Archive for December, 2009

Screwed Up

So this conversation I was having with my mother last night went:

“And she was raped, apparently, when she was younger, which could be why she’s so screwed up.”
“Yeah… what screwed you up, then?”

The only mother who could *possibly* beat mine to the “Mum of the Year” award is Sirius Black’s. 8D

To counter all this talk of Curtain Boy, I bring you:

You don’t mention Sirius to Snape, or he pulls his Face of Repulsion and hurts you.
Heeeee… Snape. :3



I must be bored, since this is my third post today…but this is AMAZING.

Scar is a beautiful kitty.

homg I want to cuddle him and feed him Whiskas Temptations. Lookid his liddle fwuffy cheekses.

…I still end up in *tears* every time I watch it. Her epic muffin top makes it thrice as brilliant.


I’ve realised (ONLY NOW) that I WHIIIINGE on here like a giant baby for most of the time: I apologise. I swear that these entries will be full of happiness and rainbows and details of my daily escapades where they are sufficiently interesting and/or hilarious.

You also need to know that David Starkey is my new hero.



Curse you, Father, for giving me your cold!

In other news, today I did twenty sit-ups and now my stomach muscles don’t exist. I find a midriff composed entirely of jelly to be strangely hindering to my daily activities.


So it begins again.

“You’re not wearing THAT to town, are you?”

When I grow up I will live on my own and never speak to anybody and wear all of my clothes on top of each other.


Emilie Autumn, covering Alice Cooper? Heaven.

Based on my birth length and heights of my parents, it was predicted that I would be 5′ 9″ at full adult height.
As it is, I’m exactly the correct height to be a jockey.

I used to despise my height; now I adore it.

The length of my hair has become somewhat of an obsession: I intend to grow it as long as possible. It gets madder and more ringlety with every inch.

I used to hate my hair too; now I love it.

I, for whatever reason, looked up scarification photos; I wonder if I could get a Scar scar? In all seriousness? Along with a Dark Mark, Jack Sparrow’s sparrow, Bellatrix’s prisoner number on my neck and musical notation (as tattoos, not scars, owwy) everywhere. If only I was rich and didn’t need to get a job eventually.

I’m so short and stocky: I’m very Mediterranean.

I’ve stayed at the same weight for weeks. I NEED TO LOSE MORE.
On the plus side I’m under 11 stone. I haven’t been this weight since I was at school.

I see people the size of small planets and want to be sick, then I remember I look exactly like them and it’s almost, but not quite, enough to make me anorexic.

I have scar tissue on both of my heels, so thick it doesn’t feel like skin any more. They are my “badges of honour,” and they were crafted lovingly by one Doctor Marten.


Fuck it. (But not quite.)

EDIT: All these bad feelings have dissipated as I have had human contact, now I’m cheerful again. Please ignore. Or read for the lulz.

Fuck the fact that my stomach sticks out as far as my breasts, and this either mean I have a really fat stomach or really tiny breasts OR BOTH.

Fuck this essay that’s still not finished and its many, many footnotes crying out for attention.

Fuck the children who SCREAM on buses (not literally, that would be disgusting), and fuck the parents who don’t do anything about it (again, not literally, because then they’d give birth to more foul spawn).

Fuck the trip into town where I have to swap part of my brother’s Christmas present because he neglected to tell me he’d got it a week ago for no reason at all.

Fuck my bank account, it’s empty and needs filling with something.

Fuck the lack of overdraft, which doesn’t exist because having one wouldn’t make me responsible about money. Fuck it, I’m not reponsible in any capacity.

Fuck everybody except Tom Waits.

1. David Tennant
Friction burns.

2. A politician
I’d turn into Lady Macbeth.

3. A mathematician
Goes against every moral fibre in my body.

4. Someone who HAS to be right, ALL the time.
Would end up dead, murdered by kitchen knife.

5. Someone allergic to cats, either medically or out of detestation.
What do you MEAN you don’t love my lickle babies because they clawed your favourite trousers to pieces?!

6. A physicist.
Fuck offfffff.

7. Someone with dyslexia.
“That’s not how you spell ‘September’/’financier’/’masticate’/’troglodyte’/’desideratum’ -” “I BLOODY KNOW.”

8. A Star Trek fan.
No I shall NOT straighten my hair and tell you that I’m an illogical woman who’s beginning to feel too much a part of that communications console. …Fuck.

9. A hardcore Catholic.
One child is too much. Fifteen are clearly associates of Satan.

10. Someone who watches “intellectual comedy” programmes and consequently believes they are intelligent.
Because you’re fucking not.