Friday, 23 December 2011

Emo trees just need to be understood, the Woodland Trust want you to nuke Bambi, and other crap that wasn't supposed to be here.

I witnessed an incredible display of bullying today. As I was looking at the reduced section of Wilkinsons today, I saw a lone, black Christmas tree in a tattered box. Whilst behind me, another tree taunted "I'm the happiest Christmas tree" at the top of its...branches. The poor goth tree just lay there and accepted the abuse. It obviously hadn't read my rant about everyone deserving respect last night. In case any abused trees are reading now, trees deserve respect too.

The shop, which sells possessed Santas that sing with several voices at once, (and what's worse, they sing this stalkerish song about walking 1000 miles to turn up on your doorstep. I've never even told him where I live. As if Santa wasn't scary enough watching you when you're getting up to naughty things. I'm generally naked for that stuff.) also had red trees complete with red plastic legs and black tinsel for the festive emo. I believe this counts as tree abuse. Many speak of the cruelty of dressing their children and pets up in ways that could get them bullied, but children and pets (mostly) all have movable limbs and the ability to bite, and therefore the ability to defend themselves. Not all Christmas trees have inherited the Ent's ability to move and speak. And from what I witnessed today, those that have have not only evolved to be able to speak faster (potentially because their plastic offspring live much shorter lives and therefore do not have as much time to say things that are worth saying. We humans are such selfish beings that we're all aware of the benefits of technology in lengthening and enhancing our lifespans, but no one speaks of the damage we've done to trees, with some only seeing one Christmas before being chewed to death by a pet or child drunk on power.) but have also begun to use this ability to humiliate those of their kin who have 'gone tree'. Or perhaps they just evolved from Ents who had already gone tree. Where do trees come from? Do Ents that go tree produce trees or Ents through their seeds? Can Ents only come from Ents that haven't gone tree yet? Do Ents sometimes produce trees like witches and wizards produce squibs? Have any Ents ever caught fire when procreating? Is that how forest fires start? Are Australian and certain American forests hornier than forests in other countries or are they into some sort of deviant Ent sex in those areas that are more risky than traditional Ent sex?

Returning from my thought-train's detour - I don't know how it keeps managing to go off places where there aren't any tracks. National rail could probably learn a lot from my head. But considering my timekeeping abilities it would make trains even less reliable than they already are. And, let's face it, even though my thought-train's capable of going all over the bloody place without any tracks, it never goes where I want it to and never takes the most direct route. Brilliant for problem-solving and producing essays with unique points, the worst thing in the world for turning up where you're supposed to be, when you're supposed to be, and looking normal in the process.

Returning from my thought-train's detour on my thought-train: If you think dressing a dog/cat/small person up like a twonk is cruelty, just think about your poor Christmas tree. It has no voice to tell you what the other trees will be wearing, or to defend itself when the Ent's love children are mean to it. Look after your tree. Don't be selfish. Santa's watching how you treat the less fortunate who can't look after themselves. If you're around them whilst naked. I don't think he cares what you do when you're dressed to be honest. He comes across as a bit of a pervert. There's a bit of family lore that says that when I was a toddler, I took my inflatable Santa, who was slightly less inflated than he should be, over to my father, and, in front of my grandparents, aunts and uncles, demanded my father give him a blow job. I bet he liked that the sick nonce.

Do you know what? I have no idea where I was going with this whole abused Christmas trees with low self-confidence that have taken to dressing in black and cutting themselves thing now. So I'm going to give up on that and move on to my disgust at the Woodland Trust, who are encouraging people to nuke small woodland creatures. And cute little deer. Or a very deformed squirrel. I wasn't sure to be honest.

Back in the day, serial killers started out by burning ants and torturing puppies. These days, kids who would have otherwise turned out to be completely normal, are being set on the path to animal cruelty, serial killing, and eventually the torture of poor plastic Ents, by being bought microwaveable owls and other woodland creatures by sadistic adults who have gotten stuck in the cycle of abuse themselves. And this is all being endorsed by the Woodland Trust who have their own range of ready-abused animals for you to nuke at home. And now I'm wondering if modern Ents became so cruel because of the years of festive abuse, followed by months of neglect, that they experienced in their childhoods. An Ent is for life, people, not just for Christmas. And somehow my thought-train has managed to make the Woodland Trust's sick plan relevant to the subject of Goth trees.

And now the WT's plan makes sense. More serial killers = more people visiting forests to dump bodies = more search parties looking for said bodies = no need to advertise to tourists any more. I wonder if serial killers and search parties are more respectful of forests and careful with their litter than tourists. Serial killers obviously would be as they don't want to leave any evidence, so they'd be the most considerate visitors at all. If there were enough serial killers around then half of all search parties would probably be made up of serial killers trying to keep everyone away from their own dump sites. And could you imagine if they got caught because of evidence left behind when they were volunteering as part of a search party? They would of course use their fantastic skills at hiding any signs that they'd been in the forest in their everyday lives. Just in case they accidentally killed someone when they weren't intending to. So the Woodland Trust gets increased visitor numbers to prove their significance in modern society, and probably bring in more income from the gift shops, cafes and car parks, and doesn't have to do any extra clean up or conservation work when these visitors leave. And if there are less people around because they've all been buried under their forests, then there'll be less competition for space so they won't have to worry about trees needing to be cut down. Actually, that was probably the most important bit. Human population control, with a few woodland creatures as collateral damage. They're a sneaky bunch of gits at the Woodland Trust.

Thursday, 22 December 2011

The world isn't allowed to end until I get to have geriatric sex and feel someone up half my age without abusing a child.

So if the world is to end on the 21st of December 2012 (taking apocalypse to signify the more popular four horsemen interpretation rather than a major change as it is apparently supposed to mean), then we all have less than 12 months to live. I pointed this out to a friend the other day and got told off for being 'morbid'. I'm just really glad I never decided to discuss the finer points of the ethics of necrophilia with him. Although it may have been an idea to raise this with him at some point. He's the ex-boyfriend of a friend that I no longer associate with since I witnessed her doing something illegal (whilst doing many more immoral things), and now I am having to be a witness for the crown when she's taken to court (despite not being a fan of the Queen beyond her contribution to the economy via tourism). He has also confessed to having downloaded pictures of (a fully-clothed) me from Facebook to wank over. Recently he told me that he's been planning on asking me out if he ever sees me when I'm sober/not getting over a break-up, but I told him that was weird. Especially since his ex used to share details of their bedroom antics with me. However if he was open to discussing necrophilia in bed, perhaps I could have just accepted that my life is weird and I should just get over it.

As a 20-something student, everything I do is aimed at setting myself up for the future. Just like a German student I was speaking to on the train yesterday, my time is spent working on my Masters, doing my volunteering work, arranging work placements, and working to make sure I can eat, train and socialise in the more immediate future. So essentially if the Mayans did have the biggest crystal ball in the world, I may get to enjoy the fruits of my labour for 2 months, assuming that the PhD funding plan falls through and someone gives me a dream job as soon as I finish my dissertation.

But I really enjoy my Masters course, and all of my voluntary work, otherwise I wouldn't be doing it. So even if I do die at the end of it it's completely worth it. However, today I realised that I was out on my grandmother's age by a few years and she's already passed the 75 mark, and considering the conversations I've been having about my grandmother and in which ways I would like to take after her in my old age over the past few weeks, it seems appropriate to write about those here in case I do live to see if I turn out like her in the ways that I'd like to (and get to bypass the bits that I don't want).

When I was growing up, my grandmother was always the horny old lady that flirts with any guy over the age of 18 and more than 10 years younger than whatever she was at the time. She was still saying 'If I were 20 years younger' after she hit 60 and would need to take about double that off. One time she took us swimming and broke her goggles. I saw her holding them and put them back together for her, and after I handed them back to her, she pulled them apart again and called the lifeguard over to help her. She'd pulled her goggles apart to use them as a Barney-Stinson-style prop in creating a flirting opportunity. This is how my grandmother has always been. She's never slept with anyone other than my grandfather, but she has really enjoyed herself since she reached the age that it's socially acceptable for her to openly appreciate the looks of men less than half her age. Whilst still having a fairly full sex life with my grandfather, which I was unfortunate enough to witness once.

That's how I want to be if I ever get to be old old, I want to still have my libido fully intact and be rutting with my husband like a teenager. Although when she found out that my grandfather had been cheating on her for over a decade with someone younger than both my father and my aunt, she divorced him, sued him for everything she could get, and essentially threw the biggest woman-scorned hissy fit possible without involving pickled penises in jars. All in her late 60s. Unfortunately many of my family took my grandfather's side, but although I loved my grandfather (and still do since his death. Despite also witnessing him enjoying the company of his mistress following the divorce. The man just didn't understand the concept of locks or using rooms that your grandkids don't walk into on a regular basis in the first place.) I greatly admire my grandmother for having the guts to do that despite the fact that everyone told her that it was a waste of money considering her age. She had enough self-respect to stand up for herself and not take the injustice as 'something that happens'. Men don't have the right to treat women like that, no matter what generation they are from, or how old they are. Being past the age of reproduction doesn't mean that you have no reason to get out of a relationship with someone who has less than 100% respect for you as a person.

My father has never been faithful to any woman. He's told me this himself, with the exception that he claimed to have been faithful to my mother. However since then I've met two women who had affairs with him since I was born and before my mother died. (One of those later became my grandfather's mistress. The bad thing is after she told me my immediate thought was 'that was an upgrade, my grandfather's penis is much bigger than my father's'. None of the men in my family seem to understand the concept of having sex/wanking in non-communal rooms when you have kids in the house.) My father also dated some of the strongest, most intelligent, most confident women I've ever met, and turned them into self-conscious shells of their former selves. He spoke to them the same way he spoke to me. Calling me thick (despite an IQ of 164 and the fact that I've been helping him do his paperwork since his divorce from my ex-stepmother when I was 12), fat, and unattractive. As I am a klutz that's prone to injuries, and have a chest illness that flares up from time to time, my weight yo-yos frequently depending on how much exercise I'm getting at the time. In my teens if I put on a bit of weight to be a size 12-14 (US 8-10) then I was too fat. If I lost a little to be a 10-12 (6-8 US), then he'd threaten to force-feed me faggots if I became anorexic, but still tell me that I needed to tone up. I constantly had to 'get my fat arse out of the way', and everything I wore showed off my fat legs/stomach/arse. Even if I was in a 10-12 stage, so these would be interspersed with threats of force-feeding if I lost any more weight.

My grandmother ignored the reactions of my family (as best she could, for a while it looked like she would stay with my grandfather despite his long-term deception). Ignored the 'fact' that infidelity is just something men do. Ignored the attitude that women are no longer worth anything once they're 'too old to find someone else anyway', or that age, size, attractiveness and the ability to get a man are the only things that give a woman worth. She decided that she was worth respect, and refused to waste her time with someone who didn't give her that. Paul was the only boyfriend that I've ever had, but I made it clear to him early on that if he lost interest in me he was to tell me, because I'd hate to have to dismember him for cheating on me. And my father told me all of the tricks he used to hide his infidelity from women and 'keep them in their place', so if I ever find my partner smells of Ralgex (good for covering the smell of another woman's perfume on yourself and the bedclothes, with the added bonus of making it easy to get sympathy and having her run around looking after you for cheating on her) then his penis is getting pickled, and it's only fair to give them a warning. I also told Paul that I intend on being an extremely horny 80 year old. The mental image that may have given him should be added to the reasons why I'm single again. I wonder what 80-year-old me looks like naked in his head.

All of the females I've spoken to about this agree with me. They want to be tying their husbands to the headboard until they kick the bucket. Hopefully they won't kick the bucket during since that would be something to explain to the paramedics/coroner. And now I want to know if any little old ladies have ever been investigated by the police after their geriatric husbands died of natural causes during a bondage session. If it was a handcuffed-to-the-radiator-with-a-ball-gag-in-the-mouth job then you'd probably have to do some re-arranging before calling anyone.

Back on topic...The one guy other than Paul that I've discussed this with surprised me, (as a male perspective, not as his perspective. He's not someone I call when I need advice on men since he doesn't think like most of them.) if he outlives his partner, he wants his libido to die with them. And I'm the one that gets called morbid. I wasn't the one to bring death into this particular conversation about sex. In fact I never do in actual conversations; I save my more disturbing crazy for myself, and now this blog. But then again it's different for a guy. I've accepted drinks off of old men when already drunk, but when an old man starts trying to cop a feel (in the street or the pub), it's a lot scarier than when a guy your age does it as you have more reservations about slapping them or hitting them in the balls in case you end up having to call an ambulance. So perhaps it is best that only my female friends want to be randy when they're older, since my male friends at worst go a little red when a little old dear flirts with them or cops a quick feel, but they still find it funny, not scary. That's the kind of sexism I can get on board with.

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

Turn-ons include discussing necrophilia in bed, apparently.

In the time my now ex-boyfriend and I were going out prior to me losing my virginity, he provided me with some 'bedroom entertainment' of other varieties. During one display of his talents he seemed rather appreciative of my chest, which led me to say "I'm glad you like my boobs. I hate my boobs." To which he responded "Boobs are boobs." Complete with shrug. Which led me to laugh in his face and compliment him on his innate ability to make a girl feel like the most special woman in the world.

I got thinking about this today, (Since essentially the past two and a half weeks has been more or less devoted to micro-analysing everything we ever said/did around the other. Although what actually got me on to this particular topic were the naked breasts of every woman over 40 in the changing rooms at the gym whilst the rest of us tried to stay under our towels throughout the drying and changing process.) and wondered what he could have said that wouldn't have made me laugh at him. 'Twin, rose-tipped peaks of desire' would have probably involved a far less lady-like guffaw than he received for his actual response. But I'd have accepted something that made me feel like the sexiest woman alive.

Which got me thinking about the phrase 'sexiest woman/man alive'. Does that mean they're less sexy than some corpses? I'd definitely want him to think me sexier than a corpse. So something like 'you're the sexiest woman alive or dead. Since, let's face it, even guys who are into anorexics have to draw the line somewhere. There's skin and bone and then there's just bone. Unless she was really, really fat when she died so there's still some flesh left to decompose. And you have a really, really good nose plug. Like one of those £4 Speedo ones.' would have been a more appropriate response. Apparently the Paul in my head knows that necrophiliacs have some sort of code of conduct that means that they can't shag the recently deceased and have to give their families some time to grieve before getting their rocks off. How he knows this I have no idea.

So essentially, I'd have been happier if in response to my dislike of my own breasts, he started a debate with me on the ethics of shagging the recently deceased verses those whose families have had time to grieve (whilst we lay naked next to each other in bed), rather than saying something that a completely normal person would say (which caused me to laugh in his face). I think I may have worked out why I'm single. And the fact that I kept laughing in his face whilst we lay in bed together. Like the time he accidentally punched me in the eye, yet again demonstrating his smoothness with the laydays. (The next night I was tempted to cover my eye in black eyeliner before meeting him for dinner. Then I realised that after 30 seconds the joke would be done and I'd be sat through the rest of dinner with eyeliner all over my face. See, I can pretend to be normal.)

We'll forget about the time I laughed at his sex face. That may have actually been a reason for him to break up with me.

This is the sort of thing that happens in my head. A debate on if it's best to have sex with someone who's recently dead so that the family can get all of their upset over and done with at once, or with an older corpse so that the family's come to terms with the death itself so only has the desecration of great-granny Murtle to deal with. Again, Darwin, you heard me last night, yes?

Edit - When I posted this, Blogger informed me that I could get paid for related ads. What kinds of products are suitable for a post on necrophilia? Air fresheners for coffins? One of those fold-up wheely things that you can put boxes on that's guaranteed not to have a squeaky wheel in case you want to take your date somewhere more private without drawing attention to yourself? I may have just invented a product that's marketable to necrophiliacs within about 30 seconds of thinking about it. This is how an undergraduate degree majoring in Business Studies with a focus on marketing does to an already sick, sick mind.

PS - I feel I achieved the ability to live within society when writing this post. After suffering a mental block on the word 'necrophilia' since my trip to the pool lunchtime, I started to Google 'fetish dead people'. Then realised what was about to happen before clicking search. I'm learning people!

Also - Blogger's spell check recognises neither Blogger nor Google. Not recognising your own brand may be the definition of a marketing fail.

People have imagined many uses for cloning in their love lives. Well, variations on one use that involve different numbers of people. But this one may be new.

Problem: A guy has a girlfriend (option A). He isn't sure whether the relationship will last because she hasn't told him how she feels about him. He has an ex-girlfriend (option B). Who he may still be in love with and who has recently told him still has feelings for him. He has also never been single long enough to get over over a relationship (option C).

So I propose an experiment. Clone him. Clone A stays with the girlfriend. Clone B gets back with the ex. Clone C gets single. At the end of the year the clones all get measured on Dave C's happiness scale, and he replaces whichever is happiest. The clones obviously get shot. And one or two girls get heartbroken. Or happy. Depends how it goes. Maybe if the relationship(s) go(es) really badly the girl(s) get(s) to shoot the clones.

Obviously they'd all have to live apart, otherwise the girls and everyone they know would get confused. And all existing friends would not be able to be contacted/or at least could not know about his relationship status. So there may be a few variables. Unless we can find a third place identical to both Swindon and Disneyland Paris. And the second paragraph may make it difficult to get this past an actual ethics committee. But I'm pretty sure shooting your own clone isn't illegal. They don't have birth certificates for clones so they probably can't have death certificates either. And without a death certificate I don't think anyone has legally died. So you could probably kill as many clones as you want. Which is probably why the good guys could wipe out an entire army in Star Wars and still be the good guys. They didn't technically kill anyone because it was an army made of clones. Murdering people not born of woman is fine. Just ask Macbeth. (Yes, we're assuming they're emerging fully-formed from a cloning machine and not made using eggs and grown in a womb. Because then we'd have to wait for them to age and this experiment would be useless and make no sense. Obviously.)

This reminds me of the response I'm working on for when my Gran starts the 'your mother had had you by the time she was your age', 'when are you going to make me a great-grandmother?', 'aren't you pregnant yet?' bit this Christmas. It started with "I can't remember to feed myself. And I am yet to have something really, really important that I haven't lost or at least misplaced for a significant period of time. I have literally never had an umbrella I haven't left somewhere. And killing a child through neglect is illegal, even if it's through sheer incompetence rather than intentional neglect. And I don't think I can finish my Masters if I'm in prison."

However this is where my argument falls down. Yes, I would be kicked off my current Masters course if I get sent to prison for accidentally causing my own child's death by losing it somewhere between my lectures and a pub. But then if I were in prison the government would probably fund another Masters course and a PhD. So really at the moment my best bet to get PhD funding might be to commit accidental infanticide. But then if I have a child because I know I'm incapable of keeping a plant alive for more than 6 weeks and have never managed to keep sea-monkeys for more than a week and therefore it's likely to die and provide me with a free PhD, then it's more intentional accidental infanticide. Which would make me even more of a bad person than the fact that this is actually something that I've properly thought through in my head, even if I'm too scared of having a human being come out of my vagina to actually go through with it. Plus it would completely put an end to my diet. And I want to sort my abs out before I get pregnant in the very, very distant future as it apparently makes it easier to get your figure back, since if you have a core as weak as mine at the start of pregnancy it's essentially going to mess up your muscles and you'll never get decent abs.

Yes, this is the problem with funding my PhD through infanticide; it would completely screw up my abs. I hope to Darwin there's no hell.

Monday, 19 December 2011

Flames and knives aren't exciting enough.

I may have just won at cooking. My usual method for chopping carrots is to cut them, then pick all of the pieces off the floor at once and wash them together before sticking them in the pot. I have caused myself to black out before from bending down to pick them up individually after each chop (low blood pressure, surprisingly. You'll know why that's a surprise when I get to stories such as the time one of my security team for the evening broke his shoe throwing a girl who was trying to glass me out of a fire escape. In case Americans don't use glass as a verb, it means to break a glass bottle and cut a bitch with it. I think that's how you say it in da hood, anyhoo.) Tonight I invented carrot dominoes. A slice of carrot managed to balance just on the end of the chopping board, then the next behind it, the next behind that one, until one came along and pushed the whole lot off the edge of the chopping board. This got me thinking of the other amusing cooking games I've come to learn to play as a student.

Blindfold end-of-term surprise
Everyone knows what end-of-term surprise is, yes? Where all of the ingredients that are going to go off over the holidays/that are left at the end of the year are put onto a table and you try and work out as a group how to best use EVERYTHING in one meal? This one adds more of a surprise element. All but one of you is blindfold, and the one pair of eyes gets to decide what's being cooked, how, and direct everyone else in the cooking. Remembering to remind people that if it's painful their hand is too close to something it shouldn't be close to. (Or to which it shouldn't be close. My German lecturer from college may have just spun in his grave.) If you're not big on using sharp objects whilst blindfold you can just do blindfold pancakes, but we tend to do this on gas camping stoves with naked flames, so it doesn't take too much fun out of it. This is even better if you do it in groups of three where the person who can see has a hand tied to each person. Whether the seeing person is attached or not, they're not allowed to intervene unless the dish is about to become unsuitable for non-cannibals.

Fire-alarm dash
The more fun version of this can only be played in student houses, where you need to get the window open, extractor fan on, and be on your knees on the kitchen cabinet with wooden spoon outreached towards the reset button before the alarm goes off. Generally needs to be played in groups of three so that one person can take each task. Without conferring. In halls of residence this becomes a game to hide the evidence that your corridor set off the alarm AND not be the last ones out of the building/the only ones running, so as not to arouse suspicion.

Milk roulette

You pour a few glasses, so many of which contain the bottle you forgot about during the last end-of-term surprise dinner, and take turns choosing a glass to drink from.

Guess the most flammable ingredient
Only works on camps, barbecues or gas hobs. Whilst waiting for your food to cook, you pick various powdered substances to sprinkle on the flames to see which causes the prettiest reaction. Value hot chocolate beats everything, including branded hot chocolate. If anyone has found anything better, please let me know. For campfires and barbecues, (or houses with a really laid-back landlord,) you can blow your alcoholic beverage of choice over the flames and watch it catch fire. Each person chooses a powder/beverage to back before the game starts and the person with the most flammable item wins. 

Herb or something else? AKA What does this do?
When finding an unidentified plant outside/inside your hall/house (inside only really works with halls since you generally know if you have someone who's into specific kinds of plants in your house), you use it as a herb in your cooking to see how it goes. Essentially 2nd years up only actually do this with unidentified ingredients found in cupboards. Either things that they found in their own cupboard that they'd forgotten about, or things found in others' cupboards at the end of term. This is not limited to things that look like herbs/seasoning, or even 'greens' (with the hope that they were green in the first place). First years get 2nd years putting things that the 2nd years know full well are herbs in their food, but then start 'tripping out' since they think the 2nd years are playing the same game as them. No one actually plays this with things that are potentially drugs, people. The first years just think they do. The people who do cook with special ingredients wouldn't share/be stupid enough to leave them lying around where anyone could steal them.

I would say my favourite game is end-of-term surprise, but essentially ALL of my meals follow the basic principle of 'find things that can make a meal somewhere in this cupboard'. I award myself bonus points for getting one carb, one protein, and each colour of veg. It only counts for green points if it was green when I bought it, otherwise it just gets points for possibly being a vegetable. These advanced cooking skills have made me the go-to person for cooking advice in most of my student houses/corridors. Delia had better watch her back.

Sunday, 18 December 2011

Britain has seen an influx of drunken women being ignored by 20 somethings. This is now being corrected.

Since one night last weekend where I got insane amounts of free alcohol from middle-aged men (and one who may have been alive in the middle ages), my phone has been auto correcting 'you!' to 'you!stopignoringthedrunkwomanxxx'. So whenever I end a text to my friends with 'Thank you!' or 'Love you!' (or perhaps something less pleasant) and click send, I realise my phone has decided to add it's own bit into the message. Not one of my friends has questioned me about this. I have decided that there are two possibilities for this: -

1) These people have gotten to know me too well and know when to just ignore me. I must find new friends so that my attempts to appear normal are not wasted.

2) All of my friends were actually in rooms with lonely, drunken women at the time of receiving my texts, and therefore didn't respond as they were busy making conversation with people who have such amazing jobs that they can be hammered at any time of the day. I want to know what these jobs are and if I'm on the right Masters course to qualify. Or if they'll fund a PhD for me to join them.

I like to thing it's the latter as that gives me another possible career-path to follow (assuming they're hiring when I finish my Masters), it means that my friends are all making new friends thanks to my apparently sentient phone, I'm too lazy to make new friends, and I have a sentient phone! That's omnipotent enough to know when drunken women are feeling lonely!

Does anyone know where I can find Will Smith or a photo of his penis?

People have been telling me to start a blog for years. Well actually people have been telling me to write a book for years, but I keep telling them I don't have the time. A friend offered to write a book based on my life, she was going to call it The Misadventures of Gladys the Welsh Cleaner so that I couldn't be identified, but crazy shit keeps happening around me so it's turned into a bit of an actual Neverending Story. So recently the calls of 'Write, bitch, write!' have been focused on me having a blog. The aim is for it to be anonymous, so some of the stories may end up making no sense whatsoever once the details have been taken out, but we'll see how it goes.

Unfortunately as I haven't had time to write my life story yet it's obviously not going to happen in one night, so I thought I'd start off with the texts I've sent (and some that I've received) this week and those that are related to situations that have been happening this week. The plan is that eventually I'll get everything up here if I post bits and pieces from my life when I get a spare minute. Like the time I was pulled out of a window by a Portuguese guy with an Irish accent and had to hide my shoes in Dodgy Dave's. Or the time I hid in a bush from ETA terrorists and left my friend a voice mail whilst trying to find enough balls to walk through the camp like I was supposed to be there. Or the time a Buddist saved my life because earlier in the day I thought that if he was a mad serial killer he'd put so much effort in with the outfit & 'save the planet' stickers on his van that he deserved to get me. But due to this week's events, this post is going to make me sound more like Gladys the Slut of Unknown Nationality. I promise it's not all about my sex life. In fact this pretty much covers the entirety of my sex life. Unless my stalkers count. Or the millionaire my friends tried to convince me to have unprotected sex with so that the contents of my womb would pay for a PhD (since he's anti-abortion). More on the 6/7 of them eventually.

Also, -> is me sending, <- is the replies. All names have been changed to protect the innocent (IE my negative bank balance).

The First-ever-boyfriend-recently-turned-first-ever-ex-boyfriend Saga

->He asked me if I'd like another orgasm & all I could think was 'yes, but I'm pretty sure I haven't had one yet'.

->Well I was too drunk to make it up the stairs myself & I decided it didn't mean I had to have sex with him.

->It's Paul! Thank God for Facebook letting me know who was sucking my clit last night!

->I had toast for breakfast. In other news Paul's finally made an appointment to get an STI check.

->Yep, he's dumped me. Via text. Right after I lost my virginity to him. He's been saying for weeks "If this is what the foreplay's like I can't wait to find out what the sex is like." Apparently the answer is "Disappointing".

->Well I thought 'noone's going to see me naked for a while' so I threw myself off the Slimming World bandwagon & shot myself a few times on the way down. There is method in my major-chocolate-ice-cream-consumption.

->We were in the pub after training and Laura suddenly realised she'd left the treasury box unattended. I said to her that some clubs have rules about having club money on you, such as 'you have to be in twos' so she wouldn't be able to walk home alone. She said that was a bit extreme, so I told her about the time I was walking the treasury box around the corner, so just had it in my hands and was alone, when a guy came up to me & started groping my breasts. James asked if I'd slapped him & I said "No, I needed both hands to keep the treasury box covered". James said "So you sacrificed your breasts for the treasury box. Does Paul know about this?" then turned to him & asked him about it. James started saying he should track him down & sort him out. I think he was the only person at the table that didn't know that I missed training last week because Paul dumped me that day or at least that we'd broken up. Everyone felt too awkward to tell him. There were awkward turtle babies flooding my brain.

 ->The MRI scan letter is asking me if there's a possibility that I might be pregnant. Well there is, it's just a very very low probability, so do I answer yes or no? Why can't they ask 'Is there more than a 4.9% probability that you are pregnant? Or whatever percentage is significant to them? I'm a social scientist, Jim, not a biologist. I don't know what's significant for wombs.

->The last song came on & I thought 'if I don't say something now then we're never getting back together', so I asked Paul if he was still happy with his decision & he said yes. So I cried on Laura, who got one of the freshers on the team to walk me home. He kept saying "I met you my first night in Uni, it's like it's fate" but I was too busy with my extremely attractive sobbing to respond. So he put me to bed & stroked my hair while I cried, then got under the sheets and started touching me up. He then started saying "I'm so hard" and wanking with his other hand down my pants, which made me cry harder from missing Paul. I missed him even more when the fresher started snoring, but not as loud as Paul does. This may be the definition of pathetic.

->To-do-list for this week as of 6pm Thursday: Get out of fancy dress costume from last night. Remove last night's make-up. Shower. Have breakfast. Pull a less-drunk, but unfortunately more fun all-nighter on my assignment (and not be sure if it's more fun because of last night's events or my sadly extreme excitement at analysing the results of this survey using SPSS). Hopefully finish in time for breakfast before practical. Attend practical. Hand in assignment. Go for a swim. Go for MRI scan. Get drunk with Ruth. Go to classical music concert. Get drunker with Ruth. Sleep. Get up for free personal training session that a hot guy at the gym offered me. Not end up crying with his hand down my pants. Get drunk with Alfred. The rest of the week involves various kinds of work, pretending to be normal, and trying to lose 3lbs to have lost 10% of my body weight between starting the diet 7 weeks ago & Christmas.

->I'm not sure if 'not end up crying with a hand down my pants' is something that should be on every woman's to-do-list or if it should never have to go anywhere near anyone's to-do-list, ever.

->I have extreme mixed feelings about my upcoming period. 1) I had to re-arrange my STI test to Monday & if it does turn up on Saturday then that's going to have to be put off until after Christmas. 2) I want to lose 3lbs this week & my period tends to lessen my weight loss. 3) If it doesn't come until Wednesday so that it fits in with my diet timetable then I will have spent a fortune in pregnancy tests and may as well have paid for lipo.

->Not pregnant! Thank God my womb is more punctual than I am!
<-Congratulations on your period!
[I want one of these texts every month]

My life in general

->The hot guy at the gym has a girlfriend.
<-I see. Kidnap her!
->Kidnap the girlfriend? Wouldn't it make more sense to kidnap the guy? He's the one I'd prefer to have tied up in my bedroom.
<-Yeah. But then she'd be out of the way.
->No, she'd be tied up in my bedroom. How am I supposed to seduce the guy with his ex tied up in the corner?
<-Not in your bedroom. In a hole.
->I don't know of any holes that aren't likely to get found by a jogger or a farmer. Or get filled with snow. This is starting to become a murder plan. Do you think I could just obliviate the two of them?
<-That's ridiculous.
->Ok, what if I get Will Smith to flash the two of them?
->To wipe their memories of each other? Have you ever seen Men In Black? A black guy flashes you and you forget white penis ever existed. Or something like that. Maybe he just flashes her then. I don't want him getting a fetish for black men because I don't think I'm either. Then I could offer him a shoulder to cry on. But not tell him "I'm hard" & start wanking when he's crying, I think this week has proven that doesn't get a crying person to want to have sex with you. Although maybe it would work on a guy. With an "I'm wet" obviously otherwise it might cause confusion. I could say "hard" & be referring to my nipples to make this an actual, proper scientific experiment to see if it's more likely to work on guys than girls. Or would scientific experiments need strap-ons?

->I just used a Star Wars analogy to explain a Celtic legend. The cure for geekiness is too late for me now.

->This guy in the shop was talking to everyone, which I was on board with until he was rude about me when talking to someone else in the queue so I ignored him from then on. Then when I opened my handbag to pay he looked inside, turned to the person behind him, and said "She has a police woman's hat in her bag. It's for the bedroom. It's on a headband, that's how you can tell." The most insulting thing is if I were to wear it in the bedroom I'd have to stand in front of a mirror for anyone to get any enjoyment out of it.

->Just as I thought I'd done it & wasn't going to have a panic attack, I left the room with the MRI scanner & there was a middle-aged, hairy man sat with his dressing-gown open to his crotch & his legs wide open. He kept asking me how it was, to be honest that was the most traumatic part of the entire thing.