'Whatever' won the poll.

A poll was carried out on what is currently deemed the most annoying word on this dying blue globe and 'Whatever' took the cake.

I do see how that can be annoying. I see how when 'Whatever' was being said as an answer to a life-burning question like 'Shall we have Chinese for dinner?' (and whatever food-related is of utmost importance to me), it made me want to bash an inanimate object.

Other words on the list were 'Like' and 'You know'.

When I first knew Jaz, I realized that he ends his sentences with 'You know what I mean?' and it got my back up a bit because it made me wonder if he thought I was a bit thick until he had to double-check each and every time if I had indeed gotten what he was trying to say to me. Years down the road now, I have learned to filter that sentence, and a few other sentences along the way like... 'Don't throw this away, I am going to put this aside in a minute'. Maybe he does think that I am thick and he really is Being Patronising.

I am guilty of saying 'Like' like a lot. Really... Like... To the point of being hideously annoying when I am talking to myself in my head.

I am a bit surprised 'Literally' never made it to the list, though. 'Literally' has got to be the most misused word in the English language in this time and age. Every fucking corner I turn I hear people, mostly from the teenage to young adult age group, saying they 'literally' did something that was quite humanly impossible. Like 'Literally Died'. How many times have I sat in front on a person while they went on and on about their Super Amazing Life and then inserted some stupid First World Crisis like the battery of the iPhone died and they said 'I literally died. Like, LITERALLY, BRUV.' and I was sat there looking at them and said 'No mate. You did not "literally" die because you are standing right fucking here. You a fucking walking dead or something?' and then be seen as the World's Biggest Cunt Type Of Person. No, look, you phallus, The Oatmeal said so. I hate stupid people.

This is what happens when deluded twats try to pull of drama like I do. You are supposed to say it like this: I walked up that hideous hill in St Albans and I am telling you... A small part of me died inside.

Please don't make me walk away saying 'I like, LITERALLY, punched him in his fucking face for misusing an English word in England.'

No... Don't want to live on this planet any more.

The types of people I Unfriend-ed.

More often than not, I Unfriend-ed them because they are Dickheads. That is always a good reason to cull people off your lists, actually. Your Facebook so it is your prerogative, isn't it? No matter how trivial the matter or contributing factor that led to them being labelled as Dickheads. Dickheads come in various shapes, forms, sexuality, emotional and intelligence level.

Emotional Dickheads


Usually seen quoting Nickelback or Incubus song lyrics in their status updates. Not that there is anything stupid about them lyrics, but it is the way they are usually quoted in that soul-draining, heart-broken manner that makes me want to stab my own jugular with a child-friendly cutlery. What they are saying, these Emotional Dickheads, is most likely - Look, my girlfriend/boyfriend/whatever is being a totally emotionally-disengaged whore and she/he/it had left me so please just listen to my pain in these stupid lyrics that I am posting while I am doing a shit. Because I am deep and am a sensitive person like that. No, you are a Dickhead and you make reading my own Facebook feed more horrible than it should be.

Another type that falls into this category would be the Serial Relationship-Status Changer With Man/Woman-Bashing Tendencies.

I get it okay. Man are dicks. Woman are cunts, too, all right? I thought you wanted equal rights. Look, women burned their bras so that we could get equal rights as men, but now that you have got that equality you want to play the damsel in distress and not shoulder the blame?

Not all man/woman are arseholes, Love. Just the ones that you tend to go for are. Even I, who never actually interacted personally with you and only perved on your profile once in a while know that you have a soft spot for a certain type. You can't save his Bad Boy Soul. He will not change his ways for you. She will not stop being a slag for you. Trapping him/her with a baby won't make a difference either. You are just setting the child and yourself up for a fucking disappointment.

Fake Profile Pic Dickheads


I have actually gotten my FB-gaming and personal life mashed up in my FB and this is resulting in such a fucking, grotesque mess in my Friends List. With my FB-gaming ways, I have ended up randomly adding strangers to add more neighbours/mob/clan/bubble-poppers to my list and it is quite often I get added by some excessively beautiful people. Yes, there IS such a thing as being Excessively Beautiful. I have a love/hate relationship with Photoshop. Photoshop has made me lose all faith in the simpler things in life. You can't even look at something online or on a pamphlet without even wondering if the shit's been 'shopped.

It's bad enough now I have to worry if the person I'd just added had lifted a picture off the internet, I actually have to wonder if that is even human. Bloody Japanese engineers and their perfect love dolls. I have seen a few and it had scared me shitless. I don't like looking at the pictures of newly-added strangers and yell out loud 'What sort of Sorcery is this!?'.

These are men I am talking about, you know. I do know with women and our fucking inferiority complex (especially with bastard partners asking us if we've just gotten fatter at FOUR IN THE FUCKING MORNING), it's not surprising some of the female population feel like they have to stick a picture of an Excessively Beautiful model of Eastern European descent (the less she is known to the world, the better it is for you to get away with pretending to be her) to feel whole as a person. But a man? Yes, men are more sensitive to criticisms these days. I have come across a few with fucking albums of Indian actor's pictures saying shit like 'My photoshoot here and there and oooh, that is a picture of me in campus'. Mate, you have the MTV-Drama-Windblower on fucking campus? What? I don't want to live on this planet any more.


Religious Book-Thumping Dickheads


Like I have said before, practice what you want, just don't bring your fucking parade down my street.

I don't care what Jesus or whoever said. I am too busy looking into Alien sightings in Argentina. And that hoax moon landing. And Super-Earth that is some 36 light years away. You know if that planet there is fit for living in, them rich wankers are going to get first dibs anyway. They fuck THIS Earth up and then they are going to the other one and Super Fuck that one up as well. You know what? Let them all sit in an aluminium-encased capsule for 36 years trying to get there and let's see if they make it past the Van Halen without getting fried within an inch of their rich arses and claustrophobic at the same time. Let them eat cake.

I am going to form my opinions by what I can see with the shit that is happening around me and you entitled to your own, so please let us co-exist without fighting about who has the better imaginary friend just for a little while longer? Nibiru is on her way. We're all fucked.

Dickheads Who Think They Are Better Than Me


A fucking Capuchin who shits in a diaper is better than me. Don't come into my space and slag me off so that you can feel better about yourself, you pretentious self-righteous dickheads. Yes, haters gonna hate, you dumb fuck, and they have good reason to.

Putting an 'x' at the end of your fucking sentence just meant that you just slagged me off and kissed me. I am aware of that, you pussy. It does not erase the clear fact that you were a dickhead on my status.

Dickheads Who Put Kisses At The End Of Every Sentence


If I don't know you personally and you don't know me personally, your putting kisses at the end of your sentences just tell me that you are a Whore, not an overly-friendly person. As pretentious and ridiculous as those arseholes that kisses the air and when I kissed the cheek twice, asks me 'Oh we're doing two kisses now, are we?' Fuck right off the Devil's Pool in Zimbabwe. Just die and cease to exist, please. There is not enough Cannibals in this world to eradicate arseholes like you.

Oh shit, what did I just say!?

Children shouldn't be allowed to talk to me or ask me simple questions until they are well over 18.

I have somehow assured Jaz's son that there is no God and I have no idea how his mother would take that.

I told his other daughter that all man are bags of sperm and I have no idea how she looks at Jaz now after I've told her that. Well, in my defence, she was crying about boys and I was trying to hug her and shut her up so that whole 'Men are fucktards' speech was totally called for. And I also said, if it makes her feel better, I am stuck with the caveman that is her Dad. By choice.

The last time his youngest, who is now 12, asked me a question, my reply made me seriously question if I should be around them at all.

She sat next to me and asked me if I wanted her to read to me her diary entry. I was watching the telly and said, 'Well, your diary should be for your eyes only, shouldn't it?' and to that she said, 'No... I read them out all the time.' and then I said this...

'Well, that tantamounts to 'Exhibitionism', Georgia.' 


Cue for me to look over my shoulder, with my eyes bugged out as I stared at the wall and hissed, 'What the fuck?!'

DON'T TALK TO ME WHEN I AM WATCHING QI.

Because when I am watching QI, I have my Uppity, poncy mode on.

For fuck's sake, Ella, what is fucking wrong with you?

I am still praying she is not sitting at that dinner table, poking her food around like she always does and ask, 'Mom, what IS exhibitionism?'

Thank fuck she asked me 'Tantamount? Oooooh, what is that?' and realized that at that point of time that word in that entire sentence sparkled brighter in that mind of hers.

Your discontentment is deafening.

Door slammers scare me. It's these people who can't really voice out their discontentment and choose to express in the form of door slamming. Or cup slamming on whatever available surface. Feet stompers, even at the age of 60. Handbag chuckers. I worry about Handbag Chuckers. Surely you are worried about the contents of your purse? Something sounds broken in there. Or maybe you had premeditated this whole chucking routine and had filled your handbag with glass shards from that bathroom mirror that you had smacked down on your dresser this morning.

I understand aggression. Coming from a person who is so angry with the world for reasons from one end of the spectrum to the other - I understand anger. Just fucking voice it out.

Why is it that whenever I try to partake in this whole Door Slamming business, I get my fingers trapped and I'm left on the other side of the slammed door with tears in my eyes and feeling like a twat? Am I not made to slam doors with elegance? The last time I tried to slam a door, I ended up with my bedroom slipper left behind on the other side and said slipper stopped the door from slamming shut. I opened the door again with Jaz staring at me, smiling, and I felt like a blooming arsehole and I had to yell out a resounding string of vulgarities at the door, door handle, door jamb, slipper and then decided I might as well cuss out the carpeted floor, just so that each and every bit of the doorway got the same treatment.

My experience with slamming doors have never been pretty so I am guessing that is why my development in the Art of Slamming Doors is sadly stunted. When I slammed a door back home then to express my teenage frustration of not being able to sleep over at a mate's, I get greeted with my bedroom door being kicked back open a mere seconds away and since it was only a short time I had slammed it shut, it ended with the door being kicked open INTO me, followed by the terrifying presence of My Mother. If I had stomped up the stairs, and since we lived in Singapore where stairs were made of concrete and not shoddy, wooden floorboards like most houses here in England, I had to put in extra effort to make that stomping noise. We also do not wear our shoes in our houses, so we had no Doc Martens or even shitty foam-soled sandals to help us out. And with all that extra effort, I still got chased up the floor by Mother, had my waist-length hair then yanked back, followed by a slap.

So you see, I didn't get that opportunity to explore the many dramatic avenues of expressing myself. I had to make do with either sucking it up or screaming into a pillow after collapsing onto my bed Bollywood-style. Now as an adult, I feel a resentment for Door Slammers.

Since I can't slam doors with such flourish, I will proceed to slam Door Slammers. You lot are pussies. What are you trying to convey when you slam doors? If you are pissed off at me, tell me about it. Don't slam your cups down on kitchen counters if you are not happy. Chuck the cup in my face and let's have a proper punch up. Let's beat the fuck out of each other. Let us yell at each other until we are blue in the face. Tell me what is not right in your world.

I am so used with people telling that they are pissed off with me until I don't do silent treatment very well. I would just assume that whatever is wrong in your world, it is not me.

I think I am turning into my mother because now when a door is slammed in my presence, I instantly feel the urge to kick the door down and yell 'WHAT! WHAT! NOT HAPPY?! WHAT! DO YOU WANT TO DIE IN MY HANDS TONIGHT?! WHAT!'

What kids?

I just got back spending a little under a week with Jaz's kids. Oh, how I love spending time with teenagers and their constantly yelling, moaning, under-the-breath cussings and louder-than-loud accusations of which sibling is the bigger idiot. Then there are times when teenage aggression turns to the animals. It's always funny when a child is getting told off by a parent and then said child turns to a purely innocent animal and then yells at the animal for no fucking reason and say 'Dave, stop looking at me!'. Makes me look at Jaz's ex and try to telepathically tell her what a fucking trooper she is. She is. If I tell my child to listen and then the child yells back 'NO, YOU listen' my guess is a certain palm is going to make sharp contact with a certain face. But hey, that is just me. I support the slapping of insolent children. No, really. Sometimes talking rationally will not do. Seriously. Just lock them in the cupboard under the stairs. Might make a wizard or a witch, or anything interesting and useful, out of them.

Christmas is around the corner. Can't you tell? Christmas, moany children, shortage of money and getting hit by hail on the way to the shops to get your children the presents that they will not appreciate a mere two days later. Last year, Jaz's youngest was on the bloody Wii the whole blooming Christmas day and whines when someone tries to persuade her to turn the telly off so that we could watch some Christmassy garbage on the telly. I kept telling her that she needed a rest or her arms were going to pop off but no, she loved her Wii and OOOOH more games to be explored on Wii Resort. Or something. Was it Wii Resort? I think so. Then she proceeded to pass out on the settee and then woke up with the achiest pair of arms known to a child not in the child slavery business. Moan, whinge, cry, moan. No thanks for the Wii. Wii remote discarded in between the settee cushions. Got sat on. A month later would be stepped on, no doubt, before finally being misplaced long after it was forgotten about altogether.

The eldest son got a PS3 where he spent more of his teenage time in his dark, teenage-boy-smelling bedroom on shooter games that breed aggression, came out when a level had beaten him 18 times in a row, resurfaced only to demand new games, snacks and what time dinner would be dished out. Occasionally, he would hint someone to run his bath.

The eldest girl got a laptop which later on had a whole can of whole up-end on it.

I saw a status on Facebook with someone saying 'I am glad I don't have to go out and buy toys for kids'. I'm thinking, 'Wow, you are lucky if you can find a kid that actually wants toys now.' or 'I'd like to meet a kid who wants toys'. Do they still want toys? The last time I talked to a child, the child said she wanted a fucking iPhone 4S. No, listen to me, you are a child so ask for a fucking doll. A stupid Barbie or that equally stupid bear that you can change its clothes depending on the season. Whatever happened to those girls who wanted a baby doll and a pram to go along with it? Do those type of girls still exist? Why is it that every child I meet now wants an electronic device of sorts? Why must it be plugged it or charged for a half a day before it can even be fun?

You know what I want for Christmas?

A book. Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins. I want to know what bloody happens now in that third book. I am also looking forward to Hollywood slaughtering that good book to hell and back. And an iPod with a no-bleed pair of earphones so that I can read and drown out all the fucking Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! and shit.

And Jaz's ex should have her bath run for her with sinful bath bombs and Bailey's Hazelnut after. Jaz? He should be the mediator by yelling 'You are ALL fucking idiots!'

They are lovely kids. When they are, without realizing it, being nice to each other and not trying to out-cuss each other in the name of sibling rivalry. Like each and every other children, really. Like myself and my brother, in fact. But we got punched for kicking shit up.

But still... I love them. And I do end up being that person that say stupid shit like, 'Awwww, I know, mate. Siblings are like that. Come here, give me a hug and brush my hair.'

Embarrassing.

His bloody fault.

It is half 4 in the fucking morning.

A few hours ago, not too long before he spontaneously passed mid-way through a conversation, he looked at me, through the eyes of someone on the brink of a mental break-down from sheer physical exhaustion, and said , 'Have you gotten bigger lately?'

Balls of fucking steel. BALLS OF FUCKING STEEL.

Earlier today while I was getting ready to go out with him, he had passed by me, stopped and casually squeezed my left breast and looked at me dead in the eye. 'Did you find a lump in there?'

'Have you got socks in there?' He asked.

Have I WHAT?

'You know, you watched that video of that bird stuffing socks in her bra and you tried it the next day, remember?' He smirked.

I was taking the fucking piss! Just to see you roar with laughter when we shagged and socks fell out.

Do you not know what your Missus' real tits feel like?

So today, for the second time I really looked at him.

'I have dropped two sizes. I can still fit in my Pre-Charlie clothes, plus room to move in it,' I answered calmly. 'What the FUCK are you ON!?'

I was saying this with a hairbrush knotted in my fucking hair and the bloody puppy kept trying to go for it and catching me in the chin with her chompers.

'I am going to donate you to the less fortunate this Christmas, Stevie, if you don't fucking SIT! Fuck off! SIT! Good girl. Now go bite the fuck out of your toy. Go on.'

'I don't know... You just look... Big to me these days,' he replied.

'Since when?!'

Yank, yank, curses, fucking yank again on the hairbrush.

'This is your fucking doing this stupid hair. I want to cut it short again!'

'But you fucking moaned when your hair was short and you just fucking said you are going to get bloody extensions because it's not long enough. What the fuck are YOU on?'

That was true. He was right. Back to yanking.

'So which part am I bigger then?'

'I don't know, Baby. All over.'

'Are you having a laugh? I have fucking lost weight. I have dropped sizes. My tits have shrunken and look at how sad they are! LOOK.'

'Maybe I am seeing things wrong...'

'Have you, after all this time been under the illusion that you have been shagging the clothes-horse?'

He laughed. Oh how he roared with laughter.

'You're beautiful, my baby. Really. The most beautiful woman alive.'

I went on and on about what a cockless comeback that was and how I expected more of him but when I turned to look at him, he was cuddling Stevie and Stevie was cuddling her Daddy with that fucking manky rope that she had bloody pissed on in her mouth still.

So, it is his bloody fault that I am now watching Youtube tutorials of Pilates.

Okay well maybe I just want to slim my thighs a bit just so that they can stop rubbing against each other and make the weirdest of noises when I have tights on.

He got me a Stevie.

Ever since losing Charlie at 7 months at the end of June, I have been whinging, incessantly and maybe understandably so. I can be found in the Toddler clothes area of Tesco when I should be choosing Cauliflowers. I can be found fiddling with buttons of baby Parkas and go slightly misty-eyed, before saying 'Fuck it!' and scare a few mothers around me in the process.

We have been trying. In fact, last month I was late by a week and I was, to put it simply, fucking excited. I casually bought a pregnancy test kit and chucked it in the basket along with my Vaseline pot of awesomeness lip balm, a few panty liners, a bottle of Aussie conditioners and went to pay. It was when Jaz stepped up to the counter to pay for it that he saw it and he looked at me. And I saw Fear. It took me back to that time when the midwife said there was no heartbeat. It was that look there. This man who is about to pay for my pantyliners is scared.

We went back and I pissed on a stick and sat on the bed after I pissed on the stick.

The stick told me, in Parseltongue, 'Yoooooou aaaaaare pregnaaaaant aaaaaas per theeee window riiiiiight theeeeeere.' I was happy. I was over the roof.

Jaz left the room and I didn't see him for over an hour. I was happy. Then I was sad. Then I was angry. Then I was scared. Then I played with Josh's dog and her puppies and I was alright. Then he came back in. By then I wasn't happy to tell him the news any more. I just wanted to sit and play with puppies and not look at him. He sat next to me and asked, 'So you're pregnant then, yeah?' That made me flinch then. I will never get that joy of being pregnant, will I? We will always be plagued by fucking fear. Fuck him for being a bloke and not knowing the right things to say. Fuck him for not knowing that I really wanted that scene in my head where we both jump up for joy and kiss each other silly. Fuck him for making this such a sombre scene. So I said, 'Yeah. The piss stick said so. But hey, me having a child won't tie you to me forever. I can fuck off back home and raise my child on my own. I don't need you and your stupid face like that.'

See, I will always be a stupid, fucking, petulant child who suffers from verbal diarrhoea.

That resulted in him walking out again, spending hours away from me. Hours with his music, away from me, possibly spinning his decks chanting 'Fuck her, insensitive fucking cow.' over and over again.

He came back in and I said Sorry, and he said What are you sorry for, silly? and that just means 'I am glad you are sorry but I am a Zen Buddhist and stuff and I'm cool like that so I'll just watch you be sorry and stuff and learn from your mistakes. Ohhhhhhhmmmm.'

Then we kissed and made up and he gave me a half of his Snickers bar. He's a chocoholic and that act spoke volumes.

Then he told me that he wasn't trying to be a prick and that he was just scared. I said I am just as scared too. It wasn't as though my life ambitions were to keep having stillborns. It wasn't like I woke up every morning saying 'Oh wow, wouldn't it be nice to go to my own kid's funeral today?'. It wasn't like when I discovered I was pregnant I said 'Oh yes, I can't wait for this to die either.' Forgive me for being morbid, but that was exactly it. I have to say it as it is, don't I? No point pussy-footing around the man who had seen everything of me.

But then, a week later, I started getting my period. Was the piss-stick broken? I should sue Superdrugs for getting my hopes up. It was broken, wasn't it? Doesn't help that we were spending the week with Jaz's kids and I had to keep sneaking to the loo to just fucking weep and tell him, 'I think I'm broken, you know. How can we shag so much and not get pregnant? I think I'm broken.' And then he said, 'Maybe I'm broken.' and we spent hours arguing who is broken. No me, nooooo me. Naaaaah, me! I win! I'm broken.

Maybe I miscarried? I'm broken.

When we got back from spending time with the kids, we came back, he took one of Josh's puppy and said, 'This is ours, yeah?'

He got me a Stevie.

Maybe it's his way of saying, 'Okay, we're both broken. Let's try to not break this puppy, okay?'

Look at her face, my little demon. Look at my fucking fake lashes. Look at her face, my little Stevie. My little bipolar little shit who has gone through pairs of fucking sandals in the space of weeks. She smells gorgeous. She smells of that bottle of baby oil that she up-ended on herself when she head-butted the dresser repeatedly.

I'm teaching her commands in Parseltongue these days.

Ssssssstevieeeeeee, ssssssssit you little sssssssshit. 

Cartoon Characters From My Youth

Yay, Listrographs! Another one from Kate Takes 5.

I do sometimes watch the garbage that children watch today and miss my own childhood and the days where cartoons only come up during specific timeslots and not the whole day on one channel, or ten, for the children to watch the whole day and scream the whole day, whenever you attempt to switch the channel to something less annoying. Oh, the days without cable. The days without hundreds of channel listings for five-six people to argue about.

But well... Time has progressed eh. And whatever stupid clichés people can think of that make most unacceptable things somewhat acceptable.

1.  Arthur 

I loved Arthur. Do you know who this Arthur kid was? I loved the theme song to bits. Even today, at the age of 25, I still find myself humming this when I am hoovering or doing the dishes. I still don't know what exact animal him and his family are. Gerbils? Guinea Pigs? Hamsters? Rats? ... Non-shelled Armadillos? Fuck knows, but I still love him and his happy theme song. 

     2.  The Magic School Bus

It was because of Ms. Frizzle that all Science teachers around that time were deemed shit and uncool. Why bother attending classes when we can sit at home and watch all of our recorded Magic School Bus episodes on VHS? Why? 

   3. Jem

Ooooh, Jem! Oh, Bratz, you offspring of equally sad Barbies, you. You haven't got the ounce of attitude these girls had. 

    4. Thundercats

Ho boy... Was I frothing at the mouth when I found out a bunch of artists had come together to do a re-make of this cartoon early this year. 

   5. Care Bears

 So mindlessly cute and stupid, I couldn't resist in what I was hoping during the years I was mindlessly cute... And stupid. 

You can still hear the words 'Oy, fuck off. I AM Funshine! Go for Brave Heart or whatever. That one that wasn't even a bear!' come out of my mouth. 

We never grow up. Maybe we just don't want to. 

Why I'm thankful this Thanksgiving.

I am thankful that England does not do Thanksgiving. I am thankful for Google for explaining the reasons behind the holiday, because I am an ignorant Non-American like that.

Holidays and festivities in this day and age really have got little to nothing to do with religions and with each holiday that I spend with Jaz and his kids I am reminded of the fact that these kids couldn't care less about the significance of the days except for the promise of sweets and sneaky swigs of alcoholic drinks for the teenagers when the adults are pissed and have passed out on the living room settee. They don't care that Easter Sunday is the day to mark the Resurrection of Christ in the 4th Century when it was actually, originally a Pagan holiday to celebrate Ostara, named after the Teutonic Goddess of Spring and Fertility Eostra. The name Easter was derived from the Goddess Eostra and therefore the eggs were symbolic of the fertility that the Goddess brings. Really, I prefer this to that of the Christianity point of view. If we are going to with fiction, might as well go the whole bloody way.

Yes, the kids do not care about the origins of Easter and neither do they care about the Greek Mythology side of it. They just want to know where the hell in the garden Dad will be chucking the last bit of clue. They have got to find it quick before the Sun melts the chocolate, if it is possible for anything to melt when forced to face the wrath of The English Sun. From the price of the chocolate eggs at Morrison's, Tesco's, Budgen's, ASDA, no one seemed to give a shit about the real reason behind the holiday either. They just want to rob parents off their money and induce Type II Diabetes in children, just so that they can post self-righteous posters in the town centre about fat kids and WHY ARE YOU LETTING THIS HAPPEN TO YOUR KIDS, PARENTS?

The same can be said for bonfire night, or Guy Fawkes' night. Do the children know who this Guy Fawkes' person is? With Google at their fingertips they are too busy looking up the lyrics to Rihanna's songs, guitar tabs for Chop Suey, or Youtube tutorials on How To Stuff Your Bra With Socks. They don't know and when asked it is usually answered with 'It was something to do with the Parliament House, innit? Like, something to do with bangers and fireworks, innit?'. Or something to that extent. Innit? They just want to take 50 quid off their parents and go to Londis round the corner and buy 50 Pounds worth of bangers and fireworks that they will randomly let loose in their back garden weeks after bonfire night until you jump when you're trying to eat your dinner. Crisps, soft drinks, lollies, booze and that random unattended kid that looked suspiciously pissed in that corner there.

What about Halloween, then? We spend the whole of our children's lives telling them to not accept sweets from strangers and then on that one night, we doll them up in all sorts of vulgar outfits and tell them to go out on that cold, Autumn night, clad in nothing but a tutu, a corset and devil's horns, at the age of 10, to get some sweeties. What is Halloween, I asked one of Jaz's girls? 'It's because the Americans do it, innit?' They come home, up-end their baskets filled with Monster Heads and even money because some poor random old English woman opened her door and had to be reminded yet again, year after year since Halloween was brought to England, that she either had to give them sweets, or money so that they can buy sweets or they will set fire to a bag of dog shit outside her door. Because children these days are raised to believe that it is all right for them to demand such things off strangers. Never mind that the whole act itself could be a catalyst to something that ends in tears for the children. And if the kids get told off, the parents would come steaming in and exchange a few harsh words with that person that don't wish to have anything to do with them fucking kids outside on the streets, off their faces on a sugar rush and yanking each other's devil's tails off. I'm just going to sit here and wonder how on earth am I going to get the faux-spiderweb, cotton-wooly shit off the carpets when all is forgotten the day after.

Christmas? What about Baby Jesus? Oy, who gives a shit about Baby Jesus anymore now, innit? I want my fucking JLS concert ticket. Never mind that I have been behaving like a spoiled little shit for the whole of the year and I punch my siblings regularly but it's your duty to get me something for Christmas because you're my parent, innit? No, you're not my child so you can fuck right off. One whole bloody day and half getting Christmas dinner done and the table is set but all they want to do is steal their siblings' presents because theirs weren't as good. A few strands of hair ripped, new jumpers torn, a few uncalled for Fucks and a few swift hard slaps at the dinner table and the Christmas mood is all fucked. Is this our last supper yet? Then you'd look at the family dog, happily chewing on his Christmas bone while watching the Christmas special on the telly, you wonder... Why?

So, I am thankful that we don't do Thanksgiving here. Thankful that there is not more festivities-induced garbage on the telly. Thankful that we just have to deal with Christmas and then spend the next few months yelling at our kids when they want a bag of sweets at the shop because we are fucking skint and go fucking suck on your stupid iPod then, you thankless little shit. Thankful that we don't have to obligingly buy sweets for the kids for Thanksgiving just to 'Spruce it up for the kids' and then spend hours yelling at them to bloody go to bed already. Thankful that we won't have to deal with friends of our teenagers who magically turn up wherever food and booze run free and then spend the next morning screaming 'Who the fuck sicked up ON the washing line?'

We always spend the day after so fucking angry that we forgot the day before was meant to be something so fun and joyous. With that, I am thankful there is one less shit to face.

I am thankful that those aren't my kids that kick shit up. I am thankful.

Hot enough?

Okay, here comes my confession: Sometimes I put so much chilli and pepper into my own plate of food in order to either scare people from dipping their spoon or fork into it or so make them choke half to death as a punishment for cross-contamination. It is not as though I am botching up my own plate of food to the point where even I can't enjoy it. I love my heat. I love it. If my plate of food is not spicy, it makes me sad. It makes me wonder what is the point of eating at all. But that is just me and my tastebuds and maybe my upbringing. Us Malays, we LOVE our heat. In fact, when a kid starts to eat proper chilli-infested food, that is when said kid is considered a Grown Up. Then again, it might only be my family and their fucked up set of standards.

When I say Chilli, I mean Chilli. Not Thai Sweet Chilli Sauce which is so sweet it should be considered a dessert sauce.

I am not going to go into one of those food documentary-type blog now. All am saying is, it pisses me off so much when people poke their cutleries into my food and expect it to be alright. I don't care what your social status or upbringing is - That is just not on. I don't want to be One Of Those People who moans about it when people poke into my food but I am. Even if I don't actually audibly moan. I might look at my lap and pull a face or turn to look at Jaz, pretending to look into his eyes across lovingly but what I was trying to tell him telepathically was 'What a fucking CUNT'. He knows. He would look like he was checking out the ceilings but what he was doing was half-way rolling his eyes, telepathically replying to me 'I know right!'. But poking into my plate is never as bad as poking into Jaz's plate of food, seeing that he is a Vegetarian and you poking your Omnivorous Cutleries into his Herbivorous one was just really fucking bang out of bloody order. Don't look at me hoping I would understand when he pushes his plate aside and walks away from the dinner table altogether. I'm a wuss in the sense that I will tolerate it, try to not pull a face or audibly tut but I will spend a few good hours moaning about it when we're away from said offender. I just don't like it. It pushes me to the point where I would actually turn into a child and cry. It's MY food and no one dips into MY plate. Unless of course, I was being very generous and I want to share my food, and this only happens amongst good friends or a person I have actually exchanged bodily fluids with.

I don't know... Is it upbringing? If I were to poke my finger into my mom's plate, seeing that we eat with our hands and not really cutleries unless it's a bowl of soup, I would get instantly slapped with the other hand that was not used for eating. I would get bawled at, be called a pig, have her finger point accusingly at my own plate of food and be questioned if I was in any way underfed until I have to touch her food, in the space of 5 seconds. Maybe I should start doing that at dinner parties. Had my younger brother touched my plate or stolen a piece of broccoli off my plate, there would be a punch-up and an ambulance would have been called. Was it manners my parents tried to teach us? We got slapped for chewing with our mouths open to the point where the face was so sore you ended up eating the rest of your face like a Mongoloid because your facial muscles would not function after said slap. My brother got kicked at a McDonald's when he was 4 for crying, because Mom did not get him the Happy Meal that he wanted, and I swear, he ended up under the table that was three tables next to us. I was shitting myself too much to even laugh but I was in awe of the superpower that was Mom. Yes, you can say she's one vicious, hard fucker, my Mom, but she knew what she was doing. She was raising two kids that possibly had the best table manners.

Last week, I was out at a social gathering and I had a bottle of Crabbie's Alcoholic Ginger Beer with me. Crabbie's can I be your spokesperson, because that was the lushest thing ever? So yes, I was out with my Crabbie's and a friend of mine asked me what it was. So I said, 'Crabbie's Alcoholic Ginger Beer' and she pointed to it and asked 'Oh, I've never had that.' and at that point, in my head I was thinking 'Well, yes that is fucking sad for you, you pathetic mortal.' and then she continued staring. I knew by then that I have to pass some to her and try to not gag at the thought that we will exchanging spit. I passed it to her, she took a swig. And fucking spat back into the bottle. SPAT. And said...

"Oh, it's Ginger-y. I don't like Ginger."


Really? Taking the fucking piss? I just said, "Oh haha. Sorry I failed to mention that it IS ginger. Looking that it IS ginger beer and all. But hey, nice top you've got there." And by that point I have pictured, in my mind, bashing my bottle of Crabbie's at the neck, and ramming the sharp broken bits into her jugular. Don't fuck with me when I'm riding on a Crabbie's buzz, woman.

Then I went to the bin, aimed and chucked my bottle with an unnecessary force until it clangs. Because I am such a petulant child like that. Some shit flew out of the bin and stuck to me but it was all right, I had made my point. I was not happy. MY CRABBIE'S.

Top 5 Keyword Searches On My Blog

I got this off Kates Takes 5 and though her top five keywords were a little cute and somewhat acceptable, mine have taken a turn into the Pornographic Avenue. I am amused. That should teach me to have such a grotesque blog title. No wonder I am not getting much traffic. Porn connoisseurs do not read. Much. I think.

1. I Botoxed My Vagina
    Seriously.

2. Vagina Pee Far
    Oh wow.

3. Quiet Girl That Is Bulimic


4. Vagina Photo


5. Woman Fuck Horse
    Surely, that is just... Wrong.

I chucked all of those words into Google and it came up with 'Megan Fox Plastic Surgery'.

This couldn't have made my day better.

I just choked on my freshly made coffee, too. Black coffee on white duvet. Just... Wow. It made Jaz happy, too. He Laughed Out Loud. I guess that was him trying to tell me, subliminally, That will teach you to think that most people who stumbles upon your blog are your intellect equivalent. 

Bloody parting shots.

Petty. Sad. Pitiful. Group dynamics. You have got to love group dynamics. Am I such a horrible human being? A valuable waste of space? I must be to some. Self-victimization. I do partake. It's called me having a moan. Oh poor me. Life is so shit for me. Me me me me me me.

How, HOW, have I changed so drastically this year until friends of mine refuse to be friends of mine? I wonder. I do wonder. How have I changed into something I have always laughed at? Maybe I've always been laughing at sad people. I suppose that makes me just as sad, rejoicing in the misery of others. Have I laughed at people who used to advertise their blog and sell their souls every so often? Because that is the only thing I can think of that is out of the ordinary for me. Maybe I have. I have behaved and reacted in peculiar ways. People are disgusting, I know. I am a person and I am just as disgusting. Sometimes I replayed the scenario in my head and cried. Sometimes, I laughed so hard until it hurts. Dickheads, the pair of them and their entire bloody army.

Why is it at 25 I feel like I am back in bloody Secondary School? Maybe it is because I have some of my schoolmates in my Facebook and not surprisingly, they still do behave like they did in their teenage years. Why do I even have some of them on my Facebook anyway? To get reacquainted and then it will dawn on me, again, why we were never mates in school anyway? How have I changed to them since my teenage years, I wonder. My friend, Timmeh, said something months back and it did hit home, with me at least. He said, 'If we all spent time talking to each other we wouldn't be worrying.' or something along those lines. A lot of people on FB was a bit miffed with the new FB feed thing, saying how we were getting spammed with random rubbish. It was true what he said though and it did fill me with a little bit of shame, actually. Why do we have all these people on FB, if we get so miffed by their mere status updates, their comments, their picture posts. Why would we rather have a very quiet FB profile and shut ourselves away from these people that we, ourselves, have added willingly, or maybe out of obligation? Why even have Facebook? Why not not have it and be one of the few arrogant people that say 'Oh, I don't do all that Facebook, Twitter shit'. Why have a social networking site if you don't wish to social network?

If I were so see someone I don't like, I'd just turn a corner and pretend I don't see them so that we don't have to interact. I would rather do that then stand there, tapping my foot and wishing someone would have a cardiac arrest across the street to act as a distraction as I run away.

Why do some people like to get into an argument and then end it with 'I used to know you so well'? Was it my fault that you stopped knowing me so well? Was it my fault that you did not see this argument taking place, considering that you had known me so well, and anticipated my response to be like that? Have I let you down by not reacting the way you had wished me to? Have I somehow disappointed you by behaving like a human, erratic and unreasonable as it is, and not that droid that you had thought I was in all those years of friendship? Have I ended up pissing on your Sub-Human Droid manual? Was I not allowed to react? Was your way the only rational way for me to behave? What. If you had known me so well, why were we even arguing? Did you purposely say the things that you said just to wind me up? Were you having a laugh? Had I behaved the way you had wanted me to behave, would your parting shot have been 'You used to be so disobedient'? Were we arguing just for the hell of it? I have lived in my body for 25 years and I don't even know when is my next period. I don't even know what my anus really looked like. I don't even know myself. I don't even know that some telly advert would set me off for days. I don't even know myself. My parents had not known I would be fucking off without turning back. Who are you to say that you used to know me so well? Was your supposed knowledge of my person based on my iPod playlist? I listen to Metallica so you know what sort of an angry teenager I was? I listen to Adele so you understand that I am actually quite sentimental. My high-score on Brick-Breaker was Level 29 so you know that I actually whip my iPod out to avoid conversation. What? What is with these people who think they can dig deep with such parting shots. Well, obviously they have, because if not I would not be so wound up. I would have felt better had the parting shot be 'Your left breast is saggier than your right'.

Well, then, considering the situation, I will say that you had not known me all that well, I suppose? Because if you had, whatever I said would not have horrified you as much.

Light a candle for Baby Isla.

I haven't been following much Anderson's Blog but I have been following Motherhood Truth for a bit now and what I have read from her latest post is extremely soul-destroying. I supposed after Baby Charlie, I have been running a bit wild on the internet, seeking and reading blogs of mother and parents of a child that was miscarried or born a stillborn. I don't find joy from reading such posts. Neither do I feel relief that we weren't the only people forced to face with such things. I don't know why I even seek out such blogs. It is not as though I am able to reach out and console the parents. What can ever be said? Having gone through such an ordeal, it doesn't not give me a better position to dish out condolences. We are still dealing with the loss. Jaz is too afraid to try again. Too afraid to attend another funeral. I guess on his part, he has given up a little bit. I have no idea where that puts me. I suppose now I have to contend with cuddling puppies and kittens and cry in my own little corner when the need gets too bad.

Baby Isla was born 14 weeks premature and she passed away at 7 weeks. In honour of her passing, the parents will be releasing balloons for her and are encouraging others to join in as well. I would love to be at the funeral of their Baby Isla. I would love to be there to show support and give a hug to the parents that I don't really know but would show my support for them anyway. I couldn't. So, instead, I will use my space here for them and Baby Isla and spread the word. Jump on their page and give them words of condolences, spread the message via your own blog, whatever. Just help them make the goodbye for their little girl a memorable one.

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.

ZEN THIS.

I can never be a Buddhist. I am too angry, too potty-mouthed, too overpowering a twat to ever be a calm, nirvana-esque type of person. The closest I have come to Nirvana would be a hot cup of coffee in the morning accompanied with a fag and a morning-breath-laced kiss from Jaz.

Jaz tells me that it is not our sole responsibility on this earth to educate everyone and each person must learn from themselves their own mistakes and become a better person out of every bloody mistake they have made. He also tells me that all we can do is hope the person finds the right way. Can you see why this sometimes drives me to bawl and yell at him? I always tell him that the person becomes my concern and it is my responsibility to educate him on his wrong-doings when the person comes into my life, disrespects my belongings and fuck up MY feng shui. It is my duty to cuss him and his upbringing out. However bad it reflects upon my remaining character, I always begin my rants on the object of aggression with Does Your Parents Not Teach You? and that is usually replied with Why Are You Involving My Parents and almost always ends in tears. For starters, when your parents raised you they should have inserted the You Shouldn't Use Your Housemates' Soap Dish As An Ashtray speech.

How can someone be so rich, be raised with a golden spoon wedged in their rectum live like Heroin Junkies? How? How is it that someone with minimal luxuries have a better personal hygiene than someone who gets their haircut for £25? I'm sorry, Jaz. Excuse your Un-Zen-Like fiancée as she tips the offending brown liquid from the soap-dish into the offender's bottle of shampoo, fag butts and all. Even that is not good enough. Let me just rip the remaining butt to pieces and chuck the tobacco in the bottle as well and give it a good shake. I'm sorry. No one fucks with my bar of Imperial Leather soap. And why is my razor that I use to shave my armpits clumped with scraggly, long hairs? Did someone's herpes from someone's nether regions somehow reached my underarm? Let me just tip that in the bottle of Radox Relaxing Bubble Bath.

WHY WAS MY TABASCO SAUCE USED TO DROWN A WASP?

I got Jaz well on my side then because Animals Shouldn't Be Hurt. Especially not with Tabasco Sauce, noooo. Is it not enough that you demoralize my toilettries that you have morally-outrage my prized spices and condiments as well? Where do we draw the line? Where and when am I allowed to Un-Pseudo-Zen and let it rip? When will I be allowed to say 'No fuck you and other around you. Fuck you and supposedly posh life, posh relatives, dead or alive, once or twice removed. Fuck you and the dodgy-looking, made in China pedestal that you believed were imported from Rome. Fuck you and your disposable cash. Fuck you and that apparently expensive toilet seat that you have managed to sick up all over, you BULIMIC FUCK. Fuck you and your private school education that have failed to educate you in your posh home economics class that YOU DO NOT MIX A RAG THAT WAS CRUSTED WITH DOG SHIT WITH OTHER CLOTHES THAT NEED WASHING. Fuck you and your fucking plates that was bought from Achica.com (members only luxury homeware) that was crusted with spit and phlegm and oh fuck I'm going to hurl I will just chuck this in the bin.'

Ooh shit. I need to meditate now. And some hot chocolate will do me some good as well.

P.S I love comments. I'm not rude when I don't comment back but Blogger is a bastard wanker these days who won't let me reply back for reasons beyond me. 

Really, Facebook?

This advert keeps popping up on the right side of my Faceshet page and every time I see it I think, 'Really?'. Women love this game? Why? Because it taps into our maternal side and all we really want to do is rear dragons? I do know that most of the ads that pop up on the side came from a research that they did on all our profile pages to specifically target at us. Like myself, for example. I am stated as 'Engaged' on my profile and I get loads of ads on the side about wedding photographies, honeymoon holidays, craploads of cupcakes that look so good I will cry if anyone really eats that at my wedding, wedding dresses and so on and so forth. I also get a lot of ads about junk food, processed drinks, more cakes unrelated to weddings and... Weight-slimming ads. What are you trying to tell me, FB? Apart from the fact that you a tad condescending. Why do I feel like each and every site that I have registered on are in cahoots with FB? They communicate with each other, Superdrug and FB and the moment I log in to Superdrugs to look at latest deals, FB is spamming the right side of my wall with deals for Aussie conditioners in Superdrugs. It is almost as though I might log off Superdrugs, not be as tempted with the deals there and then see the ads on my FB and finally get tempted and decide that if I don't buy Aussie Conditioners I might actually self-detonate. Why am I getting ads from Clearblue after I randomly bookmarked 'Predict Your Baby's Sex' on my Chrome?

I posted a video from Youtube about an Australian evangelist and the next thing I know, I have church site adverts. I'm more intrigued about the church paying FB some £200 to advertise god, really.

iPhone 4S is out apparently. I have no idea. I saw some post about it being made by a friend and he went a bit excited and mental for a bit there. I imagined he must have frothed at the mouth as well. I am not a big Apple person. I even resented the iPod that I had. It was alright, it played music like I wanted it to, it looked nice enough but I would rather another brand that is not as soul-destroying when it comes to installing music or taking it off the iPod to transfer onto the PC for back-up purposes or when my iTunes shat and died on me. I just wish that Apple had gone with the Roman Numerical approach to the iPhone. In 3 years time, we are all going to see some stupid number next to the phone that may have some funky-sounding techno-gadgety word next to it. Like iPhone 19 Ultramax, that would really some like some sanitary pad, if you ask me. Had they gone for the Roman Numerical approach, they would be on to iPhone V now and that would sound so much better. iPhone V, VI, VII, VIII, IX. Wewt. See how prettier that looked instantly? As opposed to iPhone 5, 6, 7, 8, 9? iPhone 4S, huh? Like... An abbreviation for iPhone 4Shizzle or something?

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.

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.