CatfishClusterFuck

I've been wanting to watch Catfish for months ever since I saw the trailer during an advert. Months of incessant whining, jumping up in excitement and talking over people when I see the advert on the telly. It was really a 'movie' about this bloke who met this girl on Facebook and somewhat had a relationship with her and then lo and behold something goes wrong when he realized some things did not add up with the bird. Typical story line as far as I am concerned with online dating, really. It is a bit rich coming from me considering that I met Jaz on Myspace and I had traveled all the way across the world to be with him. But whatever, I am a pessimist and I don't think things are going to work out anyway between this Nev bloke and that unnecessarily-beautiful Megan that had musical skills, which later turned out to be bloody recordings of random Youtube song covers, and a dancer's body. To be fair it is quite good with the cringe factor. You know it is going to be garbage, you know it is going to be a case of an identity theft, you know it is all going to end in tears. I suppose it's nicer to watch someone else going through the humiliation, even though his character might be entirely fictional and this entire movie was thought up by a bunch of college students bonged off their faces.

First off, the story is a tad confusing to the point where to you have to annoyingly talk out loud during the movie to explain to your own bloody self exactly what on earth is going on. SPOILER ALERT. Really, I am going to spoil this whole production to hell and back for sucking the juice out of my brains through every orifice for what seemed like 2 hours. I couldn't locate the file on the computer anymore so I am guessing that in my hissy fit last night, I might have deleted the whole torrent and data off my PC so therefor, I am not able to tell you exactly how long the movie was. I don't even want to call it a movie. It was a documentary-type garbage. The kind where the whole ordeal was done with handheld camera of various shapes, sizes and variations and a crappy microphone that was taped to some man's ridiculously hairy chest. Let's just call it Garbage. So, Gullible Twat was Nev, the main bloke and he was a photographer. Nev got a picture published in the papers and then he received an e-mail, I think, of the same exact picture that was done in an oil painting by a girl who claimed that she saw the picture in the papers and felt inspired. This girl was a 9 year old named Abby. I think she was 9. Whatever. Then Abby and Nev became quite close and friendly and Abby started sending more and more oil paintings to Nev who was then living in New York. At first I recalled the trailer that claimed 'THE LAST FORTY MINUTES OF THE MOVIE WILL BE THE BIGGEST EMOTIONAL ROLLER-COASTER YOU HAVE EVER BEEN ON' and thought Oh shit, it is going to be some sick, kiddy-fiddling shit, isn't it? Oh, for fuck's sake. But then no, Nev got talking to Abby's Mom who was Angela, and then somehow hooked up with Abby's half-sister Megan, the unnecessarily-gorgeous woman. Blah-dee-blah-blah-blah. So then they sex-texted and whatever and then there was this thing with some lies that she told about the music that she sang which Nev and his brother, Rel, and his mate, Henry, all of whom were in the Garbage being the cameramen, later found out were just some random Youtube recordings of cover artists and then... Nev got suspicious. I mean, really. Sigh. So then, they fucked off to where this Meg supposedly stayed and in the middle of the fucking night found the ranch that she was staying in and found that all the postcards he had sent her was rotting in the mailbox and that the lot was vacant. All the way while the stupid boys were fumbling in that empty ranch at 2-3 in the bloody morning in the dark, I kept saying 'I don't get why these stupid fucks have to do this shit in the middle of the bloody night. Why can't they be sensible human beings and do it in the day? I mean, they are trying to track down a girl, who lives alone in a fucking ranch, and they are doing their 'visiting' at 2 in the morning? I tell you, Baby, these men are fucked in the head and I hope they get slaughtered in the farm and fucking die all of them.' and Jaz talked over me and said, 'They are going to find a dungeon and discover that that Abby kid had been killed and there was blood in the garage. I know it, Baby. They are going to find out that that kid that been brutally-slaughtered and some sick adults stole her identity.' and I said 'No, Bay, I don't think so. They are just going to discover that the woman behind all this is indeed a fat, lonely woman who may not be that fat or ugly but she just has issues with herself. Maybe she is disabled. One of those amputees who paint with that strappy thing on their foreheads.'. Let me just state here, I am in no way trying to put down the disabled people. I just have no idea what that strappy thing they put on their foreheads to paint are called. We kept arguing, on the bed, in the dark until we realized that the Garbage had progressed fucking further on, and they were then at Abby's house and found out that Angela, the mother, looked nothing like the Facebook picture. That was it, really. All along, it had been that Angela woman. Abby did exist but she doesn't paint at all. So did Vince, the husband, who also looked like nothing on the Facebook pictures. Megan existed too but the real Megan knew nothing of Nev's existence. It was all Angela. She had created some 20 fake accounts just to make it all seem real. There were disabled people in it. Her twin sons were mentally-disabled, bless them. And she wasn't morbidly fat. She just looked nothing like that sparkling fake photo of hers. At least, if she had all that bloody time on her hands, fucking learn Photoshop and warp the shit out of all her pictures then. At least then if she got found out, she can say, Oh well, I blame McDonald's these past 3 months.

I actually have a school-mate on my FB who warped all her pictures on there and I was well-impressed at first thinking, well shit, she's looking good these days, until I found a picture where she had accidentally warped the bookcase behind her as well. What a twat.

ANYWAY. Wow, even this blog has been a waste of my time. I'm sorry. I don't mean to drag you into this garbage. I just had to vent. And post something to show that I am indeed alive.

The WHAT? The Tunnel.

A few nights ago, Jaz and I sat down and watched The Tunnel. A supposedly-low budget movie done by Australians. It's this rising trend with Paranormal Activity, isn't it? Paranormal Activity, which was amazing at first because it was filled with suspense, horror and yes, a big-breasted woman was involved and I was a bit pleased that her and all her glory got dragged away at the end. The second one was all right, I guess, because we could then say 'Ohhhh, so THAT was how it began then?' and patted ourselves on the back for the ability to put two and two together. And then NOW, Paranormal Activity 3 is coming out soon. What started out as fun is now starting to freak me out a bit because I am now asking myself if I have this strong fascination with perving on people's home-made videos and CCTV footages. So, with the third one, they are going back to the girls' childhood home to really find out Where It All Began and not surprisingly, it started with two stupid girls saying Bloody Mary three times and then left Bloody Mary all by her Bloody Self in the Bloody Bathroom with the Bloody Camera on. Next year, they will be releasing Paranormal Activity 4 where a camera will be inserted inside their mother's secret bits to find one of the girls fucking about with an Ouija board while she was in the womb at 8 months old some thirty odd years ago.

Now, The Tunnel. It's this movie about a whole bunch of journalist and that one lone woman amongst them who was so determined to Make It Big with this one story of wandering around in Sydney's underground system to find out what the government was doing about the homeless people who had been living in the sewers. So, naturally, they wandered about in the dark in the tunnel with their night-vision camera, some massive torch-lights and that one camera light thing that was so bright that if you look directly at it, you'd be convinced you're walking into heaven. You now have 4 crew, including that one woman who like all women before her in the same role, more or less, will turn into one huge screaming mess that you just want to punch the shit out of her and pray that she will eventually die being mauled by that thing that they were running away. What was it they were running from? Jaz and I reckoned it was some military experiment gone wrong that resulted in the creation of that scary-as-fuck fucker that I really think looked like Gollum, with a lot of hair. We couldn't really work out what it exactly looked like due to the shitty camera-handling as is the norm with all this bloody type of movie.  Scream, scream, run, pant, insert expletives, a slight glimpse followed by a large intake of breath because you're wondering if it was what you thought it was. Stumble, camera sliding on the floor, more screams, more expletives and then... Silence. Silence that stretched on for yonks. And in that silence, you'd attempt to breathe and then take a sip of your water at the same time because you think you are awesome like that and then an ear-shattering scream, followed by a jump, a loud swear from your person and then an awkward giggle because you cannot quite believe you reacted like that.

Camera motion-sickness is the key to movies like these. Just like Blair Witch. Remember Blair Witch Project? Loads of american teenagers screaming, a few things found on the forest floor that looked like guts, more blood, more screams, more stupid american kids screaming OMYGODOMYGODWHATWASTHAT?! I saw that when I was 13 and my younger self did not at all appreciate that garbage that was on the movie screen. My present self STILL resented that movie with all my heart. That movie and that album of STEPS that I got around the same time, probably. Fucking hate it with all my life. It was pointless. Let's just say it like how it is. It was garbage. No ending, nothing whatsoever. Did they ever find that Blair Witch? Did they all die? WHAT.

At least when american teenagers were running around in Carrie 2, Zachary Ty Bryan ended up with his dick getting harpooned. That was satisfactory.

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!

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.

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.

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 haven't blogged in ages, you see. So that explains why I am spewing my guts out in this manner till I am posting some four, five blogs in one day. Clearly, I am having a hoot. And since no one fucking reads my blog anyway, this is somewhat similar to writing in my diary, which is something I haven't been doing since September 2010. The remaining pages of my diary have since been used for Scottish shortbread recipes. All 20 pages of it for one fucking type of biscuit. So yes. I have my PC back and I don't have to fiddle on Blackberry and its shitty small screen and I am having fun.

ANYWAY. This is so old news this but I was surfing the interwebs and I was reminded of London riots that took place recently. I haven't seen Central London so I don't quite know the full extent of the damage yet but still, my life shall go on and on. I am still a bit miffed that Harrods did not get bashed open though. I think any store that holds a dining table that costs 20 grand should be looted. Come on Broken Britain, WHAT ARE YOU DOING. If you want to moan about the government never giving enough money then go and nick some dining table worth 20 grand. That will give your chavvy moms something to smile about when she wakes up in the morning coked off her face, gurning so much till most of her molars are gone. Oh NHS, what will us council estate residents do without you, eh?

So, about the looters. Most of them are kids anyway. Or maybe the occasional professional working adults, like that bloke who was a teaching assistant. He was goaded by them little twats he teaches in the day, I tell you. I was watching the Meridien News with Jaz and his oh-so-hostile mother and it showed the coppers bashing the shit out of the looters on the streets at night. That was one the only few times I feel some togetherness with his Mom. When we yelled at the screen 'BEAT THE LITTLE TWATS UP!'. Yes. We are all for beating the shit out of insolent cocks, we are. Ever so keen on children discipline.

And then... There was this full grown man that looted TESCOs.

At least it was Basmati Rice. Fucker knows his quality goods.

TESCO. Every little helps. Now someone make some Vindaloo to go with that lush rice.

I have had a pee. And a fag. And a fresh cup of Tetleys. All is right in my world again. No plants were endangered.

Now. To roll another fag. Fuck it aye. We're all going to die and our souls will depart from ourPenal Gland and fuck knows where we'll end up in. Maybe in some pod surrounded by mucous. Just properly sat down, or passed out in bed, with Jaz and he insisted I watched The Matrix. And I did. And it had further filled my head with so much crap. It is bad enough that I think we are descendants of Aliens ala The Mission to Mars anyway. Now I have to contend with the fact that we might all be human and really we are all in mucous-filled pods. I love how he tries to educate me through films. We've watched fucking Snatch so many times it's ridiculous. And Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. I must know the awesomeness of English films and fuck all the Yank rubbish, he says.

But yes. As I was saying... Yeah, fuck it. We're all going to die. So might as well roll a fag and die doing something that seemed worthwhile to me. Any minute now Josh is going to burst through the bedroom door and ask me if he can pinch a few Rizlas. As though he can hear the crisp papers being pulled out slowly out of the little Rizla box-thing. Smoke, don't smoke. Drink, don't drink. All these patronizing twats telling me what to do or not do. And that look of horror as I light up. Fuck it, alright. My child died in the womb for no fucking reason anyway. So sod yous. I will light up. I mean, look at the state of the fucking world. At the rate that it's all going to bits, who wants to be around till 90 anyway. I don't want to be 90 and be humiliated when someone I don't remember being related to is wiping my arse. Then again, I might not even realize my arse was being wiped. Meh. Already I think that we are living longer than we should. Don't people used to pop off at 60 or something? I know of a few over 60s who should die at this stage. Like that old cock in that bus going up to Bushey train station telling me to get the fuck up so that we can sit when I was heavily pregnant. I'd gladly give up my seat to old people. Just not ones should calls me a 'Rude Child'. I'll give you rude, you old cock.

Then again, my Nan's pretty ancient. And she's cool. Oh, well...