Beanie hats and broken hearts.

Due to the events of my day I've came to two conclusions;

1. I am a living, breathing ball of awkwardness.

2. I wear too many hats.

I think there's a link between the two things -  I'm just not critical or motivated enough to find it. Some may say the continuous wearing of hats indoor is indicative of the hipster culture. I say I have shit hair that isn't safe for human eyes. Think of it as Hairoshima.

My day started once again with the age old debate of "Bed vs Education". As do most days. Do I get up, drag myself down to the bus - or resume my position as the filling to my duvet burrito.

But I then came to the conclusion that when I'm a pencil-skirted power wanker at the top of the corporate ladder I'll be able to have a kingsize in my office. Hell, my office will be a bed. People won't know whether they're going for a board meeting or dandering around Ikea. Here's the annual report, and have a free mini pencil while you're at it.

So eventually, after tapping my snooze button more than Kanye at an arse covention. I managed to drag myself out of bed and salvage some sort of attire from my floodrobe.

I want to shake the person's hand who came up with the concept of leggings. All the practicality of trousers with a waistband that hides more sins than the catholic church. It means I get to have my cake and eat it. Then eat it again. And again.

So legging clad with a hat to hide my greasy locks I ventured to the bus stop, only to be met by minus temperatures that would promptly turn testicles into chestnuts. That's one game of conkers that you'd never forget. Due to the Arctic conditions, my right eye had kindly decided to produce an endless stream of tears. This prompted an elderly lady at the bus stop to but down her Lidl bags, sympathetically pat my on shoulder while saying, "Don't worry love, he's probably not even worth it".

It's reassuring to know I give off that, 'The only men I can trust are Ben and Jerry' type of vibe to strangers. I did have a bar of galaxy in my hand at the time, but that's completely besides the point. Happy, taken women eat chocolate at bus stops too, right?

Right?!

Thanks for reading and  you stay classy now Belfast. xo

The closest I'll ever get to cosmopolitan is a cocktail menu.

I've just realised that I've managed to spend an entire months wages in just over 48 hours. My debit card probably thinks it's a gigolo now, having been excessively fondled in the name of pretty goods.
  
I may be eating rotten value beans for the next month but hell, at least I'll be doing head to toe in overpriced attire! They say life's a catwalk after all. And I'm the straggly, stay fucker that not even the crazy old cat-lady wants.

Maow.

Also nothing quite justifies a hard days work like a pair of disgustingly expensive shoes that you'll stagger home in, step in dog shite and never wear again. But hey, all work and no shoes makes Julie a fucking grumpy bastard.

I never claimed to be a poet.

But enough shoe talk, I realise that not everyone shares my enthusiasm/obsession for attempting to make feet look pretty. Because let's admit it, they are fugly. FUGLAYY. Not even an IV drip full of the melty chocolate from the inside of those wee red Lindor sweets would make me rub a person's feet. And I mean that chocolate is the epitome of food porn. My digestive juices are flowing as we speak.

That's another great mystery that haunts me. Not religion. Nor philosophy. How in the name of all that is chocolatey DO they get it melty in the middle? You can already clearly see that my higher education is £3,450 well spent a year.

As I'm currently sat in quite a trendy bar off Oxford Street sipping a double gin&tonic (I only do things in double measures, drinks, dancing, D's). I ponder whether I'm ever destined for a life like this. Or if it'll be a more menial nine to five desk job where the highlight of my week comes in the form of an M&S meal deal.

But my god, do they do a good ham bap.

I've also noticed that unlike in Belfast, here I seem to be somewhat exotic. Who knew that a ginger 'fro and the look of severe anaemia could be alluring. All I need is a guitar, some quirky lyrics and Ed Sheeran will be shitting his begs.

I discovered I was of more interest in the big city when a charming young Caribbean gentleman remarked,

"Helllll ye got some big ass bootay fer being such a white gurrrl."

Clearly all those two for Tuesday's, three for Thursday's and five for Friday's are paying off. Thank you Sir stuffed crust. I may never fit into a pair of hotpants, but hell, I am the proud parent to a litter of food babies! They grow up so fast these days.

Over and out, y'all! X