Archive for March, 2010


When I found these convos on my girls page I died inside.

Ahaha.

Now that’s ensured more views (seriously), I’m going to inflict INJUSTICE upon your eyes.

Maybe not.

I’m supposed to be packing and washing up but I have accomplished neither, awesome. I DID, however, watch four episodes of The Simpsons. Fabulous.

…I don’t know why.

Headlong, outta control

My new iPod arrived! RIP Siegfried, you were loyal for five years, and then you died a slow, painful death. Osric – prettier, skinnier, shinier – will take your place at my breast. So long, farewell.

I JUST SAW We Will Rock You. It was quite fucking awesome. Don’t know what all the critics expected when they first reviewed it and panned it, it wasn’t trying to be clever. It’s just fucking hilarious/cheerful/awesome. FEEEEEEEELGOOD, if you will.

I’m quite tired and I’m blogging this in the bathroom and I need to sleep, so more later 😀

A Quickie

All those people becoming fans of “Remove Yourself From Those Scammy ‘Become A Fan To See The Picture’ Groups” – you’re a total disgrace.

Most of those aforementioned groups deal with embarassing or upsetting sitatutions – my personal favourite is When I Found THESE CONVOS on My Girls Page I DIED INSIDE. So you want to see what caused this reaction so damn badly you a) Become a fan to see it and b) Have a whinge when it’s all a scam and you don’t get your injection of smug detached laughter? I don’t particularly care about people, usually, but when two types of stupidity collide, I have an issue.

Mind your own damn business, or else wake up and don’t become “fans” of detrimental shit. You really want to see people “failing” THAT badly? Kind of twisted, not in the fun way.

Shooga.

YOU KNOW WHAT PISSES ME OFF?

I HAD A PACKET OF STRAWBERRY CABLES.

I ATE OF MY STRAWBERRY CABLES.

NOW I HAVE NO STRAWBERRY CABLES.

(I’ve eaten my weight in sugar this weekend, just call me Augustus Gloop.)

It’s REGINA SPEKTOR SUNDAY!

or so I’ve just decided.

Frivolity Bites

http://www.sporcle.com/games/micah/shakespeare_characters – which of Shakespeare’s characters has the most lines?

Hint: It’s probably not who you think it is.

Kothermucking!

LOOK LOOK LOOK WHAT IS ON MY BOOBS

Ahem.

So there’s this Almost Alice tie-in album for Burton’s AiW and most of it is meh to average. Special mention goes to the atrocity that is Kerli’s song, Tea Party, which tries to make sexually-loaded lyrics clever and cute and still acceptable in what is essentially a teen CD. The video is packed full of aristos laden with lace and feathers and looking very Emilie Autumn, which is never, ever a bad thing, but when this Gaga lookalike starts inviting you to “pour me out,” it gets a bit shit. Kids over fourteen will be all, “HA this is fucking hilarious”; kids under fourteen will have their ears muffled by their parents.

Shinedown’s Her Name Is Alice is a bit of all right: it takes me back to my early teen affairs with Nickelback and the rest of the soundalike gravelly-voiced rawk bands. The song is pretty awesome, though.

BUT. Oh yes, “BUT,” ladies and loons, there is one hidden gem.

May I present to you Robert fucking Smith, covering Disney’s Very Good Advice, in the weirdest,  most scrumptiously whimsical fashion you could possibly imagine:

Happy place has been reached for this evening, a-thank you.

Self-deprecation is wank.

today I hate the fact I have consumed 1 1/2 400g bars of Dairy Milk in a WEEK, BY MYSELF, I can feel that I’ve put on weight and because I have no self-control I cannot let the chocolate just lie there. It is on my desk, next to the Pink Cards.

The Pink Cards are the birthday cards I got from my family. All of them are pink. Not hot pink. Not nearly-purple-pink. Actual Barbie, congratulations-on-your-new-baby-girl Pink. The people who have had a full 20 years to realise I hate pink and will not wear it unless a) paid large amounts or b) for charity (more on that in a later post, I feel…) got me pink cards. I am 20, not 2. Unfortunately.

I also laughed at the card from my parents which told me I had “my own style”… yep, the style you tried to stop me having throughout my late teens. I.e., black and pretty much not giving a fuck what other people thought.

My brother told me how my mum confided in him that she was worried about me not showing interest in having a boyfriend and how she thinks I should get one because it would be good for me, or something like that. This both cements My Resolution further AND makes me wonder WHY she wants me to get myself an awkward appendage. From an astonishingly large part of passive experience, I have found that Friends that become Boyfriends also become insufferable in the process.

What do I do with all these cards?

Warning: Contains adult languages and themes, shameless parody and cuntishness.

Because I am wonderful and highly educated, being at Oxbridge (CAMBRIDGE) and all, my favourite men in the world are the thick ones who will not figure out that I am slagging them and their plebian sexual abilities off in this little blog, even when it becomes national news for some unfathomable reason. (Perhaps the miners and their urchins like to read about the goldleafed lady parts of brilliant belles such as yours truly; I do not know or care, because I am highly educated and must worry about my studies which are more important than yours and, of course, my reputation as a vixen with a poor sense of humour and the inability to keep schtum about my silly little sex life.)

I met one of my favourite men in the world at a social gathering common only to one half of Oxbridge, that being CAMBRIDGE, or “Bridgey” as its glorious scholars, like me, enjoy calling it over our pretentious conversations about being Better Than You. These social gatherings are quite exclusive, and you must be given what is known as “Daddy’s allowance” to be invited. But enough about my lifestyle, I can see you want to know about how I contracted the Aids. Pray stick with me, peasants, the time to fap is nigh.

He was a little paunchy, and a massive twat to go with it: I could not let this great love monster escape my opportunistic clutches. As he guffawed heartily about the girth of his scholarly phallus, I knew he would be the one: the ignorant thrusting machine who would service my upper-class cunny and remain moronically in the dark, even though I would write accurately of his physical appearance, vocal exchanges and exact geographical location on the night we made sweet silver-spooning love and even when my racy erotica is heavily publicised by masturbating journalists.

“Hello,” he said, as I collided into him, reeking of desperation. I tapped my wine glass three times to satisfy my OCD. (Did I not mention that before?! Foolish me! Well, I have it and it makes me appear really interesting and not at all idiotically unknowledgeable about the condition and what it actually does to its actual sufferers.)

He smiled a crooked yellowed overbite and I gushed. Every British man reading this is so predictable and unable to defend themselves against my beautiful sexism that they will naturally assume that I am talking about them, so I will not bother to disguise him beyond telling you all that he is 6′ 1″ and named Algernon.

He pulled me into his flabby grip and breathed hot winey breath all over my blessed face. This reaffirmed my notion that this was indeed the one I would write about to all my vicariously-fapping readers and we adjourned to a room. I am not sure which room it was – a drawing room, an observatory, a Turkish bath – but I know that I was bent backwards over a large gilded globe, which made it easier for me to read the spines of everything by Chaucer upside-down whilst being rogered. Painful, but romantic.

The sex was lovely but I’ll leave that to your imaginations after fucking around creating a huge build-up. Anti-climax? Oh non, my nether regions beg to differ! 😉

I’d adore it if I could tell you something intelligent, but I simply cannot engage my throbbingly huge brain. Slutty outfits are calling to me – I can’t let this nice little attention-seeker run dry now, can I?! Love and terrible “sexual puns” always!

If you haven’t read the Sex at Oxbridge blog, do so. It’s gratingly unfunny, unfair and arrogant. This is not a cunt-punt to any Oxbridge student: just this one who makes them all look like tossers, which I know for a fact they are not. (Largely.)

EDIT: I hadn’t showered or caffeinated before this post – this is why it is epically pissy.

I realise I didn’t put any ranting on here yesterday… so brace yourselves…

I am having an “I don’t care about my degree” week (YET again) so all of that can go back to hell. I emailed two teachers, one on a pretty important subject; neither of them have responded at all, so YAY FOR SUPPORT.

My camera is shit, I must get a new one, except I don’t really use it very much.

My iPod battery died, my brother replaced it, now the headphone jack has fucked itself so music comes out of only one earphone. FUCK IT TO HELL. I ordered a Nano because a) iPhones are gimmicky pieces of shit and I already have a phone and b) I just want to have music in both ears again but don’t want to pay a fucktonne of money. But nooooo, Play were all like “YOUR CARDHOLDER ADDRESS DOES NOT MATCH YOUR BILLING ADDRESS NO iPOD FOR YOU :|” …SO? So they cancelled the order and I believe I’m just going to wait because fuck it.

I got back from home on Monday; bags were heavy, people were walking at fucking snails’ paces in front of me – particularly this short fat thing who couldn’t decided which side of the pavement to waddle on. Jesus. Someone touched my bag with what felt like great intent from behind and they got glared at. Even if they weren’t trying to get to my purse, they were too close to me. There are about five people who I am really comfortable with having right by me, this twat was not one of them. So this happened, and then there was a moment when the whole width of the pavement was taken up with slow fuckers, and I was trying to get by when this twat with Big Issues HELD ONE BY MY FACE. DON’T try it again, you cunt, or I shall chew your arm off, beginning at your sternum.

My laptop keeps freezing – or at least, it did yesterday, it seems (touch wood) to be all right today.

There are some people who I am quite sure I’d like to never see again. Fuck you.

Also I hate being twenty, between now and thirty is generally the decade society expects you to chain yourself to a guy and surrender your womb to parasites, woo and yay. The way I see it, you’re either trapped in a job you hate, grateful for one day off, or drifiting in an existence of total pointlessness, grateful for a day when you are required to do something. We’ll see what happens when I finish university. We shall see.

Um… SEAGULL tonight! I am genuinely excited, and it is the one thing I care about right at this second.