I want a man who ruins my lipstick, not my mascara.
My lif is so rock’n’roll. I’m washing out my hedgehog’s running wheel.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I get through to Come Dine With Me and it’s the same week as Latitude! *SOBS*
If I could have it, this song would be my theme tune at the moment.
The strangest email I’ve received to date:
Has anyone ever received an message from an ex wanting assurance they were still on your emergency contact list as first contact? ‘Cos I just did. What in the fuck?
So let me get this straight; you don’t want to be with me, or live with me, but you DO want to be there if they’re about to switch off the life-support. I’m touched. Really I am.
UPDATE: I expressed my opinion that it would be best if said ex wasn’t on my contact list and was met with the response:
“If I’m not and something happened to you then I’ll fucking come to the hospital and kill you myself.”
Well, I think I just uncovered someone’s true intent.
I’m such a big ball of fire right now. I can feeling it simmering underneath my skin, and I need release. I’m not sure what form it’s going to express itself, which is a little disconcerting. I’ve got an application for Come Dine With Me to fill out, and some updating to my CV, as well as applying to be on a market research database- but I can’t focus on any of that at the moment. I just want to smash something, anything, to transfer the destruction I can feel in my soul and have it explode in something REAL. Be it a plate, plane of glass or someone’s face. I very rarely feel such anger, and am only glad it hasn’t manifested in drunken outbursts, so at least I’ve grown in some capacity. But I heard somewhere that anger can be a symptom of unresolved sorrow- which would explain a lot considering my current situation. All I know is I need to find an outlet for this rage, and it should probably be something constructive. Think it may be time for me to return to the gym and get involved with some punchbags.
Now girlies, if you think something is going to look good, go with it, even if the make-up artist thinks you’re insane. (He got excited once I put it on and did it properly for me.)
Being mac, this’ll be a payday treat. Can’t wait!
I grew up relatively poor, we had a roof over our heads and that was about it, clothes came second-hand, meat was a special treat and eating out happened about once a year. It meant that I never had anything even slightly stylish and with no internet until I left for uni and magazines being a luxury I wasn’t really exposed to much clever marketing telling me all the things I should want but couldn’t have. I got a weekend job the second I turned 16 (I wasn’t allowed out the house alone before that) and anything I wanted had to come from that soul-destroying 10 hour cash-in-hand job which paid me about £3.65 an hour selling children’s designer clothes to, what can only be described accurately as, ignorant, manner-less twunts.
University seemed a shock for many but I couldn’t believe my luck- I’d never felt so rich! All these bursary’s and loans filling up my bank account-I felt like a queen. I still couldn’t afford anything like what my contemporaries were used to, of course, but wild nights out which rarely cost more than £20 and being a uni town and situated in the north meant I lived pretty well for what I had.
Then came London, and a proper (well, not minimum) wage, and I’ve realised that the last year all I have spent my money on is alcohol and clothes. Sure, I’ve gone to see a lot of friends too but my visiting of museums, markets and has dropped down to nil and I hardly ever go for walks anymore. Without my walking partner it can feel a bit lonely and I get a bit caught up in my head. I’ve denied myself nothing, and yes I probably have the biggest wardrobe of any girl I know, but with going out for meals constantly, drinking non-stop I also have a spoilt body. Which fucking sucks when everything else you’re doing is so you can feel good about yourself again. So I have decided to put myself on the mother of all spending halts. I’ll let you know how it goes…
Quote of the Day:
“I just hate that they force themselves onto you.(unless they are hot and it’s sexual)”
— God love you, you strange Saffa.
I can’t feel my heart in the slightest. It doesn’t race, or slow or stop. I think I’ve misplaced it, left behind a bookshelf or under a pile of unsent letters. It doesn’t matter anyway, I won’t be needing it for a long, long time.
