexing with hopes to reproduce and create massive numbers for whatever religion - God person. Hardcore fucking for the hell of it followed by looking at each other after the deed going 'Fucking hell, that was phenomenal.' - Luci.

Sex, drugs, alcohol, music, chaos. Cue for the swingers to come out with propositions of partner-swapping.

In the midst of it all where I would end up being poked by a random penis or two, a leather-clad, poo-covered person would turn up and ask to be whipped senseless because that is how he gets his rocks off. And with it being Satan's day and all, men won't have a recovery time. They won't need to nap and recharge, taking that all-important alone time women need. And there will be no cuddles if there are to be no naps. So most likely, we'd get hammered until our vaginas are steaming up and eventually catch hell-fire.

I'm in a rave, being mass-raped and watching my partner get mass-raped or maybe enjoying being fellated by four or five different women of different ethnicities and this twat just turned up asking me to whip him shitless. And for fuck's sake, they are playing Techno Garbage now. At least play some Barry White for a moment.

3. Spawns of Satan

You know those children you see on Jo Frost's Supernanny? Yes, them. You know the worst breed of them spawns? The English Spawns of Satan. Snotty, tetchy, vile and so fucking horrendous in the Pick 'n' Mix aisle. That is where they will most likely be found. And FOHK OFF MAMMEH! sounds soul-destroying when screamed a few decibels within a point of permanent hearing-impairment.

When those women turned up on whatever bleeding heart programmes like Jeremy Kyle or Jerry Springer with a paternity test and then it turned out that the kid belonged to none of the four men she had dragged with her on-stage, that kid is most definitely Satan's. That is the only logical explanation since the woman herself looked flabbergasted.

So, when the world is going tits up, Daddy Dear will turn up and claim his spawns. Hopefully, I'd be in that list somewhere. Or I'd be in front of him all dishevelled from that swinging session with a massive migraine from the music saying 'Fucking say I'm yours because my mother kept saying I can't be hers. Sort me out, please'. But then he would look at me and say 'How the fuck can you be mine when you cannot even tolerate the good things I bring to this place?'. So yeah. That theory dashed there. Maybe then, he would come out and say that Gaga is the bastard child of a Minotaur as well.

That is all the issues I have for now. Feel free to input what your concerns are.

I'll just be glad I would get to loot, I mean Retail-Therapize, when I can get the chance to get away from it all, really.

The Bulimic Theories.

That would really make a nice book title, that. It has as nice a ring to it as The Vagina Monologues.

First off, if it was not already obvious, I will just say that I am not a doctor and I am not medically-trained. My only knowledge of first aid would be to stick alcohol swab to an open would, mainly because I have an insane supply of alcohol swabs from my facial piercings days and also because it makes me roar with laughter when the wounded receiver of alcohol swab yells in pain when pain was being transmitted from open wound, up the spine and to the brain where pain registers. That, and being awarded a gold medal for being able to dive 10 feet underwater in my pyjamas. That was a good thing, the whole pyjama garbage because when I do see a person drowning I will just say 'No, I have not got my jammies with me, so I will not brave the waters to save that person.' and in the process save my hair from frizzing up with all that moisture after it had just undergone an hour of intense straightening. Of course I am a natural swimmer. I am built like a whale with lots of blubber for floatation.

Now, the Bulimics. My theory is this: They have never been forced to starve during their early life. If they had understood hardship, they will not be throwing up good food that had costed an insane amount of money that penny-pinching families would have baulked at. They were never reminded of starving children in Somalia.

I have an issue with the latest starving children advert I saw during Red Nose Day some months back. There was an advert that had said 300 000 children die needlessly every year in Africa. Maybe more that 300 thousand. I was more concerned with that phrase 'Children die needlessly' as though there ever is a need for a child to die. The person who came up with that tagline needs to be shot in the arse with a double-barrelled shotgun. Unless of course, the child was a zombie and as said by Zomburbia, the fuckers need to be double-tapped.

I had tried Bulimia for just once. I knew that the moment I said, mid-hacking up, 'Oh shit, there goes that lush pie' that that was not the chosen career path for me. I was not meant to be a Professional Up-Chucker. I love food too much. And I love cooking just as much which is why now it is doubly hard for me to up-chuck post-dinner because then I'd be thinking about the hours I just slaved over the stove to flush it all down the loo, literally.

True, Bulimia and Anorexia are all disease of the mind. It's all up there, fueled by the many pictures vomited by the media. I'm sorry, I have no compassion for people with eating disorders. The only eating disorder I face is when I accidentally inhale the main before the starter. And if you can't respect food and the fact that there are starving people out there who would love some of your food that you can you know... Fuck off.

Even Jaz's 11 year old girl is calorie-counting now. And excuse me while I tell her that if you are skipping breakfast before school because you don't want to end up fat, then you are doomed because not only will you be starving during lessons, you would also be unable to concentrate during lessons. So, in short, my cupcake, you would be suffering from that all-consuming Phantom Fats disease of the mind and Stupid since you were not able to learn well in school. Not my child so I will not let myself get carried away with trying to educate her on why you should not starve yourself or stuff yourself and then hurl over the toilet bowl.

I remember when I was watching a documentary on Bulimics with my mother. She cried in horror when the woman stuck a toothbrush down her throat to make herself throw up after a massive buffet dinner.

WHY DID SHE DO THAT, asked Mother.

Why?

Because she must have a mother that won't shut up about her being an embarrassment because she's fat.

Just like you, you Closet Pagent Mum.

And what she said after was quite funny, really.

But you see, unlike her, you are fat. Like, really, really massive.

As I stared into space, feeling my life seeped out of me from every orifice, I wondered...

Where is my real mother and is she not looking at that girl with the eating disorder whom she thought was her daughter for the past 20 odd years wondering if she had picked up the wrong child at the maternity ward?

Yes, I would love to beat the shit out of this woman.

I'm the DJ's Missus.

My fiance is a DJ. A Disc Jockey. Look at me when I'm saying this because there is not a hint of pride in it. None of the Pop My Collar and Shake My Tail Feather going on here. It is his career, his passion and I do get the high that he gets when he is up there in front of his audience mixing his tunes and making his beats. That is him up there, separate from me. I appreciate that as his outlet. You will never find me on that fucking stage next to him beaming going Yeaaaaaaah this is my man and he is the awesomest and stuff because he is a DJ and when we go home tonight I will suck him off like there is no tomorrow. See, I don't get that whole thing. Nine times out of ten when I am seen doing that, Jaz knows that I am clearly just taking the fucking piss because A) I don't do Techno, House, Dubstep, Jungle, Drum n Bass, B) He knows I will suck him off like there is no tomorrow nonetheless and C) He knows that I think most DJs with their gangsta swagga are Twats. This is England where even the fucking sewage cleaner moonlights as a freelance DJ at night.

Just like I will turn up at his gigs, try to get smashed off my face and be there just for him. I don't care about the girls turning up with their sky-high heels and minis and try to suck off any pseudo-celebrity in sight. They have their issues and their teenage naivete. Let them eat cake. There is something about that glow on his face when he is doing what he loves and that is what I am there for. Just to see that smile when he gets off the stage and smothers me in his kisses that telepathically translates to Tell Me I Was Fucking Awesome and I dutifully say You were amazing, Baby. I don't see myself hanging on to him throughout an entire event just to pile-drive that message that he was with me. If he doesn't know that he was with me already and he would like to accept the offer of seven girls to fellate him behind the decks then he surely will have something coming. If other girls would like to take my place then go on then, you can pick up where I left off with his dirty laundry and bear him making animal-crying-sounds when you tuck into your meat dish and him into his vegetables. You can put up with his tardiness, his slow-as-fuck reaction time and his tendencies to take the piss when you are on the brink of an emotional melt-down.

So really, just like he lets me get on with my whatever while I sit here on the computer, be it blogging, Photoshopping, watching Thundercats on Youtube or head-banging. That is when he gets to see me just be and he comes in and drop a kiss on my head saying 'Weet wooh, baby, 600 hits on your ranting space eh? You're like, the fucking awesomeriest and stuff and all that, okay?' and gets on with his life.

I am not trying top let people know that we are the most perfect couple in the world. I just want them to stop looking me like I just inserted a cacti into my secret bits when I say 'I don't know. I know fuck all about DnB and Dubstep. I don't really give a shit, to be honest.' and stop asking me WHY!? BUT YOU ARE WITH JAZ! As though I was blaspheming. Why won't you let your boyfriend poke you up the arse? Because you don't like it, do you? See, same principle. Twats.

Of course I want him to succeed and be happy because if he succeeds and earn lots of money AND he is happy, he would not mind me asking him to build me a fucking boudoir with Damask wallpapers, would he? AND, all the Giuseppe Zanotti's in my own walk-in, velvet-lined drawers filled with Mauboussins and a massive larder filled with biscuits.

So really, don't mind me head-bopping in the corner. I was gyrating to Queen that was on my iPod, actually. But yes, Jaz was awesome, wasn't he? I'd do him.

Yeah? Fuck Off.

Past Life Aggression, is that you?

I was going to put this in the last blog but I know that myself get iffy when I had to read shit-arsed long blogs. But that is just me and my short-attention span and that Just Read Another Shorter Blog compulsion.

Josh came into our room this afternoon and dumped this whole dream of his onto our laps. He had fallen asleep watching Day Of The Dead and it was not at all surprising that his dream was set in a post-apocalyptic world. Hell, I fell asleep this morning watching the same movie on our PC with Jaz and I had a dream that I was watching Mock The Week on a massive HDTV so I have no idea how my brain had missed out the whole Zombie fiasco before bedtime. But Josh was fixated on the fact that he was with a woman in that dream and he reckoned that that was the love of his sleeping life. See, zombies, lonely nights, single life and blue cheese before bedtime. That is how your brain fucks with you. Oh, and Lucozade, too. So, this whole dream-thing made me go on about 'They reckon we've all got seven souls, you know. And that one soul is the one that fucks off when you pass out and fucks about in that dreamland and get into all sorts of rubbish.' speech. Don't ask me who They are. Just some anonymous people on the interwebs. And there is that one soul that resides in the future so that when you were to walk down a path and go 'Oh shit, deja vu!' that was because that future soul of yours had walked down the same path, possibly heading towards the same Budgens to buy the same bottle of shampoo, too. So that was three souls accounted for and I have no idea where the other four are. They themselves might be wondering where the fuck they are as well. I can talk about this whole parallel universe thing until the cows come home and all of my theories and findings were made possible by Youtube, Google, Wikipedia and occasionally, Horrible Histories on CBeebies.

So then, I said that maybe that was his soul mate. Mind you, by then I was on my third cup of coffee in an hour. Within five minutes, this entire conversation had changed from soul mates to past life regressions. Josh said that his dad went to see a hypnotherapist of sort and the person said that he was a samurai in his past life. Really, the fucking luck some people have. It was not enough that he was born in this life into a shit-rich family with enough money to piss about on Past Life Regression sessions. He had to be awesome in his past life as well? Where on earth is this elusive justice-dispensing person eh? I want to be able to afford a hypnotherapy session as well. I want somebody to mess about with my brain for once and tell me what on earth I was before this. But with my fucking shit for luck, I'd be spending a grand on the session and discover that in my past life I had aided in the discovery of Dettol by being that one scum they found on the bottom of someone's toilet. I was that last germ that they managed to exterminate, hence making it 99% effective. Without my extinction, it would have been 98%. I would come out of the posh room yelling WHY WHY WAAAAAAAI DID THEY HAVE TO KILL ME IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE!? THEY KILLED MY WIFE AND KIDS! ALL OF US WERE KILLED! And I would be doomed for all eternity trying to find my past life families by going into chatrooms asking 'Do you remember anything about your past life? Was there a petri dish in that memory of yours?' It is I. I am your father. Or was. I was your father.  Back then in that life where we were germs. Have you located your mother and sister?

Or maybe, since Jaz and I were so sure we were lovers in our past life, he was a germ as well. He was... My wife. Yes. Or wait. Fucking confusing. And Jaz seemed to think that he had a past life as a Japanese soldier. Now see, that makes sense because when Japan invaded Singapore, the Japanese soldiers raped our women. So now, it is his karma and retribution and his route to nirvana that I rape him back. Because maybe I was a woman he raped back then. Oh, wishful thinking. Or wait, maybe he didn't rape me because you can't rape the willing. It must mean that my mother was right. I was a slut. Even in my past life. Wow. Curse you, Mother.

A good chunk of the world population would like to think that they were someone iconic in their past life but that is really, just wishful thinking. Maybe you were a daffodil that departed your last life when a Labrador pissed on you and drowned you. Maybe you were a lamb that was only a few years old that got ripped away from your mother, slayed and slaughtered and served for dinner. Aaah, didn't think of that, did you?

So, Josh was asking WHEN when when am I going to meet this woman? We were so in love.

Isn't the answer obvious? You'll meet her when zombie apocalypse happens. Maybe next year when it was prophesied that the world is going to end. Cue zombies.

The oracle has spoken. Now who is going to make my tea?

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I can't come to the studio to help you paint tonight, boys. My nails, as I have pointed to you, are fucked to bits. My cuticles are ragged and there is a weird scummy mixture of white, blue and black emulsion paint under my nails. It simply will not do.

When I tried to show my hands to Jaz, he just made this mock-whine that sounded like a weird cross between an ovulating Husky bitch and a paper shredder. He then showed me the state of HIS hands which made me reel back in horror. Iwillnotturnintomymother. Iwillnotturnintomymother. Iwillnotturnintomymother. He also pointed out to me the state of the blister on his forefinger that had ripped apart from him ripping the old carpets off and it was red and raw. I am tired all this up-onemanship business. Listen to me whine. I won't even bother about complaining to Josh because then the both of them will gang up on me and Josh being Josh, he'd even dig up some old story about that one time his brother hit him and he fell off the swing when they were kids. Something that had no fucking relevance whatsoever to the crisis at hand. MY fucking soapbox. Get off it from Exit B, please.

Therefore, I shall sit here tonight, click my life away on my Sims Social and paint my nails a nice shade of Nude at the same time because us women are multi-taskers that way. We, or at least I, may not be made to withstand the harshest of elements but we sure as hell do a few things at once.

Not that they gave a shit, my not being there, of course. They just gathered their things at 1800 hours just now and set off for their Big Painting And Carpeting Extravaganza where this woman would not be wandering from out of the rooms covered in paint at 2200 hours yelling SOMEBODY FUCKING FEED ME BEFORE I DIE and then later at 0400 hours: ARE WE GOING TO MCDONALD'S FOR BREKKIE? Jaz himself just buggered off with a kiss and said Be Good. No, I will be extremely naughty and paint my nails black just to show you how tortured my soul is and how bleak my future looked to me when I looked into the evening horizon with you not by my side to console me.

Dad, I want to become a stripper.

See, the thing was, I have a deeper relationship with my dad, where I can ask him a question and he would actually take the time to ponder over my questions and answer them, even though they were downright ridiculous. Take my statement where I told him, somewhere during my late teens (and this was when all hopes of me ever becoming a vampire had gone out the window and I had discovered the joy that was Suntanning Within An Inch Of My Life), that I aspired to be a stripper when I grow up. Obviously, I was having a laugh. Obviously, I was only trying to get a reaction out of him and wonder if somewhere deep inside that calm, collected man there was a monster of a father who would belt me for saying such things. It had seemed unfair that my mother was the psychopath that she was, with the love of bashing the kids with anything within reach, from a manky dishcloth to 4-inch pumps. But what my father had said was, 'Are you certain of this? Think about it, Girl. It's not an easy market to get into. If you had not messed about with your college education, you would have actually made something out of yourself. But no, you cannot do that. However lucrative the rewards are.' I come from an Asian country, an Asian household where we usually get called by our gender. Girl for myself, Boy for my brother and Little Girl for the house cat. See, if I had asked my mother if I could become a stripper she would have said, 'WHY are you doing this to me, Insert Full Name As Per Birth Cert? What am I going to tell my brothers? What will the relatives say? Where have I gone wrong with you?'. Because everything is a personal attack to her. I had not aspired to become a stripper because I loved stripping and swashing about my flabby bits to her. I had wanted to do so just to make her a laughing stock. Still, I do say such things just to wind her up and have a giggle about it with my dad afterwards. I have told my dad, giggling, 'You poor sod, being married to that. What the fuck was going through your mind? Bet you regret making that choice based on how her legs went up to her armpits and she was so fair she glowed in the dark, didn't you? Because look at her now. On the brink of menopause, frizzy, angry and ever so vulgar.'. To that my dad always rolled his eyes and said something along the lines of She is your mother and you are going to turn into that sooner if not later and I will live by my mistakes. I love my father. I can talk about aliens and wonder with him if we actually came from another planet. Usually, when my mom walked into the room, he'd say 'But no. We are all god's creatures. We came from the earth like the prophets said.' and I'd nod, dutifully, because Mom Is In The Room and her fragile mind cannot handle that God did not paint the skies. Or something.

I'm being mean, aren't I? I love my mother to bits. She's just a bit loopy at the best of times and angry the rest of it. My mother gives the best cuddles, the best kisses, cooks the best dishes and she removes the toughest of stains. My dad just lets me hang on to an idea and run away with it until the moment comes when I would collide with my mother and I'd stop.  

I am 25 and I STILL do not know what I want to be when I grow up, when growing up eventually takes place.    I had wanted to become a journalist at one point but that was dashed when my Mom asked me, 'What the hell are you going to write about then? The rubbish that was in your diary?'. Yes, Mother, because if you work with The Straits Times, you can actually begin an article with Dear Diary, I hate my mother so, can I push her off the stairs? when the more important news would be say, the Wall Street crashing. But no, my diary contents would interest the residents of Singapore more. She read my diary and I never lived it down, you know. Of all pages that she could be fixated on, it was that one that began with me wanting to push her off the stairs. Of course, if I was her, I'd be horrified as well and I'd make sure I had locked my teenage self in the room for all of eternity for my own self-preservation. But if I had remembered correctly, that happened because I had come home from a date with a massive love bite and she had gone on and on and fucking on for hours about what sort of a prostitute I had turned into. I was starting to wonder then if I should charge the boys that had fiddled with my tits. So I had said to her that I was not a prostitute because I had not charged them a single cent and then she called me A Slag and it was around then I had thought that she must be very miserable with her life and I should just push her off so that she can go off screaming Into The Light. I was lucky if I could land a date a month and she was screaming about how she had raised a slut and I was feeling a bit miffed. Just one fucking date where I had let a blooming boy suck the bejesus out of my neck. Was she not worried that I might die of internal bleeding or something? 

Oh, Mother. 

I should re-name my blog to Oh, Mother. 

But then... Oh hi, Vagina! seems apt. For now. 

And then I bashed my knee.

So. Fucking. Embarassing.

I was on the way to the shops with Jaz when I took a fucking dive. You know how sometimes you were in so much pain and shock that you just ended up on all fours on the floor and you were not sure whether you wanted to cry from the pain or laugh to cover up your humiliation? Yes. What came out of Jaz's mouth was 'Ooh, steady! Are you alright?'. And what I answered was, 'MY LEGGINGS!'. That made me stood up quickly to check the damage though; to see if I had indeed fucked my leggings up. Leggings were fine, though. Unscathed it was, so awesome was the workmanship of TESCO leggings. Still, we hobbled on to the shops where I kept saying that my leg felt wet. Jaz was quite sure that I had sweated. From the knee. Just the shock of keeling over made my knee go into shock and sweat.

I went back to the house and yanked my leggings off and true enough, said knee was well and truly mashed.

Obviously, he rolled his eyes when I whipped the phone out to take pictures.

I NEED to show off my mangled bits to my mates on the interwebs, I said.

Still, he sat me on the counter and patched me up like the dutiful love of my clumsy life that he is.

Then he took the time to remind me that he was poorly too because on my way crashing down to the floor, I had snapped his arm that was holding my hand. 

Like I gave a shit when I was in that much pain, really.

Still, I gave him a kiss.

Begrudgingly.

Now, what did I tell you about making sure you look pretty going to the shops?

At least then, if you fall on the way there, you still look pretty, my children.

                                                                                                      

What pile of things on the counter?

I've had quite a busy few days helping Jaz and his mates paint the studio that Josh, his mate, had just taken over. Oh my fucked nails. Fucked to bits and beyond. But painting studios are good in a sense that I could lock myself up in one of the rooms, play some music and wail at the top of my lungs singing without having to worry about putting off the people next door. If they could hear me in the next room then that is a sign for them to put more padding on the walls to soundproof it.

I wish I hadn't talked so much to Jaz in our entire relationship, you know. I just fucking talk so much. In fact, that must be about eighty percent of the things that I do in the relationship. I would talk and he would almost always take the piss for the fun of it. I talk when I'm cooking, when I'm cleaning, when I'm scrubbing the toilet, before shagging, after shagging and maybe sometimes in the middle of it as well. It must be all that pent up crap spewing up after growing up in a household where everything that came out of my mouth were labelled Teenage Arrogance, Ego Of The Young Adult or the Thoughts Of A Dying Atheist. That and the last relationship before Jaz where almost everything I said was accused of being condescending, arrogant or downright cuntish. Even when I was discussing Wormholes, Darwin's Theories or blooming Shamus the Whale. Anyway. I wish I haven't told Jaz so much. Because now he knows very well my cleaning habits.

He knows that when I said I will put his crap On One Side, it really means Inside The Rubbish Bin. He knows full well that I will gather up his pile of offending clutter and lump it all in the bin. Being forced to be raised by a hoarder, I am a firm believer of Clutter Must Die. Of course, I couldn't lump my mother's millions of plates, potteries, teacups at one go, but over the years I have learned that everything must be done at a slow and steady pace. If I dump 2 plates on a daily basis, the change would be gradual and what she does not know would not make me lose an eyeball. I only knew of my mother's dark, disgusting habit when we moved out of our old house and out came cartons of plates. I would open a carton everyday hoping to unpack and settle into our new place and it would all be plates. Plates with different trims, of different shapes and sizes. Some 300 plates for a household of FOUR. I had wondered if she had planned to lay them all on the street one day and feed the homeless. With Jaz, it is all cluttered pieces of crap consisting of mail, take-out menus, Buddhist Temple leaflets, more useless acupuncture flyers of one kind or another and it is all lumped in one corner that pokes the corner of my brain that will not tolerate clutter. Sometimes it would do me in so much that I would suddenly get up, slam things about and dump it all in the bin saying CLUTTER. MUST. DIE. And 'Fucking WHY do you like to fuck up my Feng Shui!?'. Usually he'd answer with 'Because you're cute?' or something equally infuriating that makes me want to repeatedly stab him with a blunt object. But that is him. He is indifferent when I chuck things out because those things mean fuck all to him and he was just putting it to One Side because he can't be arsed to sort it out to put it Inside The Rubbish Bin.

Even when we were at the studio the past few nights chucking things out he would keep a few things Just In Case. It would make a nice ornament, he said. WHAT fucking ornament!? I had said, IT IS FUCKING MANGLED. To that he said, I can fix it back to it's original state. We argued over a piece of shitty ornament until he said FINE. CHUCK IT. And then I felt bad and said Okay, fine, fix it you petty old woman, and we kissed and made up.

I love him with all my heart, I really do. I love him enough to let him hang on to a few crappy ornaments, computer spare parts, oriental knick-knacks. But that will never stop me from putting his things On One Side when he wasn't looking.

Whose child is that?

My mother seemed to have rogered well into my head the matter of personal hygiene simply by saying "Are you going to go to the shops like that? People are going to look at you and wonder 'Whose child is that? Does her mother not look after her?'". Even though I'm in my 20s now. Like she had seemed to believe, no matter how old or where in the world I am, I will always be that link to her. Because really, people can't think of anything better to say when they see a scuzzy-looking woman running to the shops to get milk in the morning. It is what my mother thinks of the world and the world is a superficial place. I had a mate back in Polytechnic whose mother would moan when she stumbled in at 5 in the morning wearing a vest top, jeans and trainers. She moaned because, looking at the drunken state of her daughter, she knew the daughter had gone to a club to get properly hammered. She moaned because her daughter had dared gone into a club dressed like that. It made me feel better that I was not the only spawn of 80s mothers who had to grow up with such standards. This was the generation who would not dare leave the flat, even if just to open the mailbox, without a slick of lipstick, eyeliner, deodorant, a brush through the eternally-teased hair and a bra. It was alright for us then, being only teenagers, to go get the mail without a slick of lipstick or eyeliner because we are still babies and Don't Fuck Up Your Baby Skin, but we still have to put on bras to Protect Our Modesty and most of all to Not Look Like Prostitutes. I was not allowed to put on lipstick till I was 16 but by 14 I was quite familiar with how prostitutes dressed like. Just in case one day I should choose to go down that career path. It is no surprise I still reel back in horror when faced with a woman sans bra. I hear that child-like voice in my head asking, 'A prostitute?'. Damn you, Mother.

Maybe my mother was a Pageant Mom. Fuck knows. Being the fat child I was, and still am, I was forever being told to Hide The Fats. I get pinched when I slouched because then the rolls of fat around my belly would rush out like a broken dam with a whoosh and land on my lap. I got pinched when I sulk because sulking showcased my many chins. By the time I was 16, I was forced into a corset. She hadn't quite gotten over the fact that I was just a fat, fat goth-wannabe and I was glad to be fat because it gave me plenty of ammunition to pseudo-slash my wrists and wished to be dead or skinny. But that didn't stop her from trying to morph me into a voluptous woman. Or something. At 16, I was forced into the death-grip of the corsets and my fucking tits was so high up I could hold a blooming wok on top on them. Really, she was shoving me out into the world to be mass-raped by hormonal men. Of course, with the corset being worn, all attempts to slouch went to hell. And breathing too. Let's just say I didn't breathe properly until I was 21. No wonder I had so many trips to the A & E. It wasn't my asthma. It was my fucking corset. Don't gas me. Gas my Mother. She is off her fucking head. Somebody roll her a spliff so that I can relax.

I am still as massive a brick shit-house. But thanks to my mother and the many evil corsets, since they kept fucking snapping under the sheer enormity that was me, I have a waist. That was what she had always said to me. If you want to be fat, then at least have a waist. As though when I was 4, I had wanted to be Fat when the rest of my school mates wanted to be a Postman, Policewoman, Fireman. Stop feeding me all the food and stop scaring me about Bosnian children starving when I couldn't finish my dinner then!

Fucking hell.

So now, really, you'd understand when I have a go at Jaz going down to TESCOs looking like a blooming caveman.




People are going to wonder 'Whose man is that? Does his partner not look after him?'. 

BURN, fuckdamnit!

May the bridges I burn never fucking mend itself with the help of meddling wankers. Really. Just let broken bridges lie and hopefully it will just rot with time or end up as a monumental artefact. When I burn a bridge, I don't light up a match and wonder if I Should Think It Through and then think No Fuck That Bridge. I suppose there must be some people who said Oh No, I Shouldn't Have Burned That Bridge but alas, the deed was done and that person and all the benefit that bridge brought them had gone to Broken Bridge Hell. It is not as though when I performed a DiskCleanup on the PC, I was half-expecting the crap that I had deleted to reappear the next time I choose to do the task with the dialog box saying 'We didn't really delete the crap in case you might decide you don't really wish to permanently delete 47 000 kb of internet data'.

So yes, when I burn the bridge, I don't expect the bridge to still be there the next morning with a mail in the door saying 'Just in case you decided you don't really wish to burn your relatives and friends to the ground. And we were hoping that you had Slept On It and now had a conscience attack so you won't actually go ahead with it. Signed, The Self-Repairing Meddling Fuck'.

I have discovered a minor glitch on Facebook the past weeks. It might be minor to some, and horrifyingly major (like myself) to others. When you send a Friend Request on the site, you are still able to see whatever the person you requested is up to before he/she even accepts your request. Maybe the Privacy Settings on the dim fuck is set to Absolutely Open For All To Wank To. But I get feeds on my wall and notifications about this said person's activities. It was when I clicked to see his page that I saw he had not yet accepted the request. All in all, it horrified me that even though I had clicked on Not Now for various requests instead of Not Fucking Ever, they actually had the access to my page and all my activities via my page. It freaked me out. Especially since I had Not Now-ed a few ex-schoolmates. That had forced me to look through my Not Now list and clicked Not Fucking Ever. And for added measure, in the cases of Potential Terrorists Cousins and Uncles, I blocked the fuckers. I seriously don't need for them to ever discover me on the internet and roger into me senseless the ethics of Islam and why the fuck I shouldn't be with An Infidel, who is my partner who was born a Christian but had since converted to Buddhism, abstaining from eating meat and hurting animals. Which is why I have to occasionally roll up a newspaper and bash a spider or moth to death because he will not do it, but he is alright to trap them in a glass in the kitchen to taunt the shit out of me while I prepare dinner. 'What was all that fucking noise?' he would ask from another room. And I would say 'I bashed Mothy to death!' I would answer back and carry on with chopping the veg with a spring in my step.

Why, why do moths hover around the light in its bid to be near the 'Moon'? Why does it not just satisfy its craving by going straight to the moon, in this case the light bulb, stick to it and fucking fry itself to death? Why, Mothy, do you fuck about outside your marital home to hang out with light bulbs? Does your moth-wife not question your philandering? And with that I shall smack you with a copy of TV Buzz.

But I digress. I despise a good deal of my relatives. You can't choose them, but you can sure as hell block the fuckers. I have my own set of beliefs, my own way of life and it simply gets on my stretch-marked tits when people bomb in and force views down my throat. Please don't do that. It makes my gag-reflex work overtime.

So yes, may the bridges I burn light up the skies because them fucking moths in the room is forcing me to get off my arse to find something to bash them with.

Just spent the whole of yesterday evening and a good chunk of today at Jaz's ex to spend time with the kids and their house pets. It's alright. No one died of vicious clawing. The ex and I get along just fine now. Our conversations consist mainly of 'You awroight?' which would dutifully be answered with 'Yeah, I'm good. You?'. Such conversations are extremely versatile and it can be used from wandering into the kitchen while either of us are in there to coming out of the bathroom with either one crossing paths. Not that there is any deeper meaning in such an exchange. It's just an 'I acknowledge you being there so I shall now attempt a half-arsed conversation where your answer will not alter my life significantly' exchange and it is civil. Except of course she gets totally smashed off her face and then we would have a deep heart to heart where she would usually begin with telling me just how fucking gorgeous I looked through her glazed eyes. Whatever, as long as I am gorgeous. Never mind that she was well and truly pissed when she said it. But you know what? She's actually lovely. And I love lovely drunks. I grew up with one and that drunk taught me how to read. I love you, Dad. So fucking much. I love him so much when he used to drink shitloads because when he was intoxicated, I could do no wrong in his eyes. I was his star pupil, his child prodigy, the apple of his glazed eye. When he sobered up some 5-6 years ago, I turned out to be major disappointment to him in every manner. I should actually spike my Dad's drink. Really. I should be the voice of reason: Drink the elixir of Awesomeness and see how wonderful your daughter is and what a wanker your son is. Driiiiiiink...

Sibling rivalry eh. I don't think we came from the same sperm donor. Really. He just reeks so much of Eau du Arsehole.

Where was I? Yes. Lovely drunks. They might be a bit lairy but fuck yes, they are fucking amusing and I don't mean that in a condescending matter at all. I would rather have them be amusing than downright shit-scary. Now those fuckers should be given the lethal injection.

I need to go out and get totally smashed again in a club. Or someone's living room. I'm easy. As long as there is plenty of floor space for me to spontaneously collapse on.

I am in the Matrix?

I regret watching the Matrix now because now everything I say is null and void. I told Jaz an hour ago that I am hungry with hopes that he would take it as a hint that we should go to the fucking shops and get groceries already. But no, he said... 


'Your real body is actually in a mucous-filled pod and machines are feeding off your life force.'


So therefore, this hunger is not real. Nothing is real.

Well then... That lump of dirty laundry is not real as well. Neither is the pile of dirty dishes.

So tonight, we won't need to cuddle. Because cuddling is not really real when your real body is in a mucous-filled pod.

I say cuddle but what I mean is fuck, really.

Bless your fragile minds.

Oh damn. I'm using the vagina as a bargaining tool now. Damn it. Tsk. I need to work on my speech. One that does not involve the Secret Bits be used as part of a barter trade.

If you don't buy me that bag, I won't let you have My Secret.

Well, Alice. You're fucked now. 

I have a love affair with the 99p stores. I swear each time we go in there for our fortnightly shop, Jaz disintegrates a little bit more inside. It is tantamount to him releasing his partner and limitless credit card into Harrods. 


Rows of spices. Pots of Patak's curry. The Pick 'n' Mix aisle. Boxes upon boxes of instant noodles. Crisps! Biscuits! Bags of sugar. 4 pinter milk! Boxes of cereal!


All for under £1. 


And let's not forget toiletries. I'll just grab something off the shelf and smile at him and I know, he dies a little bit more inside. And they have a mini garden center in there. We may not have a garden now but one day we will and then, I can whip out my Emergency Gardening Tools. And plant Petunias. Just so that I can tell friends and neighbours that I plant Petunias and bask in that moment of Delusional Grandeur. 


Dog collars, leashes, massive bags of dog food and cute little bowls. Let us just buy that for our imaginary dog, Katherine. Katherine... Our German Shepherd. And our Siberian Husky, Jeff. They be bug massive dogs. None of them pissy little Chihuahuas or Pomeranians. Our imaginary dogs be massive, I say! We can buy all the doggy accessories and put them in the corner of our bedroom and be happy. 


Sanitary pads, tampons, panty liners. Do I need all of them, he asks. Of course. All of them nice, glitzy 99p things for one vagina. Of course I need all of them. You silly man. 

Really. Like, as if I'd jump in there to save someone drowning. It'd fuck my hair up and all that effort battling with the straighteners will be for fuck all. 


Let them drown. 


And I don't like bacon. So, I'll just LAWL and leave it at that.