When I ask some of my friends if they're OK, and they answer that they are despite me knowing that there's something different, I then ask "What's wrong with your face?" They've learnt to deal with me to an extent. One is planning on writing a user guide for me that potential boyfriends can read, but has told me that the first guy to handle me hiding under a desk needs to be married. I have accidentally managed to shock a guy that was widely believed to be unshockable - many had tried, and it was indeed seen as a challenge which I hadn't chosen to take up - by going for my go-to method for dealing with a crisis.
He was the station manager of the student radio station at the time, and one of the shows I presented was for local bands. One of the guys I had my eye on at the time was in a band along with one of my tutors, so I invited them on because it seemed like a non-ridiculous idea at the time. I started the show by greeting them with "Hello boys", at which point the friend that I'd brought along in case my brain turned into goo and I needed saving from myself began dying on my behalf, which I knew was happening despite her being stood behind me watching to see if I was going for the right buttons, which caused me to focus on the fact that I'd just quoted a Wonderbra advert at a hot guy and one of my lecturers, which caused me to say it again. I later asked them if they every worried that the audience wouldn't like them, got confused between the name of a band and the name of the song, and did something else which I seem to have suppressed but am not going to re-listen to the show to remember because I don't plan on dying of remembered shame so early on in the year.
I've considered sending this guy, and others where I've had a will it/won't it thing going on, a questionnaire to find out what I'm doing wrong. It would be qualitative, since there haven't been many guys who've ever expressed an interest in me who aren't certifiable/certified, so it could include interviews and case studies too. With this particular guy, the night he invited me back to his place after a night out I had an exam the next day, and felt it would be pushing it to stay out beyond 2am, then when I went out with him and his friends a week or so later for his birthday, towards the end of the night I discovered him snogging a girl up against a wall. I console myself with the fact that, whilst he was trying to gently caress her face, she kept grabbing his hands and sticking them on her arse. Who said you couldn't be romantic snogging scantily-clad strangers in nightclubs? I for one have heard many a romantic declaration of undying devotion from a gentleman in such venues, such as "This hard-on is just for you, babe." (I was 15 in an over-25s nightclub.) "I want to fill you with my seed." (That was stalker number 3 who wanted to knock me up to stop stalker number 2 from impregnating me with the anti-christ. True story.) and the time when, again at 15, a guy came up behind me & started kissing my neck whilst I made eyes at a guy I actually fancied, so I shooed him away, only to have him come back and beat up the guy I liked when he finally came over to make his move.
Back to the show with Hot Guy's band - Mark, the station manager, came in towards the end of the show to do some prep for one of his own shows. When the guys left, my friend turned to me and said "It wasn't that bad." to which Mark said "No, it was worse." I then collapsed on all fours and crawled towards the desk, which was between me & Mark. Causing Mark's face to have a fit, until he realised that I was going fetal under the desk and not crawling towards his legs/crotch. Perhaps he was worried because he had skanky underwear on/hadn't washed his man bits.
The other time I accidentally won the shock-Mark-challenge was when I shouted at him for fingering another presenter with poor hygiene before me - referring to his habit of sticking his finger in people's ears, which he hadn't done that evening but I hadn't seen him since he'd done it and I hadn't wanted to scald him for that behaviour at the station's AGM, so waited until we were in a crowded pub instead. It took him a while to work out what I was talking about and recover, and me even longer to work out what had been wrong with my statement to cause such a reaction. Although it wasn't just me. When the IT guy was having issues with one of the programmes, he came in to chat to me & my co-presenters during a song and he mentioned that he was having a problem, to which I asked "You can't get it up?". He started responding, but stopped, turned bright red, and left the room, when we simultaneously realised why my co-presenters were wetting themselves laughing.
Anyway, the point of the "What's wrong with your face?" part of this was; my friends have recently told me that I only say this when they're on their periods. Apparently if they're lying about being OK when not menstruating I use different, more normal phrases to push for information. And I never say it to guys. I'd love to know what was happening to Ruth's womb when, on one camp, I was helped back to my tent by the aforementioned IT guy, explained that I couldn't get one of my walking boots off with "The force is strong with this one.", fell into my tent, then when trying to tell Ruth (my tentmate) that I fancied Dom (the IT guy), shouted "Where is your face?" upon discovering the back of her head facing me. The fact that it had been the back of her head didn't occur to me until I reached a relatively sober stage the next day.
Although I am incredibly clumsy, am apparently prone to drinking like a fish (I've moved on from vodka & coke to a perry & flavoured shot concoction this evening), play a fairly dangerous sport, and pull men who are either as clumsy as me or who threaten to kill and/or rape me, I haven't yet had a visible injury on my head, touch wood. However I've decided that if I ever do cut my head open and need stitches, I want them to make it look like I grew a third eye but had to have it sewn up because seeing how everyone I knew and loved would die slowly drove me insane. I need to find out if they offer you a selection of colours for the thread so that I can make my choice well in advance and not have to decide whilst concussed. You need to be prepared for these things if you're going to convince the people who mark your essays that you've seen their deaths and need special consideration for the trauma the experience caused. ("Just wait until it happens. Then you'll know how horrible and gruesome it was to watch!") The only possible downside is, now I'm in my mid-twenties, I'm convinced a canyon is opening up on my forehead. What if instead of an insanity-causing third-eye, my injury just looks like a massive wrinkle cover-up gone wrong? The other potential problem with this is that when I got my finger stuck in a door as a teen and needed stitches, I screamed so much whenever the needle touched my skin that the doctor gave up and essentially duct-taped it instead. So perhaps I should hold off on visible head injuries for a bit longer.
This may be why when I started skipping on the walk into town with my sister this week, she pointed at me, screamed "Stranger danger!" and walked off in another direction. My grandfather even hides accessories of mine and my cousin's before inviting us over to the pub. Usually Christmas-themed accessories. Such as my Christmas lights with the battery pack I stick in my bra to make boob-powered lights. I say 'free-spirit', they say 'complete and utter embarrassment'.
Showing posts with label How to get a man (with or without rope). Show all posts
Showing posts with label How to get a man (with or without rope). Show all posts
Sunday, 1 January 2012
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, 18 December 2011
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?
<-Why?!
->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.
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?
<-Why?!
->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.
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