He's bluffing with his muffin...

This was a wasted opportunity. If I had the ability, and the time to spend on it (Which should really be spent on analysing data for my essays rather than writing lyrics for someone with greater technological abilities to use if they ever find this whilst watching Half Blood Prince and wondering why Philosopher's Stone is on tomorrow and they're not showing the films in order.) here's how my version would go: - 

Nom nom nom nom,
Nom nom nom nom.

I want the big ones like they make in Millie's, please,
Break 'em up and eat 'em after dipping in my tea (I'd dunk it).
Chocolate and fruit pieces, chunks in spades all through the dough,
I'm completely hooked, one by one I will swallow. 

Nom, nom nom nom, nom, nomnomnomnomnomnom,
I'll eat them hot, gooey chocolate.
Nom, nom nom nom, nom, nomnomnomnomnomnom,
I'll eat them hot, gooey chocolate.

Can't eat my, can't eat my,
No you can't eat from my cookie tin,
(He won't share with anybody.)
Can't eat my, can't eat my,
No you can't eat from my cookie tin,
(He won't share with anybody.)

Coo-coo-coo-cookie tin, coo-coo-cookie tin,
(Nom nom nom nom.)
Coo-coo-coo-cookie tin, coo-coo-cookie tin,
(Nom nom nom nom.)

Roll the dough and cut it, bake it, hard it then will be, 
Baking with some flour is more fun when you're with me (I throw it.)
Snack time between meals can be more than just some gum,
And when it comes to treats if it's not crumbly it's not fun, fun.

Nom, nom nom nom, nom, nomnomnomnomnom,
I eat them hot, gooey chocolate.
Nom, nom nom nom, nom, nomnomnomnomnom,
I eat them hot, gooey chocolate.

I'll stuff my, I'll stuff my,
Oh yes I'll stuff my cookie face,
(He's got a chunky body.)
I'll stuff my, I'll stuff my,
Oh yes I'll stuff my cookie face,
(He's got a chunky body.)

Stu-stu-stu-stuff my face, stu-stu-stuff my face,
(Nom nom nom nom.)
Stu-stu-stu-stuff my face, stu-stu-stuff my face,
(Nom nom nom nom.)

I won't eat no chocolate brownie,
Or potato smiley,
'Cause I'm bluffin' with my muffin,
I'm not lyin', I'm just fussy with my night-time snackin'.
Just like a chick in Anon Alchis,
My addiction causes injuries,
I promise this, promise this,
Leave my tin alone, I'm dangerous.



Unfortunately this isn't the first time I've decided to write new lyrics to a song that hadn't been spoiled for too many people before. The last one was to the tune of that 'Romeo and Juliet' song by the girl that I always call Delta Goodrem in my head despite knowing that they're two completely different people, so I always end up with 'Innocent Eyes' stuck in my head after hearing/thinking about the Romeo and Juliet song.

My version was about a guy in my Guide and Scout student society that came on to every female in the club, and any other club that was unfortunate enough to pitch their tents next to ours at national events, who was nicknamed Romeo by one of the female Sea Scout members. She called him this to his face several times, he took it as a compliment and used it himself. My own experiences with him included one camp where someone decided to take the single-layer tepee as we were a small group so would all fit in together and it was the middle of the summer. Of course, as this particular camp was being hosted in South Wales, it rained. Persistently. So when Romeo and I were the first of our club to arrive back after the first afternoon's activities to find that the rain was coming in, I immediately grabbed the roll of bin bags that I keep in my kit bag for instantaneous waterproofing and started moving all of the kit to the middle of the tent and ripping bin bags to cover everything. In the mean time, Romeo decided to take all of his clothes off and demand a hug. When I said "I don't think that's entirely appropriate." he responded with an indignant "Why not?" to which I replied "Because you're naked." and, luckily, having finished saving the girls' bras and knickers, was able to walk out and find shelter with people wearing more layers.

We then had some problems with his Criminal Records Bureau check not coming back with everyone else's, and a risk that it wouldn't come back in time for a camp where there would be under 18s on site. As I was on the Students' Union's societies' committee as well as the club's committee at the time, I was volunteered to speak to the Societies' Officer about our options, and used this experience to illustrate why we were concerned. Unfortunately the Societies' Officer was about to go on holiday, and had to share the story with the rest of the Sabbatical team, who, along with the Societies' Officer, would become my colleagues after the elections for the following year's Sabbatical Officer team.

A similar thing happened when a student with mental health difficulties took my concern for his welfare as something else, and started showing up at Student Union events I was hosting and waiting outside my office after hours. I mentioned it to a friend who worked in the Union shop, who convinced me to tell a female member of staff in the office in case things escalated. Who said that I needed to tell someone on my Sabbatical team, so as the only female on the team, I just told the Welfare Officer. Who then had to tell the staff member in charge of building security and health and safety. Who then told the President of the Sabbatical Team. Who shouted "That's a threat, that is." Then, the member of staff whose office overlooked the door to my office was told. Then, when she was off work, two members of staff with offices down the corridor were told. Then, when they were also away, the receptionists were told to keep an eye for him entering the building. Then, after each significant 'incident', I was taken to speak to a different person for advice. So last year, when another student with welfare issues took a personal interest in me, sending me love songs, I told the head of the Union's staff team that there may be a potential problem. He was going to include more staff members, but luckily changed his mind when I almost cried at the thought of everyone talking about me again considering the gossip that I was sleeping with a student (who was a friend) had finally died down.

The moral isn't really to not tell people about these things I suppose, since things would have been a heck of a lot worse if I hadn't had people to help me out when he was waiting outside the building for me. However I think I may have to create a Facebook page for a really, really big, tough, scary-looking 'boyfriend', and wear t-shirts with this profile printed on them whenever volunteering/working with men with mental health problems. Although I've met half of my stalkers with mental health problems when not working/volunteering. I would try converting to lesbianism, but pretending to have a girlfriend has only exacerbated problems with unwanted love interests in the past.

If I ever find the song I wrote about Romeo I'll probably post it up here some day.

My thought-train is being drunk-driven. Good luck interwebs.

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'.

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.

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.

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.