Sunday, May 24, 2009


Never smoke a cigarette, and drink milk in the same minute. It's a terrible taste. Come to think of it, I'm frankly amazed I still have tastebuds.

So, I tried to quit smoking, but that didn't really work for me.
I tried the patches, right, and went horse-riding. I got a headache half way through so I ditched that idea. I guessed exercise and a little piece of plastic laced with nicotine, just didn't mix.
I tried the gum, and that was like chewing on a dirty cigarette filter. If i bit down too hard on the gum, this horrid taste come onto my tongue and, to be frank, I'd much rather suck on a rancid dick than chew that gum again.
My doctor won't give me Champix, this rad little tablet that comes in a cute little pill-packet for "Day & Night", because they're giving my mum bad dreams and turning her a little physcotic. My Doctor's awesome though. She called me "Brave and Smart", and not a hypochondriac, because after every boyfriend I have unprotected sex with, I piss in a jar to make sure they haven't passed any unwanted baggage onto me, you know, like The Clap or Chlamydia or something. Because, STI's are about as common as the flu these fucking days.

First of all -
What happened to the old days, when STI's were STD's?
STD doesn't sound as nice as STI. You hear Ess-Tee-Eye and you think "Oh, that's cool, it's only an infection. I can get some antibiotics for that, yeah?"
No, Honey, you can't get antibiotics for AIDS.
And, sure, you can burn warts off your hands, but do you fancy having them burnt off your box?
I certainly don't, hence why I'll happily trot off to let doctors peer into the depths of my meat-hangar, send off little ear-buds with my excraments on them, and come back in three days for them to tell me that no-one and nothing can stop my vagina, let alone my sex life.
Not that that's a raging club these days.


I remembered today, that I'm basically destined for greatness. Or set up for massive failure. Either way, people will remember me.
I'm going to be that girl, who sexed up that guy, and turned his life around when he least expected it.
I'm going to be that girl, who did amazing things for people's reputations.
I'm going to be that girl, that you met one night and forgot to get her number, because you were too busy lost in the fact she's a stage-production on legs.

Already, I am that girl, complete with the stubborn attitude; who's a walking circus, a little bit of a trouble-magnet, and toys with the romantic ideals of... whatever takes her fancy on that day.

I don't want to be defined by my career. I talk to people everyday, in all different age groups, who all seem to be ranked by what job they work, or the score they achieved on their exams.
See, even if I only amount to a simple veterinary nurse, working in the 'burbs to pay for some horrendously shit little flat and some sardines for my already overweight cat, I'm cool with that.

If I only amount to being a musician's girlfriend, and spend the rest of my life - or at least, until he finds another woman who'll cop as much - drinking him under the table, wandering to obscure little places to watch him play to a crowd of fifteen, fifty or five hundred people, and turn a blind eye when he "accidentally" sticks his dick into other girls, I'll be cool with that too.

Or if I end up being a mundane housewife, living the white-pickett-fence fantasy, with my wailing but handsome child or children, I might kick and scream a little, but I'll get used to it.
Because I'll be that mother that drives her wonderkins to school in her pajama's, whilst the other mothers stare on enviously, because my breasts have always been bigger and perkier than theirs.

The world just needs to face the facts here, I'm never going to be repressed.