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.

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!

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.

Whose child is that?

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

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

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

Fucking hell.

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




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

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...