So once again months of fret, fury and fierce women in Primark; that magical time of year is upon us. But you don't really need a calender to know that, all you have to do is check your Facebook for a stream of festive bullshit about turkey and Toy Story.
I know this because I'm one of the main contributors to it. VALIDATE ME VIA THE MEDIUM OF LIKES.
I also know it's Christmas because my mother dear has cracked open the annual bottle of Malibu. Only to finish her second glass with a chorus of, "Do you think I have a fat arse William, DO YOU?".
I've now learnt that the response, "Sure it gives something to hold onto, bit of jelly on the plate" was not the desired response.
Especially when it was from me. Whooopsies.
I've also gotten to that stage of the day where I'm so far gone into the festive food carnage that even the Bounty celebrations are starting to taste good. I can actually hear the ripples of my layers of fat as I turn round in bed to plunge my hand into the tub. If a Zombie apocalypse does however happen I'm at a major vantage point, fuck you all and your thigh gaps - I give you a week.
The big C also marks the annual amalgamation of those relatives your bonded to purely because someone in your immediate family is bucking someone in theirs. And those never ending fucking probing questions. I'm pretty sure there are STI tests out there that are less invasive.
"Yes, uni is fine. No, I don't have a boyfriend. Yes, I probably have put on weight since last year".
Somehow I feel the last two are connected...
Alas, the festivities are over for another year and it once again becomes socially unacceptable to have half a litre of Bailies before noon. But when was I ever someone to societal norms stand in my way, "yes I am eating chicken in a library and I'm bloody well enjoying it".
With this I prepare to enter into the festive food coma of no return and wish you the warmest of Christmases. And most likely a fairly repetitive new year. Over and out! xo
Wednesday, 25 December 2013
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Titty tales and Kitchen fails.
Once again I'm furiously typing from the confines of a corporate empire posing as a coffee shop under the guise of duck egg blue paint and staff that are far too friendly given the miserable cunts they're pumping caffeine into. I think if I worked in a coffee shop I'd occasionally swap to decaf just to fuck shit up. Having a bad day at work? It's gonna be even worse now you just dished out £3.20 for a lukewarm liar. Ho ho ho.
I'm also feeling oddly liberated due to the fact I've decided to boycott my bra for the day under the safety of my christmas kitty jumper. However I currently feel like a trampoline. I pray to jebus I won't have to run at any point this evening, I don't think I'm quite ready to experience self inflicted whiplash. Though god knows it's a titting time bomb.
Alas, I've digressed on the subject of chesticles. I do however feel like I've gained an insight into the mind of a fifteen year old boy, all I need to do now is wear copious amounts of Lynxx Africa to mask the smell of awkward masturbation and I've basically nailed it.
Which they unfortunately won't be doing for another good few years. You're keeping the good people of Kleenex emplyed lads, let's wank away the recession!
The impossible has also happened, I've fallen even more in love with the sultry siren of the kitchen. Nigella Lawson, master of the muffins and lady of the lines (allegedly). I personally think it's given her a bit of an edge, or rather taken it off in her experience. I really do hope this marks the start of a narcotics nosh revolution. Jamie will show you how to make the most of your joint, Gordon will give you tips to inject flavour to your food and speed to your soul.
Come Dine With Me just took on a whole other dimension.
I on the other hand, am so socially shit that the closest I've ever really got to drugs is having one Beechams too many in the face of the winter sniffles. Someone call for an intervention quickly - I'm too sad to exist. But hey, who needs drugs when you can flash your vagina to your housemate while wearing a green wig solely with the help from good old Mr Gin. You can keep your crack!
And I can probably expose mine sometime within the near future.
I once again thank you for persevering with my nugget of narcassism and narcotics, stay beautiful you bastards. xo
I'm also feeling oddly liberated due to the fact I've decided to boycott my bra for the day under the safety of my christmas kitty jumper. However I currently feel like a trampoline. I pray to jebus I won't have to run at any point this evening, I don't think I'm quite ready to experience self inflicted whiplash. Though god knows it's a titting time bomb.
Alas, I've digressed on the subject of chesticles. I do however feel like I've gained an insight into the mind of a fifteen year old boy, all I need to do now is wear copious amounts of Lynxx Africa to mask the smell of awkward masturbation and I've basically nailed it.
Which they unfortunately won't be doing for another good few years. You're keeping the good people of Kleenex emplyed lads, let's wank away the recession!
The impossible has also happened, I've fallen even more in love with the sultry siren of the kitchen. Nigella Lawson, master of the muffins and lady of the lines (allegedly). I personally think it's given her a bit of an edge, or rather taken it off in her experience. I really do hope this marks the start of a narcotics nosh revolution. Jamie will show you how to make the most of your joint, Gordon will give you tips to inject flavour to your food and speed to your soul.
Come Dine With Me just took on a whole other dimension.
I on the other hand, am so socially shit that the closest I've ever really got to drugs is having one Beechams too many in the face of the winter sniffles. Someone call for an intervention quickly - I'm too sad to exist. But hey, who needs drugs when you can flash your vagina to your housemate while wearing a green wig solely with the help from good old Mr Gin. You can keep your crack!
And I can probably expose mine sometime within the near future.
I once again thank you for persevering with my nugget of narcassism and narcotics, stay beautiful you bastards. xo
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
Teen tears and Twitter fears.
Watching a documentary on bat shit crazy One Direction fans in a marketing seminar today has really put my teen years into perspective. My experience wasn't so much throwing tear stained training bras at Harry Styles, more seeing how many Kinder Bueno bars I could consume during an episode of the Fresh Prince.
Four and a half, if you're wondering.
I guess I've just never really understood the concept of intense fandom. If Brad Pitt didn't want Jennifer Aniston in all her blonde, braless glory; then he sure as hell won't want me and my unrelenting morning breath. Or as I like to call it, "L'eau de DON'T FUCKING BREATH ON ME".
Available in all good retailers now.
But I guess the intense fandom come obsession is only propelled by the cyber schlag that is social media. I know I've fallen victim to it's cruel ways before - "I wonder if I like enough of his posts will he like me?". I found this was highly effective! If ensuring you are promptly defriended... But hey, whatever. His abs weren't even that good in this years holiday snaps. I much preferred last years. It also appears heavy breathing isn't welcomed in a lecture... squares.
Maybe the problem is that I just wasn't cool enough as a teen to even fit into the subculture of band fans. My fingerless gloves not quite homeless enough, fringe not quite sided enough to merge into the MCR fan minority. When I was a young girl, my father took me into the city and told me to stop wearing so much bloody eyeliner.
You'd think given five or six years these waves of social leprosy that I give off would start to subdue. Well you'd be wrong. They're just better packaged these days. You can't polish a turd, but you can sure as hell lacquer the fuck out of it.
The reason I know I haven't advanced? I'm currently sitting in the depths of the library seductively sipping a flask of parsnip soup. Now, now boys - form a queue. But hey, who doesn't love a good glug of soup on a chilly December Tuesday? Every fucking person in Belfast that's currently queuing outside Boojum it appears. As much as I love burritos, I refuse to queue for something that prohibits eye contact while being consumed. You know what I'm talking about.
I once again have to thank you for giving up your time to take a look through the window into my sham of a student experience. Monday night means getting mashed at the student union - not getting mellow on cheddar and chutney. But my god do M&S do an outstanding Caramelised Onion relish. Until next time, my lovely lads and ladys. xo
Four and a half, if you're wondering.
I guess I've just never really understood the concept of intense fandom. If Brad Pitt didn't want Jennifer Aniston in all her blonde, braless glory; then he sure as hell won't want me and my unrelenting morning breath. Or as I like to call it, "L'eau de DON'T FUCKING BREATH ON ME".
Available in all good retailers now.
But I guess the intense fandom come obsession is only propelled by the cyber schlag that is social media. I know I've fallen victim to it's cruel ways before - "I wonder if I like enough of his posts will he like me?". I found this was highly effective! If ensuring you are promptly defriended... But hey, whatever. His abs weren't even that good in this years holiday snaps. I much preferred last years. It also appears heavy breathing isn't welcomed in a lecture... squares.
Maybe the problem is that I just wasn't cool enough as a teen to even fit into the subculture of band fans. My fingerless gloves not quite homeless enough, fringe not quite sided enough to merge into the MCR fan minority. When I was a young girl, my father took me into the city and told me to stop wearing so much bloody eyeliner.
You'd think given five or six years these waves of social leprosy that I give off would start to subdue. Well you'd be wrong. They're just better packaged these days. You can't polish a turd, but you can sure as hell lacquer the fuck out of it.
The reason I know I haven't advanced? I'm currently sitting in the depths of the library seductively sipping a flask of parsnip soup. Now, now boys - form a queue. But hey, who doesn't love a good glug of soup on a chilly December Tuesday? Every fucking person in Belfast that's currently queuing outside Boojum it appears. As much as I love burritos, I refuse to queue for something that prohibits eye contact while being consumed. You know what I'm talking about.
I once again have to thank you for giving up your time to take a look through the window into my sham of a student experience. Monday night means getting mashed at the student union - not getting mellow on cheddar and chutney. But my god do M&S do an outstanding Caramelised Onion relish. Until next time, my lovely lads and ladys. xo
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