.

Fuck You, Manchester!

2012-01-28T18:45:00.000Z

It's always good to see The Fucking Scum Cunts (otherwise known as Manchester United) get fucked by their biggest rivals and booted out of the FA Cup.

This afternoon saw Liverpool beat them 2-1 at home in the fourth round of the FA Cup, and I, for one, couldn't have been happier about it.

Anyone would've thought I was watching Arsenal when I jumped up and celebrated Agger's goal twenty minutes into the first half. My sister, brother in law and a multitude of close friends are Liverpool fans, and I was more than happy for every single one of them - not to mention my own personal vendetta against the detestable Manchester side that I've loathed for almost my entire time on this planet.

I threw out a few expletives at the equaliser, but fortunately Kuyt's winning strike at eighty seven minutes finalised it and booted The Fucking Scum Cunts straight out of the competition.

The only thing they have left to play for this season is the Premiership title, and personally I'd much rather The Chavs or Shitty win that than them, any day! Not The Yids though - that's one step too far, but as equally likely as Johnny Depp strolling into my flat and proclaiming his heart and millions to me.

Not only do I feel satisfaction in The Fucking Scum Cunt's loss as a team, but I also revel in the disappointment of the cocky as hell wanker fans, a few of whom I personally know, and one of whom I used to work with. I can picture her distraught, bitching, wobbling face. After sitting opposite it for twelve months and listening to her cocky, chavvy, scummy "United" talk, I'm quite frankly gutted to fuck that I can't laugh right in it on Monday morning.

It's actually unlike me to rub peoples' noses in football results. As a gooner I'm well used to disappointment and hate it when it's done to me, but after the 8-2 result a while back and the shit I had to endure at the time, I'd happily dish it out in vast quantity, especially given that they lost to Liverpool.

I bet that hurt.

Besides all of that, it's really all about tomorrow. We have Aston Villa to play at 4pm, and of course that's the most important result for me.

For the remainder of this evening however, I shall celebrate the disappointment of a species that I abhor and finish in a very ladylike manner with the following:

Fuck you, you fucking bunch of scum Manc cunts.

I love to see you fall.

Stay Where You Are.

2012-01-24T16:45:00.000Z

After coming across a drafted blog earlier today that I’d written back in August 2010 but never published, I decided to have a look at what I posted back then with the main intention of discovering what my state of mind was.

Well, to say that I was deeply afflicted doesn’t begin to cover it.

It made pretty uncomfortable reading, mainly because of the strikingly obvious environment in which I felt mentally trapped at the time. For rather a long time at that. The things I wrote about, the manner in which I expressed my thoughts and feelings and the unwavering theme of desolation that’s apparent throughout is quite challenging for me to confront.

I strongly remember feeling desolate and destroyed. I’ve had bouts of it, rising and falling in a kind of see-saw style for years. It comes and goes, I suffer, I get over it, I get on with it, I drop again, and so on. I’ve accepted it as part of my life and something I have to endure. I just make the most of the times when I’m feeling good (like now) and try to forget the dark periods.

I also try to adjust my way of thinking and the way in which I deal with disappointment. I’ve learned, to an extent, not to raise my hopes so much, and to be content with what I have now, because things aren’t so bad. Compared to a lot of people I’m very fortunate, and as I know only too well, things could always be worse.

I’ve also learned not to compare the stage at which I’m at with that of others - like my sister, for example, who’s younger than me but already married with two dogs, a beautiful home, a good job and what I’d consider to be settled and sorted in life. In the past, the fact that I didn’t necessarily want to be at the stage she’s at was irrelevant, I just thought I ought to be because I’m older. I’ve come to realise that it’s my own ridiculous expectations that lead me to feel like a failure, not anyone else’s.

I mean, it’s not like I’m the only thirty year old single person in the world for a start. I enjoy being single, I’m not needy or dependent, emotionally or otherwise, and having children isn’t something that fits into my future, so what’s the issue? I’m not in a race against the biological clock, I’m happy on my own, isn’t that all that counts?

Other areas of my life that have been tricky in the past have been my own inner battles with various issues (bereavement, eating disorders, cocaine, alcohol), and I seem to have all of them under control (apart from the bereavement, which will never fully go away). But I’ve also taken great dispute with the way in which I’ve been treated by others, the result of which has often lead me to plunge heavily into a state of hostility, venom and hatred.

It’s made me cold, solitary, detached and not very pleasant to be around. I’ve upset numerous people, including members of my own family, with my stubborn refusal to let down my defences and just relax and accept that not everyone is a cunt.

Sounds obvious to most, but take it from me, if your head is stuck in a certain place, it’s not always a case of just snapping out if it. It takes time and a fucking shed load of effort and determination to get yourself back again. And you never come back the same as you were. You always leave something behind.

It’s not that I no longer care, it’s more that I only let things that truly matter to me truly affect me. I don’t like the person I can become, and I recognise that person in what I’ve written in the past.

I’m glad I write this blog because if nothing else, it’s evidence of my mental journey. I only skimmed through six or seven from over the past two and half years, but that was enough to confirm that I’ve made a hell of a lot of progress, and that I never want to read anything I wrote in the past ever again.

It can stay there, firmly where it belongs!

Take It All Away

2012-01-24T15:04:00.000Z

If you had the chance to erase memories from your past, would you do it, or would you keep them all in tact knowing that it was your past that’s made you the person you are today?

I can see an argument for both sides, but in all honestly, I would get rid of the lot regardless of the changes they have made to me as an individual.

When I was first asked this question a year or so ago, I was about 99.9% sure that I would never erase a single memory, no matter how traumatic things have been. This determined decision at the time was based on the changes I’ve been through in the last eleven years. The person I am now is very different to the one that I was at eighteen, so much so that I’d now consider that person a stranger to my current self.

At the time, I expressed complete and utter horror at why anyone would ever want to do such a thing. Why would anyone want to take away huge parts of their lives like that, only to be replaced with emptiness and gaps of confusion? Surely that would be more frustrating and traumatic than living with a few moments of discontent?

Well, something has apparently changed and I don’t know why, when or how.

Recently I’ve been really struggling with a few things, not that anyone who knows me would be particularly aware of this. I’ve said before that I'm a master of the false front, an expert in disguising what’s really going on inside, and a true pro at putting on the mask of happiness. I save all my unhappiness for when I’m alone, which is probably why I’ve distanced myself a bit recently. Perhaps I’m growing tired of the acting. That would be a likely explanation.

I find myself frequently going over aspects of my past without even meaning to. I’ll be reading a book, or watching a film and suddenly realise that I haven’t taken in a single thing. I’ll be trying to sleep and abruptly I’ll be wide awake as though someone has just shaken me violently. Instead of concentrating on what I was doing, or allowing myself to drift into sleep, my mind will have been miles back in my past, going over a situation or experience I’d much rather forget, my stomach in knots, my chest tight with anxiety.

I don’t know what triggers these moments. I have no control over them, and I can’t predict when they’re going to happen. They aren’t relevant to my present life and there is no benefit to me in remembering.

The way I feel at this very moment, I could quite happily wipe out all memories from the age of 18 to the present day, including the good ones. As harsh as that sounds, it would give me some much needed happiness and peace of mind.

God knows, I’m due for some.

*Written: August 2010*

Hobble On, Hana!

2012-01-24T14:43:00.000Z

Today is the fourth day in a row that I've felt utterly debilitated.

Having enthusiastically thrown myself back into a regular and rigorous gym routine, I'm now suffering the effects of over doing it, or to put it plainly: I can't walk.

Ok, slight exaggeration, but only slight. By Friday of last week, I knew I'd done some damage because both ankle joints were really painful and my left leg was twinging up to my knee every time I moved. By Saturday morning, I could barely walk around my apartment, and by Sunday it was agony to even put the slightest amount pressure on either foot. Despite this, I'd made plans to go and watch a film in town, so rather than be a let down at the last minute, I slathered on some Ibuprofen gel, bandaged up both ankles and off I went.

It took me around seven minutes just to get from my own front door down to the main door of the building due to the overwhelming challenge of about thirty eight steps, which I usually run down in a matter of seconds. Once overcoming that little obstacle and managing to exit the building, I then commenced my crusade into town. I hobbled along at the pace of a tortoise, not only being overtaken by numerous pensioners with walking sticks, but also attracting infinite looks of, well, what exactly? Amusement? Nosiness? Jeez, have people no shame?

Yes, I'm limping along, very slowly. Clearly I've hurt myself. What the fuck is the fascination? Have you nothing better to look at? I haven't grown an ear where my nose used to be, I'm just trying to walk up the fucking road! Do you stare at people with disabilities in this manner? Or am I the lucky one because I'm trying my best to walk, but failing to do so whilst accomplishing the very great task of looking like a twat?

If I hadn't felt bad enough before, I certainly did by the time I got home that evening!

By Monday morning it was obvious that my previous day's little venture had been a very bad idea indeed. I think I managed to get out of bed only on the occasions that I absolutely needed to, and spent the rest of it with my legs elevated, throbbing in pain, and feeling as miserable as Jack Dee's face.

Today, I'm slightly better. Yesterday's bout of paralysis has obviously done me some good, but I'm still hobbling in pain and struggling to move around. I've warned work that when I return tomorrow I'll need help to get up the stairs, and if that's not quite humiliating enough, they're yet to witness my hilarious attempt at walking!

The main thing is that I've learned my lesson. When I get back to the gym I need to take it steady, and not try to run like an olympic athlete. This set back has been frustrating and disheartening, so I'm determined as hell not to do this to myself again.

Oh, and also, if this is what it feels like to get old, can someone please come and shoot me now?

In the head though, please. Not the legs.

Stop The Clocks!

2012-01-19T21:20:00.000Z

I'm really weird when it comes to clocks.

I realise that that's a strange enough opening line in itself, but I've had this really abnormal habit for as long as I can remember. It's like an inability to look at the actual time.

Weirder still, all my "household" clocks are correct (boiler, TV, oven, microwave, laptop), but my "personal" clocks are way out of sync.

My BlackBerry is set fourty five minutes fast.

My car is set thirty minutes fast.

My watch runs around twenty two minutes fast.

My bedside clock runs nine to ten minutes fast.

I have no idea what started this off, or why I ever developed such a strange habit. People have commented on it so often that I actually feel embarrassed about it and do not volunteer the information willingly. It's always a discovery.

"Hang on... Is that fast?"

"Er.. yeah. A bit..."

"How fast exactly?"

"Er... twenty two minutes... ish..."

".... Why?"

"Er... I'm not sure."

*Silence*

Yeah, it's never a comfortable conversation. Eyebrows are raised, blank looks of confusion are cast, I look like a twat and all I have to offer in way of an explanation is a shrug followed by a swift change of subject. I'm sure that that does nothing for my credentials.

Well, it's time to end the madness! From tonight, I am determined to right the wrongs of time, and set my clocks back to reality!

The thought of looking at my phone and seeing real-time is actually making me feel quite serene. It's as though I'm introducing a sense of calm and acceptance of time into my life, for the first time in years.

I don't know what that's about, or what it means (I'm sure a psychologist would have a field day assessing me) but I'm kind of looking forward to it.

My only slight hesitance is my alarm going off tomorrow morning. I use my phone to wake me up, so let's just hope that I don't look at it in the morning, immediately jump fourty five minutes back in my mind (as I usually do) and set it to snooze.

This is like changing a habit of a life time.

So fingers crossed it doesn't come back and bite me on the arse!

Ticked Off!

2012-01-13T08:56:00.000Z

Yes, it's true, I'm one of those annoying idiots who gets up at the crack of dawn on a day off and runs round like the Tazmanian Devil trying to get things done.

It's barely half eight and I've already been up, showered, dressed and drinking coffee for a good fourty five minutes. I've made a list of the things I need to do today, and now I'm sitting around impatiently waiting to tick off the first item: electrician.

I know one should never be fooled by "He'll be with you at eight thirty", but you can bet your arse that if I'd thought "Nah, don't be ridiculous, it'll be more like ten" and stayed in bed, he'd be relentlessly ringing the intercom at eight! Now, as lovely as my pyjamas are, I'm not the most beautiful sight to be greeted with when I've just been rudely awakened by an angry workman (or anyone, for that matter).

I'd love to claim that that's my only reason for the early start, but sadly if I did, I'd be lying. I'd also love to claim that it's only happened since I've stopped drinking, but again, that'd be another lie.

The truth is, I'm just weird. As soon as I'm awake my mind starts to spin ferociously with all the things I need to do, want to do, think I really should do, and have been putting off doing. Then rather than switching off and going back to sleep, I become obsessed with getting it all done. Immediately.

I'm like a woman possessed by a To Do list.

As we speak, I'm pointlessly frowning at the fact that the electrician still hasn't turned up. I know there's nothing I can do about it, I know it's causing me lines, I know I'm working myself up into a state of frustration with peoples' inability to ever be on time for anything, yet I continue to wind myself up.

"Don't you realise there's a fucking list to get through, mate? Get a flaming move on so I can tick you!"

See... not weird at all.

Wagon of Hell

2012-01-11T20:39:00.000Z

I don't tend to write many blogs during the week.

I usually save them all up for the weekend when I'll get on a roll and spout rant after rant, fuelled by a few bottles of wine and a zillion stored up issues which have been left to fester for days on end. However, seeing as I'm still firmly on my wagon (which if I'm honest, is getting rather tedious) and nothing is really winding me up at the moment, I feel that's worthy of a mention.

Hell, it's worthy of a medal!

Despite not making any New Year Resolutions (pointless), I did have in the back of my mind a determination to start back at the gym and knock the boozing on the head. Well, I can't quite believe I'm about to write this, but not only am I managing it really easily, I'm also quite enjoying it.

The gym, that is, not the tee-total nonsense.

Yes, I know it's good for me, I know if I carry on as I did throughout the entirety of last year that I will probably die soon, but it's not that much fun.

Having a glass (or bottle) of wine each evening after work was my way of relaxing. Having a bottle (or gallon) of wine at the weekend was my way of enjoying my time off without having to worry about next day's hangover. So, the prospect of yet another weekend without a single sip of merlot is making me feel a bit dejected.

I know I'm not the only one who does this kind of thing in January, and my sister and brother-in-law are both in the same boat, but that doesn't make me feel any better. I don't think they're suffering as much as me, and they have one another to motivate. I have no one to motivate me, and only myself to encourage.

It all sounds rather gloomy, but nevertheless I'm determined to stay strong! I guess the most positive thing is that nothing is really aggravating me, which is incredible in itself. It's the first time in a long time that I've been able to make a statement like that, so maybe I don't even need to drink.

Yeah, right.

Your Issue!

2012-01-08T19:41:00.000Z

It's days like this that I really, really love being single.

On a day to day basis I enjoy my boyfriend-free status, and much prefer to lead a hassle-free, independent life without argument or compromise. I listen to my friends moan about their boyfriends/husbands, for one more reason or another, on a fairly regular basis and sometimes I wonder if some of them are only in a relationship because they're scared of being "alone".

I know that's not the case with all of them, but I'm fairly certain I've hit the nail on the head with some. Not that I'd ever say it to them, of course. It's none of my business for a start, plus it would only cause disgruntlement - they have enough trouble with the men in their lives without me adding to the pile. And of course, whatever decisions they make are unequivocally their own, as mine are my own.

The main things that I hear are fairly standard complaints in most relationships, I imagine: too much time on the X-Box/PS3/Wii; never helps around the house; won't spend enough time with your friends/family; let the dog in again without wiping its feet; doesn't want a baby; wants a baby now; has no ambition; works too hard; far too possessive; doesn't seem to care; doesn't socialise enough; socialises too much; spends too much money; won't spend any money at all... The list seems to be pretty endless.

I thank my lucky stars sometimes that I don't have any of that to contend with. Yeah, sure it's nice to have someone to hang out with, go out for nice meals, do the kind of things couples do, but the only time I'm really aware of it is when I'm the only single person surrounded by couples. I hate the expectation that I should be paired off, and the fact that I'm thirty and "still single" is harder for others to accept than for me! That's crazy, and like it's anyone's business anyway! If I don't care, then why on earth should you?

A day like today has enhanced my feelings of single contentment.

I've spent the majority of the day back in my huge bed, dressed in the most comfortable (i.e. unattractive) clothing, completely sans makeup or hair product (i.e. looking like shit), with a hot water bottle, numerous cups of tea, and my own choice of DVDs. I've cooked whatever the hell has suited me and eaten whenever the hell I've felt like it. I will watch two hours of Dancing on Ice, sprawled across the entire sofa with only myself to worry about.

To summarise, I've spent a relaxing, blissful Sunday without protest, interruption, compromise or irritation - a much greater achievement than many.

It's certainly not a competition, but I can't help but feel ever so slightly smug given the fact that most couples either look at me in sympathy or wonder what's wrong with me for being on my own.

There's nothing wrong with me, thank you. I'm enjoying the ability of being an independent, liberated, self-sufficient young lady.

And if you can't understand that, then there's something wrong with you!

Sprightly Saturday!

2012-01-07T13:36:00.000Z

After pissing myself off and heading to bed early last night (9:30pm on a Friday - ridiculous), I woke up this morning feeling really, well, rather happy.

Having had a shit night's sleep (as per usual) and waking up early (as per usual), instead of feeling groggy and grouchy (as per usual), I felt quite contented (not at all usual).

I was up, showered, dressed and out and about by 9:30am, wandering round the supermarket without a care in the world or a frown on my face, thinking only of that cup of freshly brewed black coffee that I'd be drinking once I got home. Even the thought of the cleaning and washing didn't put a dampner on my mood, so laid-back was I.

I must admit that I was slightly perturbed when I got back to find my flatmate watching fucking 'Supernanny'. I thought her 'Eastenders', 'Jeremy Kyle' and all-bad-American-soap-watching habits were bad, but things are clearly getting out of hand.

Nothing that a gentle nudge in the direction of BBC One, and consequently a much more tolerable 'Saturday Kitchen' couldn't cure. She can thank me later date for saving her brain cells from an early decay into imbecility.

I didn't even get wound up when she sat idly watching me do all the housework without offering to lift a finger, only to then retreat swiftly to her bedroom as soon as I got the Dyson out. What did she think I was going to do? Vacuum her up to make a point?

Surely she knows me better than that by now. If I wanted to make a point I'd say: "Would it be at all possible for you to get off your arse and assist with cleaning up the mess that you regularly create, seeing as you do live here too and should therefore probably contribute somewhat, even if just to offer your assistance from time to time, please?"

Much simpler than blocking up the vacuum cleaner, and less chance of her assuming I'd done anything in error.

So anyway, aside from all that, I'm still feeling good. I don't want to admit that this change may have come about since I've stopped drinking, or since I've started back at the gym, because that would then prove that perhaps I do drink too much and that in fact I perhaps would feel better to knock it on the head for a bit.

So I won't admit it, and instead will say that it's down to the sun shining, that I'm young(ish), free and single and that my new job is way more enjoyable than my old one.

And I'm sticking with that!

Hypocritical Cunts

2012-01-03T21:33:00.000Z

I am sick and tired of hypocrisy.

I've been watching Shipwrecked this evening and it's reminded me of the people I used to work with, and the anger they used to evoke in me.

On this particular episode, a few of the inhabitants decided to kill one of the island pigs. Now, none of them are vegetarians - the only non-meat-eater left the island a couple of weeks ago, so you wouldn't expect there to be an issue. Right?

Wrong.

At least a third of the island kicked off with "I can't watch a pig be killed", "I can't let you do this", "It's cruel", "I can't eat it if you've killed it", yet every single one of those hypocritical cunts eats animals in their day to day lives. Quite happily. Without a care in the world or a flicker of conscience.

I worked with a couple of people who declared themselves animal lovers. The types who couldn't watch films with animals in just in case the animals got hurt because it would break their hearts and they'd cry for days, etc, etc, blah, blaaaaaah. The types who own animals, and claim to be the saviours for all animals in need.

Fuck off.

These are the same 'saviours' who eat steak, lamb, pork, chicken, any meat, on a daily basis, yet can't handle hearing the reality of how it arrived on their plates. Pathetic or what? At least know where your food comes from and understand what it had to go through before you put it into your body! Jesus. Don't you give a fuck what the poor thing has been through and what it does to you?

I could tell that they felt stupid after their "animal rants" because they'd look at my face and come out with piss poor sentences like, "I know I eat meat, but..."

But what, fuck head? It's better to say nothing at all and pretend you're retarded. Because that's certainly the impression I have of you.

Quite frankly, I'm appalled.

I have strong views towards animal cruelty, but this isn't really what this is about. This is to do with duplicity. You either love animals, or you don't. You either support the despicable depravity towards animals, or you don't.

There really is no in between. And the excuse "well, I wouldn't eat dogs or cats because they're pets" is fucking absurd! All animals have brains, minds, feelings and emotions. Just because you keep a dog in your home but not a cow does not mean one has more right to a life than the other.

This site is not an outlet for my animal rights views, it's not appropriate and not the basis of my blog, but my God when I'm provoked this strongly by such ignorance, I can't help but vent it out.

I bite my tongue constantly when surrounded by such idiocy.

Maybe it's time I started speaking my mind.

Arse In Gear!

2012-01-03T20:29:00.000Z

Time to get my arse into gear.

It's January, it's a new month, it's a new year. No, I'm not coming out with the predictable bollocks of "it's a new me" because it isn't. Of course it isn't, and all the millions of people that spout that bullshit are idiots with reality issues.

I do think it's time for a few changes, although realistically they'll be short term ones. I'm not on about "changing my life" or "changing myself" or any of that nonsense. I'm thirty for fucks' sake. It's not going to happen and I dont want it to.

I do, however, feel that I could do with a few weeks off the wine, and a few weeks of generally feeling better. I don't want to call it a detox, but it's something along those lines. So, from Thursday (when I'm back at work), I'm going to try and cut out booze during the week and cut down drastically over the weekends. On top of that, I need to revert to my strict vegan ways, not the lax ones that allow a smoked salmon salad for lunch once a month!

I won't touch dairy in a million years, but I've been eating the odd egg and have also had the occasional king prawn. Not terrible, but not good enough either.

I know my beliefs, I know my morals, I know I detest animal cruelty, and I know that I do my best. But sometimes I fail a bit and feel like a hypocrite, so it's time to step it back up again.

I was given a new vegan recipe book for Christmas, from my mother, which I love, and already this evening I've made an aubergine curry from it which was fantastic!

I know it's easy to do once I get my head back into it, and I know I feel and look better when I'm firmly in the zone, so what's stopping me?

Just let me finish the alcohol stock first, then I'll be fine. If it's not here, I won't be able to drink it.

That gives me the remainder of tonight and all of tomrrow to drink a bottle of wine, a litre of Smirnoff and the remaining dregs of a bottle of tequila and Disoronno.

Fun day tomorrow then.

Can't wait!

Winter Sports For One

2012-01-02T19:20:00.000Z

We're two days into 2012 and I've started off fairly flat.

I'm not in the depths of misery, but neither am I happy. I feel like a flat slope skier.

Skiing across flat ground is a challenge, an effort and a pain in the arse, so I'm probably considered all of those too. I mean, things aren't exactly bad. They've definitely been worse, and in fact 2011 started off appallingly in comparison.

I should be feeling more upbeat.

I have a new job to look forward to in a couple of days. I'll no longer be travelling 44 miles a day and spending £60 a week fuelling my car, and what's more, the entire operation was effortless! I decided to update my C.V., found a good job a mile from home, applied for it and got it. All within a week. That's lucky!

In addition to that, I've now got the one thing that I've been missing most since moving into my flat two years ago - a large flat screen TV with DVD player for my bedroom wall! Sounds trivial to most I'm sure, but it's been more of a challenge for me than you'd think, and I won't bore you with the reasons why. Complete with that, I'm getting Sky installed throughout in a couple of days, so gone will be the days of having to compromise with (or piss off) a flatmate with one shared TV in the sitting room. Admittedly it's never been that bad, but things could be better. And now they will be.

Financially things will be good. I have a lovely flatmate who I can't see any indication of leaving anytime soon and I'll be significantly better off from losing that commute. That means more money towards enjoyment: a gym membership, weekends away, shopping, better birthday and Christmas presents for people, more trips to The Emirates, buying nice things for my home, partying, you name it!

On top of all that, I have my sister and mother down the road, both of whom I'm really close to, and I live in a town and a flat that I adore.

I'm a lucky girl, so what's the matter with me?

Maybe it's the fact that I've had too much time to think, and have chosen to spend perhaps a little too much time alone. I feel anxious all the time, I'm drinking every single day to try and suppress it (yet failing miserably in doing so), I'm barely sleeping, I'm resurrecting memories that need to be left in their festering graves to rot, I'm feeling restless yet exhausted, and overall a little bit... deranged.

Maybe once I settle into my new job and back into a busy routine, things will return to normal - or as normal as things ever are where I'm concerned.

Until then, I'm going to keep busy and distracted and make the most of this time to myself - you can guarantee that once I'm surrounded by people for 16 hours a day again, I'll soon be offering my soul to Satan for a life of solitude.

Can't damn well win.

Fix Me

2011-12-31T21:31:00.000Z

I wish I could mend my head.

The above line was written by me as a start to a blog post on 25 January 2011, and abandoned in drafts until discovered just now.

It's funny really, because I was just starting my final blog of 2011 (da - daaaa) with a similar theme in mind. Maybe that's not funny. Maybe it's pretty tragic.

I wonder what inspired that opening line almost a year ago, and whether I was feeling the same as I am now, worse, or slightly better.

I never read my blogs. I've been writing since 2009, and off the top my my head, I cannot tell you what's in them. I know the vague topics of some, I've a fairly good idea of what I might've shared, how I've possibly come across, what I've been angry or animated about. But in terms of actual content, how I've chosen to express the feelings I've had at the time... I think a lot of it would come as a surprise to me - something I've read for the first time.

And I suppose that would be true. When I write, I do it from my own perspective, I never consider it as a reader possibly would. I never fully appreciate how it may be received. On the contrary. When I publish, I only think about the outlet and what it's done for me, enabling me to get rid of the shit in my head.

So, when I saw this line, almost a year on, it made me feel sad because I clearly still have a host of issues, only they're different to the ones I had before.

I need to cleanse my head of someone who just won't fucking leave.

It's ripping me apart. I can't stop thinking about him, I can't get past it, and I can't move on. That much was apparent recently after a close encounter with someone who I had a bit of a thing with well over a year ago. All I could think about was this other person, and how it wasn't him anymore. I knew it at the time, and as hard as I tried to block him out, he just wouldn't leave my head as one huge fucking comparison.

I don't know what to do. I'm screaming out for something to take it all away, to erase my memories, to change what happened, but nothing is helping, nothing is happening. Not even the fact that he's proved himself to be an exceptionally horrific human being.

There'd be nothing within me, if I was sane, to ever want to know this person ever again, let alone miss him and want him the way that I do. But deep down I know that if he contacted me again, and wanted to see me, I'd do it quicker than a heart beat.

I can't go into 2012 with these underlying issues. It's no good.

But I'm clearly pathetic. And I hate him for that.

Top Ten Resolutions - My Way!

2011-12-31T20:25:00.000Z

As mentioned before, I'm not one for New Year's Resolutions.

Not only are they predictable, but they are also widely unrealistic.

I have my own take on these so-called 'Top Ten New Year's Resolutions'.

1. Drink Less Alcohol? No. Drink As Much Alcohol As You Like.

Presumably this has to be aimed at adults, therefore, are adults in our Modern Western Civilisation not entitled to make their own decisions? We know the health risks by now, we know the dangers. We also know our own minds. Life is far too short to deprive oneself. Whilst I don't advise the life of alcohol dependency to the extent that you alienate your friends and family and end up in an early grave, I do advise that you enjoy yourself and make your own judgements. So women should not comsume more than 14 units a week? Well, a bottle of wine contains about nine units and I drink around five bottles a week.

2. Eat Healthy Food? No. Educate Yourself, Don't Be A Naive Twat.

If you have no understanding of the human body, of the importance of what you put into it, and what a human being actually does and does not need, then you have no hope with this. If you don't alter your way of thinking, you won't "eat more vegetables and cut out chips", because other than your unhappiness with your size, you won't know why you're actually doing it. You need to have more than just a target weight. Wake up and use your fucking brain. And no, despite what the Government tells us, we don't need dairy and we don't need meat. You're killing yourself as well as innocent animals.

3. Quit Smoking? No. Smoke If You Want To.

I smoked from the age of 13. At Uni I smoked about 40 a day. I quit cold turkey when I was about 22 and didn't smoke a single cigarette for about five years. I can take it or leave it, and I now smoke the odd one here and there. Maybe 20 a year. Yeah, it's bad for you, but so are men and that doesn't stop the majority of women. If you want to quit, just do your best, and don't beat yourself up about it. If you want to badly enough, you will, otherwise do what the fuck you like! There's enough grief in life from other avenues.

4. Save Money? No. Don't Set Unrealistic Goals If You Can't Acheive Them.

If someone told me during 2011 to "Save Money" I would've kicked them in the face. If I was spending lavishly on material crap, then sure! I'm not a fucking idiot. If I had a chance to save, don't you think I would? If I didn't have a wine habit, I possibly could. Think carefully before even attempting this one. For most, it's unrealistic and will only create stress.

5. Manage Stress? No. Just Don't Create Or Allow It.

Anything that causes that feeling of anxiety, the sleepless nights, the worry lines and the increase in blood pressure - get rid of it. If it's a relationship, bin it! If it's a job, quit it! If it's a child, have it adopted! I don't care, get rid, be done. Or don't allow it to manifest. Whichever. My answer is, it's not worth it.

6. Take A Trip? No. Don't Answer Your Phone.

It's a lot less costly than escaping for a week or two, and the chances are that you'll feel a lot more rested and at ease at the end of it. If you can take time off work whilst you Don't Answer Your Phone, then even better! It's amazing what a few weeks of being an unsociable cunt can do for one's soul.

7. Volunteer To Help Others? No. Help Yourself.

There's absolutely no point whatsoever in giving up what precious little time you may have to help others when you can't even help yourself. Don't kid yourself that it will make you feel better. It won't. You'll get home tired, grouchy and resentful and curse the idiot whose advice you naively took. Don't they say that charity begins at home? Donate to yourself. You'd only be doing it to make yourself feel better about yourself anyway. Cut corners.

8. Get A Better Education? No. Google It.

Realistically, who has the time and money to hold down a full time job, a household, a social life and a fucking educational course? My advice is, if you're interested in something and want to find out more, just Google it. We pay our Broadband subscriptions for a reason. Utilise it. Then you can Tweet your findings to your followers, which is just like Volunteering To Help Others, without even realising it.

9. Manage Debt? No. Stop Spending What's Not Yours, Fuckhead!

I can't believe that it's taken a worldwide market crash for people to realise that spending money that does not belong to them is a bad idea. I mean, really? What did we think would happen? People are lent an inordinate amount of money for, well, what? A new car? An extension? A house they can't afford? A hot tub? Partying? Fucking hell. The world is full of retards. Don't spend it, and don't lend it. Jesus Christ.

10. Get A Better Job? Ah. I Did.

No arguemnts there. I start next week!

So, there we have it. Good and realistic advice.

Happy New Year.

Say What?

2011-12-31T19:02:00.000Z

I read the most ludicrous article earlier today.

I say "read", but I actually skimmed over it with a million eye-rolls before laughing out loud at the predictability of it all and hurling it at the bin.

It was basically a list of twelve "Healthy Resolutions" and ways in which to keep them.

This time of year must be a piece of piss for un-inspired journos all over the world. "Oh look, it's nearly the end of the year! Time to start brain storming over a two page spread on how to keep resolutions! That's never been done before! I can definitely write something original!"

Please. Don't bother. Don't ever bother.

Unless you're aiming your article at either those who have lived in a sealed and sound proof box until now, but have nevertheless miraculously taught themselves how to read, or those who have the memory span of a goldfish (that's, what, two seconds?) then you will never write anything that hasn't already been written a billion times over.

Maybe your New Year's Resolution should be to be kind to the environment - save a fucking tree. And my sanity whilst you're at it.

These "original" and "inspiring" resolutions won't surprise you much, unless you're of a very special disposition.

- How To Lose A Dress Size!

- Quit Smoking The Stress-Free Way!

- Be Kind To Your Liver!

- Keep Positive When The Going Gets Tough!

- Give Yourself Down-Time!

- Look After Your Skin!

And my favourite of all:

- Visit The Dentist!

Huh? People need to be told to do these things?

The truth of the matter is that I'm not really one for New Year's Resolutions. Not only are they made either in a heavily alcohol-induced or heavily hungover state, but unless it's something of life changing importance, readily thought through and considered to be both realistic, massively beneficial and achievable, most of them fall by the wayside by about the 10th of January.

In addition to all that, do the general public really need a magazine to give them ideas? If resolutions are to be kept and seen through for an entire year, surely it's advisable for the individual to come up with their own? Otherwise, where's the determination behind it? Where's the motivation?

- "Why are you planning to get up at 5am everyday for the next 365 days for a three hour workout, only drink juiced vegetables, chant self-confidence mantras in the mirror twice a day and smile manically during every waking hour regardless of the reality of life's little mishaps?"

- "Because the December edition of '{Insert Title Here} Magazine' suggested it."

- "Oh. Ok. Good luck."

- "Thanks."

I don't know whether to blame the raving idiots who publish this shit of the readers who lap it up.

I guess I should thank this magazine really, because for the first time in years, I have a New Year's Resolution of my very own, and it's one that I'm determined and guaranteed to keep:

Do Not Buy A Magazine Next December!

I Am A Shrug

2011-12-31T13:17:00.000Z

It gets boring saying goodbye to yet another year and welcoming in a new one with hope and expectation.

It gets boring reflecting on the past 364 days and summarising the entire duration with just one word, usually a negative one.

It also gets boring bothering to wonder what lies ahead. Why bother? None of us can see the future. What will be, will be.

Today is 31 December 2011. Tomorrow will be 01 January 2012.

So, now that we've ascertained my ability to calculate how the calendar works, can we try and pinpoint why such significance and importance is placed on what is actually just another day?

One upon a time, I felt excited about a new year, especially going out on New Year's Eve for a wild night of insanity. But now, I don't feel a thing. I'm neither negative nor positive. I'm neither full of hope nor full of dread.

If I could personify my feelings with an action, I'd be a shrug.

Tonight I have two options, simply put: go out or stay in. Part of me says "go out, have a great time with your friends", but the other part of me argues "it will all end in tears, stay put!"

I'm more inclined to listen to the latter. Based on past experience, New Year's Eve always ends in tears and consequently the following year always begins on an icy downward slope with a deep lake of ice cold, dirty water at the bottom of it.

It might be time for change.

If I don't go out and beckon trouble, I can't wake up tomorrow feeling bleak, and that means my new year won't begin badly. I can't promise it won't begin with a hangover, but at least I'd only be harming myself and leaving half of Bridport out of my mood swings.

I'll decide later.

You Clown!

2011-12-31T12:36:00.000Z

It would be really nice not to be made to feel guilty for something you didn't actually do.

Certain tactics work on idiots, but some people can actually see through things for what they really are, they can see what you're trying to do, and they don't like it very much.

My advice is leave it to the professionals.

You can stick a load of people in a room, break the news and wait for a reaction, but as far as using this to point the finger and pin the blame on someone, you're having a fucking laugh! You're testing the wrong team, you're in the wrong area, you're miles off, you're stone cold, and your methods are shit! Absurd! Laughable!

If you need the proof, go summon Jeremy Fucking Kyle, ask him to bring one of his infamous lie-detector tests and watch every single one of us pass with flying colours. I'll even shake his hand, kick him in the balls and call him a cunt on the way out.

Regardless as to whether you like us or loathe us, you're supposed to behave in a professional manner.

But you don't.

You're a joke, and not even a funny one at that.

Gotcha!

2011-12-31T12:35:00.000Z

I consider it a real achievement to have spent almost every week for an entire year with a group of people who I can guarantee don't know me at all.

I've managed to keep my business to myself and my personal life private whilst portraying quite an openess and willingness to divulge information. Do you know how difficult that is?

I suppose it's considered normal to discuss your life with the people you work with, but I don't consider it imperative. I prefer to figure out peoples' motives before baring my soul, which is why I haven't shared a single thing.

I think most of them assume that they have me worked out, that they know the kind of person that I am, how I live my life and what I do with my time - and they wouldn't be wrong! They do know all of the above. But none of it is actually real. It's only what I've chosen to say.

When they've asked questions, I've dutifully answered them. What am I supposed to do? Just stare back and say nothing? Better to formulate some kind of picture than give them a blank page.

They "know" what I do at the weekend, they "know" who I spend my time with, they "know" that I'm always single, they "know" that I'm always skint.

They don't "know" anything, because none of it's true.

At least I've given them something to bitch about. I know that their negative opinions outweigh any positive they may have of me, but I'm happy with that seeing as their opinions are based on fiction.

I don't feel guilty for deceiving them, and I'm sure not one of them is remotely bothered about whether they know me or not - it was to do with keeping my distance, and I've successfully done so.

I take a while to trust people. When I do, I'll share anything with them and will do anything for them.

If I don't, I never will.

So, I guess I didn't.

The Final Countdown

2011-12-18T17:01:00.000Z

I'm on the final stretch. The end is in sight. I can see the finish line.

It's a shame I've still got another nineteen days to go, although the slight blessing is that only eleven of them are relevant. The rest I'll be spending enjoying myself!

It's a real feeling of triumph to be getting out of a situation that's making me unhappy (and skint). The last couple of weeks have been particularly bad, almost entirely due to one person who really should know better but doesn't appear to know how to behave professionally. I hardly think she deserves her £25.5k salary - she certainly doesn't earn it, unless "faffing" and "bitching" make up her entire job description.

But who am I to comment? Who am I?

Well, for one thing I'm someone who won't sit around and be spoken to like shit every day. I'm someone who will speak up and give my opinion. I'm someone who won't tolerate being managed by an individual who has zero intelligence and the inability to, well, manage.

What a fucking joke.

In my humble opinion, it's very important to have respect for certain people in your working environment, so if I don't, I can't work for them. It's as simple as that.

I'm looking forward to 2012. 2011 has been another tough year, but whatever the next one throws at me, I know I won't have a fourty four mile daily round trip to contend with and a face like a slapped arse to look at every day.

Let's all drink to that!

Bitch In The Mirror

2011-12-11T16:39:00.000Z

From one day to the next I can't make out which of your faces I'm actually looking at!

I mean, there's two-faced, and then there's multi-faced. Fucking hell, do you even know who you are anymore? When you look in the mirror, can you remember which one is the real you, or have they all just merged into one ugly jumbled mess of bitchiness?

So, you like to have a bit of a gossip. You like to whisper in hushed tones in order to create intrigue amongst those not privy. You like to discuss, at length, other peoples' business. You like to feel as though you're the first to know something no matter how significant or otherwise. I suppose that, sadly, there are a lot of people like you.

Does that really mean that you have to take pleasure in the unhappiness or disappointment of others? That you have to revel in their suffering? That you must assign yourself the role of Messenger and spread the news like the infestation of the Plague?

What is it exactly that you get out of it? What good does it do you? What does it add to your life? How does it enrich it? Because, really, I don't understand it at all. I just don't get it.

Are you so confident that you will never fall victim to misfortune? That you will never experience downfall or disaster? Can you honestly say that you will always be coasting along in life, happy go lucky, just spreading your nasty news, oblivious to how it feels to be the gambit?

What would happen if something unfortunate did happen to you? How would you then feel if you were the one that everyone was whispering about? You wouldn't necessarily know it at first, of course. People have a way of changing faces and only portraying the one that they want you to see. But then, you'd know all about that already. Silly me.

How can you even be sure that the people you're deceiving are not fully aware of it, and playing you at your own game? If they're as good at it as you clearly think you are, then you'll be none the wiser, surely?

Well, you're not "good at it" at all. I've seen more convincing impersonations of Michael Jackson!

You really need to learn how to behave properly, young lady. You need to stop hiding within your hall of mirrors. You're as transparent as water, and just as weak.

Grow the fuck up before someone comes along and breaks one of those mirrors over your head.

Then watch your news spread.

My Eight Year Old Me

2011-12-11T15:05:00.000Z

When I was little, there were loads of things I wanted to be when I grew up.

I'm none of those things now.

As an innocent child looking through unblemished eyes with an unsullied mind, you're full of excitement and enthusiasm for what the future holds, the adventures it will bring, the opportunities in your path, the possibilities open to you. You wonder who you'll meet, where you'll live, what you'll be.

It can't arrive quickly enough! You want it now! You're ready for it!

What you don't realise is that all those hopes and dreams are precisely that - dreams.

As a child I wanted to be a teacher, a police woman, a singer, a TV Chef.

As an adult, I can't stand children, I'm anti-authority, I can't really sing and the thought of cooking to even a fraction of Masterchef standards to be worthy of a TV career gives me cold shivers.

What I do now is irrelevant really, but ultimately I know my life is unfulfilled. Maybe it was hitting thirty recently that gave me a wake up call. Maybe deep down I've known it for years. The point is that I've wasted, and am continuing to waste my life.

Every moment of down-time is filled with an inner feeling of anxiety and restlessness. I want to relax, I want to just be, I want to just rest, but I can't relax, be or rest. My head spins, my stomach turns, and I feel trapped. Constantly.

During the week I'm basically just driving, working and sleeping. My evenings are mostly short and irrelevant. I'm home from work, I eat, I watch a bit of TV, and I go to bed. Same again, and again, and again until the weekend.

I spend all week looking forward to Friday night and the end of yet another shitty five days, regardless of what I've got (or haven't got) planned. Just some time to think about things, to make sense of things, to have some peace and quiet and to get away from the day to day monotony. However, weekends cause me nothing but stress and tension, because regardless of what I'm doing, my mind always drifts back to what I should be doing, which certainly isn't what I am doing. Broadly speaking.

I can't switch it off. I'm wide awake at the crack of dawn, despite craving a lie-in all week, and when I do get up, I'm obsessing over the best way to spend my precious time before it's snatched away from me again.

It's no wonder I hit the booze by the early afternoon. I find myself looking at the clock, waiting for an "appropriate" time to open the wine. Well, what's appropriate to one person is outrageous to another, so if I were to tell you that, in my mind, once it hits midday it's perfectly ok to start drinking, half of you would balk, the other half would agree.

I tend to find that the only way to relax and to stop over-thinking is to put myself into another zone entirely. At that point, I'm complaisant, nonchalant, detached; I couldn't give a fuck. I feel free of all my hang-ups, my demons, my afflictions. I'm suddenly cut loose from those assiduous 'what ifs' and 'if onlys'. I mean, what am I ever going to achieve by dwelling on it all, anyway? What does it even matter?

Easy to say when you're off flying round Planet Vino wearing a party hat and blowing one of those stupid party horns, but not so easy to repeat once you've crashed back to Planet Actuality, landed on your head and the first thing that greets you is an empty wine rack.

I wonder what my eight year old self would make of me now. What would she think of how I've turned out, of where I am in life, of who I've become? I'm pretty sure the wine habit wouldn't come as any great shock, but what about the rest?

I dread to think.

One thing I do know is that she'd probably say: "What an idiot! She spends all week looking forward to the weekend, then spends the entire time drinking it away only to remember nothing at the end of it!"

Well, in response to that, I'd probably say: "Oh, darling, young, innocent child. You'll understand, when you grow up. And there's no escaping your fate either. So deal with it!"

Perception

2011-11-20T16:22:00.000Z

I'm starting to think I've got a split personality.

I know in the past I've talked about being a master of pretence when it comes to portraying a happy outward persona, but that's more a necessity when it comes to successfully holding down a job and getting through every day life. What I'm talking about now is more about a different me altogether.

The reality of my life is that I need a flatmate in order to live where I live. I'm fortunate enough to live in a lovely area, in a beautiful flat with nice things inside it, but my sacrifice is working my arse off, going without luxuries that most people in couples can usually afford (holidays, for example), and having to share my space with a complete stranger (initially).

I've recently acquired a new flatmate, almost as soon as my previous one of a year moved out. When I met her, I warmed to her instantly. Unlike my previous one, she's actually someone I can identify with. She's fun, she has similar interests, and she's mature and independent, despite being much younger. I also get the impression that she hasn't been wrapped in cotton wool her entire life. What a refreshing change.

She's been here a couple of weeks, and so far we're like ships that pass in the night. I'm out all week - at work during the day, and out pretty much every evening Monday to Thursday - and she works most weekends and spends the rest of the time with her boyfriend. The little time that we have spent together has made me reflect on how I come across, and how realistic that actually is in terms of how I really am.

I hear myself coming out with things that I'd never usually come out with, almost like I'm trying too hard to be accommodating. That's not me at all. I'm always polite, but generally come across as quite standoffish and fairly distant and formal. I know I'm a caring person, when it matters, so it's probably to do with the fact that I want her to feel at home and to feel settled. I know what it's like to move around and to want to be accepted.

I've also found myself secretly disposing of my drinking evidence, which is both hilarious and insane! I look at the empty bottles and think "Shit, I'd better hide those until I take the recycling out. Don't want her to think I have a drink problem!" I don't know her yet, and she doesn't know me (and realistically, probably never will), so I don't know what her views on alcohol are. To me, my way is perfectly acceptable and normal, but I accept that that's not everyone's attitude. I'm not a 'one glass and I'm hammered' girl. I'm a 'that's two bottles gone, better not open another because tomorrow's Tuesday' girl.

My representation, so far, has been upbeat, friendly, happy, positive, welcoming, accommodating, accepting, generous, caring, considerate and as if I haven't a care in the world.

The reality is, I'm always going to be welcoming, accommodating, generous, caring and considerate because those are my (nice) character traits, but as far as the others go, I'm definitely not always upbeat, happy and positive, which therefore often comes across as unfriendly. As far as not having a care in the world goes? I won't even dignify that with a response.

Having recently been through a fairly rigorous personality insight session at work (where I felt alienated and ripped to shreds throughout), I kind of recognise how others perceive me, and how different that is to what's really going on. When I'm feeling low and in need of space and time to think things through, I project some kind of repellant towards all human beings.

I come across as: "Don't fucking talk to me. In fact don't even look my way because you'll either get shot down verbally or turned to stone visually".

What I'm actually thinking is: "Please, just let me be. I'm having a bit of a tough time today and I'm struggling".

I need to learn how to balance my personality a bit when I live with someone who doesn't know me, because I don't want the poor girl to feel uncomfortable or on edge. She doesn't know what's going on in my head (neither do I, most of the time), so I probably need to play the overly nice side down a bit otherwise she'll be in for one hell of a shock when I'm on one of my downers!

It'll be a case of: "Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck have you done with Hana?"

Funnily enough, that's the very same question I was asked recently on Twitter after sending a 'good morning' tweet without any sign of a swear word.

See? My point exactly.

Preception.

The Peoples' Voice

2011-11-18T17:59:00.000Z

The last few films I’ve watched have left me feeling really disappointed, like I’ve just wasted a few hours of my precious and every diminishing life.

In fact, I‘d calculate that I’ve recently wasted about ten hours on what can only be described as ‘shit’.

Not only is the fact that I’ve wasted my time something of an issue to me, but I’m also less than happy about the reason behind my doing so: false advertising and deception.

You read reviews for a reason, to see if something would be worth your time, or a waste of your time. Having put myself through such pointless time wasting activities of late, I have to ask the question: “Who in God’s name is writing these reviews? Have they no standards? Are they happy to watch just any old nonsense?”

I would put in a fierce complaint, but who does one complain to about peoples’ terrible opinions? After all, an opinion can’t be wrong, can it? (Actually, I beg to differ, but then I would.) So, instead of lodging a complaint with a non-existent entity that will therefore never respond, nor read it (it doesn’t exist), I’ve decided to complain to myself instead, purely for my own satisfaction. On here. Right now.

(You will agree, of course, that this isn’t in the slightest bit a waste of time.)

"To Whom It May Concern,

As an avid film watcher who spends about fourteen hours a day, five days a week out of the house due to a combination of work and travel, I tend to look forward to my precious weekends and view them as a time to rest, spend some time at home, and ideally, to enjoy myself.

I crave this free time to spend answering to no one, doing what I like, when I like, if I like, without anyone I dislike. To narrow it down to one category, purely for the sake of this letter: I like watching decent films. I dislike watching shit ones. I also dislike being deceived, duped, lied to, misled and bitterly disappointed. Unfortunately, due to clearly being a complete mug, I tend to read the reviews that people write and allow myself to be influenced ever so slightly, ever so occasionally – an attitude I’d never apply to any other aspect of my life so why I do this with films is anyone’s guess.

Of course, rather than accepting any responsibility myself for this, I’d much rather approach things from a different angle and state that the people writing these reviews are either deceitful fraudsters looking to ruin people’s lives, or are utterly devoid of good taste or intelligence.

Characters of such despicable disposition should not be granted air time. Measures should be taken to restrict their ability to infiltrate trusted websites with their meaningless ramblings and the inane product of thoughtlessness. You know the saying “if you have nothing decent to say, don’t say anything at all”? Well, there you have it – they need to be silenced.

Whilst I realise that hunting down each and every culprit with the intention of taking away their freedom of speech (or their ability to ever voice their questionable opinions ever again) is highly unlikely (and probably illegal), I wouldn’t be entirely against lobotomies.

I await your response with anticipation..."

Surely I’m not asking too much by politely requesting that people refrain from giving misleading reviews on films? If you think something’s good, just keep it to yourself in future, it’s safer that way. The chances are that not everyone will agree with you, and their discovery of this could cause worldwide rioting! Then how guilty will you feel? You won’t just have ruined someone’s evening; you might tumble an entire nation!

Another option, of course, could be that I don’t read things in blind faith, take them on face value and then feel cheated later on when things don’t go the way I assumed.

But, now is not the time. This isn’t about me. It’s about all of you and my wish for us all to live in a society void of bad opinion.

I know, I know. Selfless to the end.

Triumphant Thirty!

2011-11-13T17:12:00.000Z

You know you're starting to knock on a bit when you hear yourself saying something along the lines of: "I know, it's crazy, I still feel like I'm twenty one!"

What you really mean is: "I can't believe how fucking old I'm getting, so I'm going to assure every single person I know that, actually, I'm still very young, thank you very much."

Well, you're not, are you? Because if you were, you wouldn't be insisting otherwise. For example, when do you ever hear a twenty-one-year-old say: "I know, it's crazy, I still feel like I'm ten!"

Yes. Quite.

When you reach the grand old age of... thirty... but realise that you haven't actually grown up or reached the stage of responsibility yet, it doesn't mean you're young, it means you're in denial.

When I say "you", I mean "me", of course. That was screamingly obvious.

Yes, I'm one of those people who insists that they still feel twenty one, blah, blah, blah... I'm one of those people whose highlight in life is being ID'd at the supermarket for booze, and then proudly telling everyone I know that's unlucky enough to be in the vicinity at the time about it. I'm also one of those people who still secretly likes to believe that they ask for ID if you look under eighteen, not twenty five, as is the reality nowadays.

Whatever makes me happy, right? Whatever makes me feel young? Absolutely! Let's just skip over the fact that I used the word "nowadays", shall we?

So, whilst I love the maturity (ahem) and life experience that being thirty brings, I also loathe the thought that people younger than me are looking at me and thinking any of the following:

- Why is she still single / living on her own / not married / without children at her age? What's wrong with her?

- Why doesn't she have any responsibility at her age? What's wrong with her?

- Why doesn't she have a sparkling career? After all, she hasn't got any responsibilities / a relationship / a husband / children so what else does she do with her time? What's wrong with her?

What's wrong with me? What's right with me, more like! If I had chosen to settle down, get married, have children, or a sparking career, I know for damn sure I could have had any one of those things - all of them, in fact. Quite seriously.

It's merely a comparison. Of course it's not a written rule that by thirty you should have achieved this, that or whatever. It's purely the fact that everyone I know of my age (and below) has at least one of the above. Even my younger sister is married with two dogs, for heaven's sake! What a fucking embarrassment that is.

It's a ridiculous mindset, of course. Thirty is young. Fourty is young. Fifty is young! Sixty! I could go on... It's about attitude, mentality, vitality, outlook... It's not about ticking boxes or competing with others as to who can get married first, who's doing what job, and how many kids you can get under your belt.

Heaven forbid! It's not for me. If it was, that's what it would be.

It just makes me laugh sometimes, when I have that momentary panic of "Shit! I'm thirty! What have I done with my life?", when what I should really be saying is: "Thank God I didn't do that. Thank God I always did what my instincts told me and I didn't settle for what wasn't right".

It may all be to my own detriment, of course, but I can't be any different. I have to accept the way that I am.

Similarly, those I know also have to accept the fact that I will always look younger than them, despite being older.

What was that about age mattering, again...?

Your Own Demise.

2011-11-13T14:43:00.000Z

Am I the only one who constantly imagines my own death?

I can't help it, but I do it all the time, mainly when I'm driving to and from work.

When I'm in my car, twenty miles each way, day after day, either in silence or with music playing, I have all this time to think, and the majority of that time is spent imagining myself crashing my car into an oncoming bus or lorry, taking a corner too fast and veering off into a hedge, or being smashed into by an idiot driver, overtaking without looking ahead.

I don't know why, but for years I've envisaged myself dying in a car accident. Maybe it's because I've had quite a few - only one of which was genuinely my fault. I think that's the point! No matter how carefully you might drive, or how alert you might be, the fact of the matter is that you're not in control of who else is on the road when you are.

Add to that the fact that I'm a pretty fast and impatient driver (I like to call it "confident", although I know I'm not dangerous) and you can see how I might reach such a conclusion.

Occasionally I think I'm going to have a heart attack. My heart rate often accelerates for no reason, I have the odd heart palpitation here and there and, yeah, I get stressed and anxious. A lot. Add to that the fact that I drink a fair bit, have experienced my fair share of amphetamines in the past, and swear by strong black coffee to get me through the mornings, and surely I'm a strong candidate.

Other images have involved the obvious: alcohol poisoning, an overdose... self-inflicted, of course, during an episode where I plummet once again into the depths of Hell, that kind of thing. I don't mean to sound so nonchalant about it, but I guess I just am - been there, done that, accept it could happen again, and all that... Such is life, and it would be my own damned fault anyway.

Despite all of that, I think I'm actually quite scared of dying. Some days I want to, because if the alternative to death is this, then I'd rather risk it and see. But most days, I don't want to die, because not only is it the not knowing, but I don't want to leave my mum and my sister behind.

There's no guarantee that you'll see your loved ones after you die, and I'm not religious (although neither am I an atheist), so I don't have the strong belief that I'll immediately meet up with my dad at the end of a bright tunnel. More's the pity.

I guess I'm just aware of my own mortality, which isn't a bad thing. After all, who wants to spend their life in denial, believing they're invincible and untouchable?

That's one way to guarantee disappointment because in the end, we all die one way or other.

I Dreamed A Dream.

2011-11-12T20:28:00.000Z

If my recent dreams are anything to go by, they need to invent some way of jet washing peoples' brains.

Over the past-however-long, every dream I've had has been filled with one trauma or another, so real and so emotional that it's been affecting me for days afterwards.

Last night I went to bed at half nine and pretty much slept through, interrupted only once or twice, until almost ten this morning. That's usually unheard of for me, but I guess I must've been feeling exhausted, both mentally and physically.

I originally woke just before seven, fresh from yet another harrowing journey into my clearly tortured subconscious, feeling completely overwhelmed and overcome with grief.

This one started, as many of my dreams do, with the realisation that we're at war. I start to see planes flying overhead, far too low, leaving in their wake the certainty and anticipation that life as we currently know it is soon to be no-longer. We're either all going to die, painfully, or the people I love are. Either way, the message is crystal clear: loss.

In this particular dream, the feeling of panic is overpowering. Its strength is such that I can't even put the sensation accurately into words. It's nothing I've ever felt consciously, but it's all too real. All I can think about is finding my mother, my father and my sister. When I do find them, all I can do is grasp hold of all three of them, desperately, and repeat passionately over and over again, through a torrent of uncontrollable tears, how important and vital it is that we all stay together because the inevitable is about to happen and we can't be without one another.

All I care about is not letting go of them. I don't care what happens next. I just want the four of us to stay together. If we stay together then we either live together, or we die together. No one is left behind. No one goes anywhere or remains anywhere alone. We are all together.

Cut to the next scene, entirely unrelated to the previous, but similar in theme. In this one, I think I'm a ghost. I know I'm dead, because I can see my brutalised and bloodied body, propped up on a bench in a hallway, but I'm now sitting on my sister's bed, while she sits there looking at photos of me. I'm screaming at her to hear me, telling her that I love her, crying the same uncontrollable tears which I feel will never ever stop, trying to hold onto her, but I can't, because I'm not really there. I'm gone and I've left her behind, just quietly sitting on her bed.

It's what I can only describe as being suffocated by sorrow, by anguish, by deep bereavement. I'm crying so hard, so forcefully, that I can hardly breathe. It feels like there's pressure on my throat and on my chest, and I can't do anything to push it off. I'm powerless, I'm weak, I'm pathetic.

The other night, I dreamt that I saw my mother crash her car whilst driving dangerously, flipping the vehicle over and coming to a deathly stand still. I arrive suddenly at the scene to see her staggering out of the mangled wreckage, without a scratch on her, but severely mentally afflicted.

My grief is again so crushing that I cannot stop crying. Where has my mother gone? She's now someone I no longer recognise. Gone is her entire personality, her character, her uniqueness, her mind. She looks the same, but she's not the same at all. She's vanished and she's never coming back. In her place is an imposter.

These types of dreams, or variations of, have been going on for months on end, but they're starting to become more frequent and a lot more disturbing.

I don't want to go into too much detail about the dream I had between going back to sleep and waking again this morning, but in this one I was being violently murdered. I didn't feel any pain, physically, instead my pain was created by the realisation of the two people who were carrying it out. The agony it evoked in me, emotionally, was, and still is, unspeakable. I can hardly even believe that my mind did this to me, put me through it, allowed me to even, well, "dream it up", if you like.

It worries me. I can understand, somewhat, the dreams involving my dad and my family, and wanting to keep hold of them all. I know I have issues that should probably be addressed. But sometimes it goes too far. It takes me days on end to recover.

On all occasions I've woken with puffy eyes, as though I've physically been crying my heart dry for eight hours. Had I? We don't know what we do whilst we're asleep, and there's currently no one to tell me, so who knows? For all I know I was crying into my pillow throughout each ordeal, then waking the next morning, wondering why I feel so groggy and look like shit. More than usual, I mean.

It scares me that our dreams are out of our control, and that whatever happens in our minds and in our subconscious after we fall asleep will play out, regardless.

It's becoming a bit too much to snap out of, and I'm just hoping beyond belief that it doesn't continue.

After all, what more can my mind do to me? I feel like it's already done its worst.

Motor Mouth

2011-10-30T15:08:00.000Z

I've got far too much to say and not enough time to say it in.

I guess that's one reason I'm currently in Twitter Jail, and another that I haven't got a specific subject in mind for this blog.

I have a million of them.

Where do I start? The immense 3-5 away win over Chelsea yesterday? My new flatmate moving in next Thursday evening? Being woken at 6am by an alarm going off somewhere in the area, only to briefly stop then restart again, repeatedly until 9:45am? The fact that today's Shipwrecked episode was Tuesday night's episode, repeated? The fact that the last few films I've had from LoveFilm have been wank? The fact that I'm partying my arse off on a Sunday afternoon without any appreciation for that fact that tomorrow is Monday and I will regret it, deeply?

I suppose it's worth mentioning that when I woke up this morning my first thought was Robin Van Persie's hat trick... That I'm wearing this season's Vermaelen Home shirt with pride and can't stop kissing the badge... That all the Chav fans I know are extremely quiet this weekend...

Good job I'm not one to brag and rub their faces in it. Otherwise, I'd be screaming out something like, "What's the Mata, Ch3l5ea? You look Terry-fived by the Ar53nal score!".

But... I wouldn't.

The flatmate thing is exciting, I guess. Yeah, so I don't want to share my place, blaaaaah, but I have to, so deal with it. I've not lost a single month's rent despite the fact that my last flatmate moved out early - her choice, did me a favour in fact! I must remember to thank her if I ever see her... Although, I won't. Thank her, that is.

As much as I want to bitch about Shipwrecked, I realise how pathetic that is, therefore I won't. But, Channel 4, a word of advice to you: if you advertise the launch show to be on a certain midweek evening with subsequent episodes to follow each Sunday, do not then show the launch show again on the Sunday, because most people will have watched that in preparation for the subsequent Sunday show, only to be rather disappointed to be watching the very same show that they actually made the effort to watch during the week. It is fucking rage invoking.

I won't rant about the alarm going off this morning either. Why ruin my high? I'll just let it go, other than to just mention this: unless you are fucking deaf, you're surely aware that your alarm is going off repeatedly. You got it for a reason, right? To alert you in some way? So it begs the question, why ignore it for over three hours and just let it carry on? You're either not there, in which case why bother with a fucking alarm in the first place, or you are actually deaf, which begs another question: why bother with a fucking alarm in the first place?

But, I won't rant.

I guess I'm the only one to blame for bad choices on LoveFilm. But, actually, you do have to question peoples' reviews. For example, I wouldn't go for a film that was given one star and called "shit", so I can only assume that all the other people who have seen the last few films that I have seen are all retarded. That's the only explanation for it! I made sure I added my reviews, that's for sure. I don't believe in conning people. You shameless fuckers should be charged with fraud.

So, back to the partying then. I should be out of Twitter Jail by now, and if not, fuck it.

I'm sure I'll find something else to say.

I Hate You, Me...

2011-10-27T21:28:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow is going to be an interesting day.

I booked the day off work ages ago, needing to use up holiday between now and the end of the year, so thought I'd take a few randomly selected Fridays leading up to Christmas. Originally, I hadn't planned to do a lot (or anything at all), which suited me just fine, but now I'm meeting someone who could potentially become my new flatmate.

I can hear half of you laughing already. And you're probably right to be.

Judging on past experience, this should fill me with dread, give me a sleepless night and unerring fear for the future, but in actual fact I'm quite looking forward to it and viewing it positively.

I'm yet to understand why...

It goes without saying that in an ideal world - a world where I had one of those legendary trees that grows and instantly replenishes fifty pound notes on a daily basis - I wouldn't share my flat with another human being ever again. After all, I don't really like them. I'd have the place entirely to myself and would spend the majority of my weekends lazing around watching DVDs and gradually drinking my way into Hell.

Sounds like I put a negative stance on that, but actually that way of life is right up my avenue, right down my street, right along my cul-de-sac and right around my neck of the woods. With bells on. Right?

Monday to Thursday is generally non-eventful. I merely come home from work, eat a half-hearted attempt at a proper meal, maybe have a glass of wine (or two, or three, depending on my day), watch a bit of TV and go to bed. Early.

Friday to Sunday? Now this is my time for my time!

When I have a flatmate, I simply cannot be me.

I simply cannot arrive home, immediately crack open the red wine, white wine, Prosecco, Budweiser, vodka, tequila, brandy, gin, amaretto (yes, I do mean all of them, and the list is by no means conclusive), crank up one after another System of a Down albums (that's always five in a row, before moving on to Serj's two solos, and the list is also by no means conclusive) to maximum volume and then make the flawless decision to proceed in this manner until, oh, about... 5am?

No. I cannot.

What I find myself doing instead is walking into my sitting room to find said flatmate already relaxing on the sofa (everyone I live with seems to work about four hours a day less than me), watching whatever is currently on the TV (usually shit), having a lovely home cooked meal (or at least an effort towards one), and perfectly happy to remain that way until they finally decide to slope off to bed.

That's fair enough. I guess that's pretty normal. Is it normal? I don't actually know. But whatever it is, I can't then think "Oh goodie, they've gone to bed, let's stick on the music and get on it! Better late than never, hey?".

Not only would that attitude probably keep said flatmate awake all night, and therefore make said flatmate unhappy and consequently ex-flatmate, but could possibly also create the assumption that they could do the same.

No. You cannot.

Having a flatmate is, what I imagine to be, very much akin to having a child (yes, I really think that) - you have to set an example.

The last thing I want is to live with an angry, human-hating, bipolar, metalhead bitch who plays music until the early hours, could drink the late Amy Winehouse under my red wine infused coffee table and proceeds to act like a responsibility-void cunt until reality finally hits again at 5:45am on Monday morning when the alarm goes off for work (where I am extremely professional and responsible, thank you very much).

Basically, if she's anything like me, she's not moving in.

Fortunately, I'm rare.

At least I hope I am, because if I met another me, I would fucking hate her.

Opposite Extremes

2011-10-23T16:54:00.000+01:00

Rare moment of happiness going on here.

Told you I was a fluctuation of emotional pedigree.

Otherwise known as a plethora of idiosyncrasy.

Or, to put it more simply, a histrionic fuck up.

I've never actually been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, probably mainly due to the fact that I refuse to go to the doctor unless I feel like I'm about to die...

(as an aside, sinusitis did feel like death, and so did my kidney infection, plus both are easily treated with a seven day course of antibiotics, not by being made to talk to a stranger who couldn't really give a fuck, but is purely there for the money)

... but it's pretty easy to self diagnose these days. I looked up the proper meaning on the internet and got this: an affective disorder characterized by periods of mania alternating with periods of depression, usually interspersed with relatively long intervals of normal mood.

Check!

Doesn't take Kerry frigging Katona publicising the illness to make it a reality, giving it a bad name whilst she's at it. Neither does it take a scientist, or even a doctor, to figure out I'm a classic case.

My moods are, at times, categorised by actual events: the euphoria comes from Arsenal wins, the depression comes from, well, the rest of my life.

For the most part, I act normally because I'm extremely talented at pretending. When I can't be arsed to pretend anymore, or get tired of the effort it involves to do so, I let my true state of mind win, and out comes the side that should rarely be witnessed by other humans. So, it rarely is.

The reason for the positive state of mind today is purely the simplistic fact that we won 3-1 and Man Utd (otherwise known as The Scum Cunts) lost 1-6 at home in a Manchester derby. Hilarious!

Yes, that's really all it takes. Easily pleased, you might say. Well... easily pleased by football wins, yes. It's not quite that simple the rest of the time.

Detesting humanity makes things rather more challenging.

For the rest of the day I shall be enjoying my wine and my music, maybe spending a bit of time on Twitter, maybe watching a film or two.

It's a high possibility that I'll drink too much and turn into that monster we all fear and detest.

Who knows?

I guess that adds to the mystery of life.

Spiritual Appreciation

2011-10-21T22:44:00.000+01:00

Once upon a time, if I were to swig from a bottle of vodka, tequila or brandy I would immediately recoil at the burning sensation in my throat and the instant gag reflex that necking neat spirits evokes in most human beings.

I would detest the taste, the tingle, the burn, the feeling of sickness in my stomach.

It would make me pull a face, shake my head, utter a complaint. It would probably make my head spin a bit, make me hiccup, or at least speed up the journey to drunken oblivion.

So, should I be worried about the fact that I can now go to my fridge, take out all of the above and swig from each one in turn without even curling a lip?

I generally like to keep all my spirits in the fridge or freezer due to the fact that I like to drink them neat, and find them a lot more palatable when ice cold. Did I say palatable? I meant immensely enjoyable.

After polishing off a bottle of red wine, I would happily crack open another, but when supplies are diminished and all I have to choose from is nine bottles of white, four bottles of Bud, two bottles of vodka, half a bottle of tequila and half a bottle of brandy, the last thing I want to do is start on the white or the beers.

It makes sense to move onto the reserves. But what to choose?

In situations like this, I like to go to the fridge and swig from each bottle in order to make an informed decision based on what really grabs me at the time. Tonight, it's brandy. Ah hell, who am I kidding, it's always brandy. The problem is that it just so happens that I only drink the good stuff, so every time I need to replace a bottle it's at least £27. For the short time that a bottle actually lasts me (two days, at best), I fucking begrudge it! I can usually pick up a litre of Smirnoff Red for £15, so the vodka supplies in both my fridge and freezer are always plentiful. Good job I have a taste for vodka as well as brandy!

Neat tequila only gets consumed when I've run out of margarita mix and my vodka and brandy supplies are dead. Based on what I said about the Smirnoff Red, that's almost never. I guess I just like to swig out of the tequila bottle purely for the fuck of it...

So, back to the question: should I be worried?

The answer: probably.

Am I? Not really.

Since when do I give a fuck about my alcohol intake? I have enough worries circling my head without losing sleep over the things that keep me going and make my abhorrent life enjoyable.

I'll get into the severe eating restrictions, obsessive household habits and immense dislike towards all other human beings another time.

By now, I've had too much brandy to give a flying fuck anyway.

De Ja Vu... Again!

2011-10-17T20:57:00.000+01:00

Rock bottom, again.

It's such a case of de ja vu that I could equally as easily have called this "Here We Go Again", but I'm sure I've used that one before. Or did I use "De Ja Vu"...?

You see?

Today has been one of the least favourable days of the past couple of months. I think it's been slowly creeping up for a while, then suddenly hit me on Friday night like a truck driver speeding in a concrete lorry at a steady 130, whilst six times over the limit.

Well, regardless of a Saturday lie in, I really should know better than to spend the night drinking two bottles of wine on my own at home whilst listening to music, over-thinking, reminiscing on things that don't need to be thought about, and contacting someone who doesn't need, or want, to be contacted. If only I knew better. Or at the very least, listened to myself, because I actually do know what's not ideal. If I deleted his number, I shouldn't then get round it by sending him a fucking email!

No wonder I'm a wreckage.

Saturday was spent mostly in bed, nursing the type of hangover that I haven't experienced since the summer, only to then be followed by immense disappointment due to extreme miscommunication. No one's fault, but mood-diminishing, nevertheless.

I woke early on Sunday feeling anxious, restless and stressed. My stomach was in knots, my heart rate running on at least triple speed, and my head God-only-knows where. I couldn't relax all day, and felt like I needed to be doing something constructive, rather than living the mundane, mindless existence that's currently my reality.

At my mother's, later that evening, we shared a bottle of wine and I listened to fantastic stories of her teens and twenties. I loved it! So funny, so eye-opening, so honest. It also blew the doors off the truth that I'm living a life that's slowly killing my soul.

I didn't sleep last night at all. I lay awake, reading, thinking, trying (without success) to shut my overactive brain down, trying to tire myself out ahead of that up and coming Monday Morning Syndrome At Work.

Well, Monday Morning Syndrome At Work surpassed itself today.

I woke shattered, anxious, unhappy and utterly in a rut.

What in fucking God's name am I doing with my life, besides utterly wasting it?

I'm not intellectually stimulated. I'm bored. I'm frustrated. I'm raging!

I'm also incapable of doing anything about it.

I can't see a way out. I've been here numerous times before, and I've made the necessary changes at the time, but every time I have, I've then shortly found myself right back where I was before.

Where am I going wrong? Why can't I break the cycle of extreme disatisfaction that seems to rear it's ugly head after less than only a year?

I simply cannot spend my days talking about X Factor and diets.

I simply cannot spend my days doing the same shit, over and over, without the need, or use, of my fucking brain.

I'm not a stupid girl, I'm not mindless, I'm not someone who conforms to rules without purpose.

What am I doing and why do I continue to do it?

It's like living in that vicious circle people use as terminology, only it's not just terminology. It's reality.

It's my reality.

No wonder my head is spinning.

The circle keeps spinning, and worse still, I keep letting it.

Pitiful

2011-10-14T23:41:00.000+01:00

It's times like this when I have to really make a concerted effort to think about anyone other than myself, which sounds like a complete contradiction, because in actual fact this is actually all about me.

I'm a selfish, pitiful, miserable, mournful, dismal fucking cunt of a human being. My life revolves around me, what makes me happy, what doesn't make me happy, and everything in between.

I am so wrapped up in my own life that I can't appreciate other peoples' happiness, or lack of.

I can't be happy for couples because I resent them and think they're either living in denial or are too fucking simple to have higher expectations.

I can't be happy for people having babies because I only pity them for having sleepless nights, constant stress and a leech on their bodies and resources for at least the next eighteen years.

I can't be happy for people who are settled and "in a good place" because, in 30 years of being a good person, I'm still to witness what that feels like.

I can't be happy for anyone. I'm an acerbic cunt.

I hold utter contempt for anyone and everyone.

So at times like this I have to count the reasons why my life is purposeful.

I have only two, and they are my mother and my sister.

As much as that is heart warming, it's also lonely as fuck. After 30 years, is that it?

Yeah. It really is.

Am I... ?

2011-10-14T21:47:00.000+01:00

I heard something recently that kicked my ever-deteriorating-through-alcohol abused brain into gear.

It went something like, "The hardest ones to love are the ones who need it most."

Huh.

I've never considered myself needy, nor particularly hard to love, but it made me wonder if maybe that's exactly me!

To address the "needy" bit, well, I know I'm insecure and fiercely self deprecating. I possibly have abandonment issues from my father working away during my childhood, my abortive spell at university when all I wanted to do was go home, and then my father's untimely and hugely fucking horrific death when I was barely 20, and he barely 58.

It's only in hindsight that you recognise past self destructive behaviour, but all I need to do is reflect on those very sparse memories of Oxford to know that I wasn't ok in the outset. From just 18.

Two years in a constant vodka cloud, sleeping all day, drinking neat Smirnoff Black until six every morning, smoking 40 Marlboros at a time... How I ever got out alive is still a mystery to me.

That was before I even lost my father. That was because I was merely unhappy! After the world as I knew it finally crashed down in front of my very eyes, well, it spiralled into insanity, I hardly remember anything at all...

All I know is, I was a fucking indomitable mess.

Apparently the wonderful mind has this way of blocking memories that are harmful and too painful to cope with. Well, I'm fucking beyond grateful that my memory was destroyed beyond repair through deplorable grief and excess alcohol. Otherwise what on earth could have happened?

Well, I know what happened, because it happened. It was just delayed. You see, after everything that occured prior to the age of 20, I look back on those days now and they seem like a fucking piss take compared to what was lying in wait.

But to address the "hard to love" bit? Where to start...

As time has gone on, and more people have either hurt me, let me down or disappointed me, I've formed this outer shell that's now making me fear my own acceptance of any future relationship. I probably am hard to love because I view every possibility of happiness with a snarl. In fact, I don't even get as far as considering it anymore. I just bat it off with a flick of the wrist and a raised eyebrow.

Utterly forsaken.

I might be hard to love right now, yeah, but it's possible that I might just need to be too.

Nightmares

2011-10-08T19:23:00.000+01:00

Why can't I stop thinking about him?

It's been going on for a couple of weeks now, and I can't shake him off. He's even managed to worm his way into my dreams, which is even more disconcerting. I can't do anything about it.

Things were pretty calm and non-eventful until recently. All it took was about thirty seconds. Driving down East Street, seeing him walking up the road as I slowed for the lights. I immediately clocked him to my left, made a conscious effort to ignore him, felt his eyes burning a hole through the soft top, right into the side of my skull.

I swear he's left another scar.

I now have one in my heart, one in my head.

My heart rate increased to beyond recognisable on a scale, I felt sick to the stomach. I got home, shaking, head swimming with contradictions, all psychological progress shattered in a moment of irrelevance.

It was bound to happen, and at least the first time wasn't bumping into one another in a bar. I can't even imagine... It was bad enough driving past him, having to slow to a halt, watching his silhouette gradually diminish in my mirrors... Utterly soul destroying.

Since then, he's plagued my dreams, haunting me whilst I sleep. I close my eyes to escape from the sabotaging thoughts of the day, only to wake up feeling derelict and confused.

What the fuck went wrong? What happened to us?

I'm wasting my time even thinking about him. I'm certain I know how he feels about "us", and the last thing I would ever do is force a conversation or situation.

I'm better than that.

I'm happy to let it fade into the background - I want it to fade into the background.

Why won't it fade into the background?

Why is it still like a prominent oil painting that, over time, just won't fade and crumble away?

Why won't you fade away...?

Twitter Expects You...

2011-10-01T21:01:00.000+01:00

Half the problem with human relationships is unrealistic expectations.

We all have them. We expect others to behave in a certain way based on our own unbringings, standards, morals, beliefs, you name it. We never stop expecting. And, inevitably, we never fail to encounter disappointment as a result.

Oh, I could write a book about it! However, as I'm feeling lazy this evening, would probably encounter writers' block early down the line, and run out of examples fairly prematurely, I'll settle for the condensed version instead.

Whether it's people letting me down with their piss poor behaviour and failure to act in (what I would class as) an acceptable manner, or people expecting (what I consider to be) far too much of me, I spend half my life perturbed.

I've recently turned thirty and, thankfully, my skin is still as wrinkle free and baby soft as the day I was born (well, almost), but at this rate I'm going to look like a pre-operative Gordon Ramsey by the time I reach my next birthday.

It doesn't even need to be "real life" that causes grief and frown lines anymore. Oh, no. Random people on social networks (ahem, Twitter) are starting to get in on the action too.

Ok, yes, I've met you - once, years ago - but go ahead and chastise me for forgetting to wish you happy fucking birthday last month.

You live in East Asia, I've clearly never met you, I also barely "speak" to you, but please, go ahead and berate me anyway for having my flatmate decide to move out, because I'm obviously a terrible person to live with - which is why she stayed an entire year!

Again, I've never met you in my entire life, know nothing about you besides your first name, but please, do feel free to interrogate me as to why I failed to do something that maybe you thought I should have done! Criticise me for it, please! Oh, look. You already did.

My answer to all of the above? Oh, happily! In order of shit received:

- My profuse apologies for not remembering something that I never knew the date of anyway. Why would I? I know you from Twitter and we barely Tweet one another more than once a month as it is.

- You're a fucking child who doesn't know me or anything about my life. You read what you read on Twitter. It's not a 24 hour Big Brother outlook on my life. It's Twitter. You get about 1% of reality. Comment on something you know something about. But... is there anything that you actually know something about...? I've blocked you for more than one reason.

- I'm actually pissed off about this one because I expected better.

And there you have it - expectations!

My own are obviously as unrealistic as those of the above, so why should I be so surprised? What I've done is exactly what I'm criticising others of doing. I've also formed my own subconscious expectations of people I've never met, and assumed that I'm justified in doing so, based on nothing more than an internet profile.

People have been saying for years, and continue to say, that the internet is a dangerous thing. I couldn't agree more! It can be dangerous on numerous levels, varying in importance.

I'm just glad I'm not a sensitive soul looking to form lasting friendships and relationships online.

If I was, I'd be a broken mess, because most of them turn on you, eventually.

My Name Is Hanabell

2011-09-25T18:27:00.000+01:00

I think one of the key lessons in life is to respect others in order to receive respect in return.

So, if you treat me or my home like a fucking joke, I'll treat you like one too.

Life is all about give and take, so if all you do is take, then how exactly do you expect me to respond in return? Besides with utter indifference and disregard towards you, of course.

I'm not a fucking doormat, so please don't think you can try and walk all over me without some kind of repercussion. I'll give anyone a chance, in some cases two or three, but after a while you'll burn one too many bridges and find yourself fucked.

The fact that you demonstrate rudeness and show me disdain as and when it suits you means that I will show you absolute and unerring indifference for the remainder of the time I am unlucky enough to know you.

If you think you can play hardball, you haven't met the founder of the game yet.

Allow me to introduce myself:

My name is Hanabell and I'm a cunt. You really don't want to cross me, but oh look, you did, and now you're feeling rather unhappy about it.

It's your own fault. If you can't show enough respect towards me or my home, then you won't get any in return.

Because let's remember this: this is my home. I'll never need you as badly as you think I do to put up with what I consider to be completely unacceptable.

I wouldn't behave like this towards anyone. I do not expect to be on the receiving end of it either.

One day, you might be lucky enough to own your own home and then you might begin to understand.

Although, I'd hate to see the fucking state of the place.

Have you even cleaned or vacuumed your room (my spare room) in the past year?

Thought not.

Again. Utter disrespect...

Where Is Your Mind?

2011-09-25T16:00:00.000+01:00

Another thing that really fucks me off (I'm not using the phrase "pet hate" again).

Stupid girls.

It's unfortunate that the past decade has appeared to herald what I like to call: "The Rise of The Fuckwit".

Pink released a song in 2006 about it called, funnily enough, "Stupid Girls". It's a clear-cut and 100 per cent accurate definition of what's wrong with a vast majority of youth mentality (and, in some very tragic cases, the not so youthful).

Lyrics such as: "What happened to the dream of a girl president? She's dancing in the video next to 50-Cent..." sum it up very nicely indeed.

It makes me sound rather old, but I guess at thirty I have enough experience and years under my (albeit small in circumference) belt to be able to express an opinion with some conviction. I also know I can back it up with a bit of intelligence - something most of these "aspiring idiots" do not even understand the definition of.

Alas!

Thanks to the explosion (or should I say 'exploitation') of Reality TV, the idea of instant success, fame, fortune, extreme wealth and what is perceived as living the high life, is now considered to be the easier, much more attainable and, of course, overtly appealing future to many who aren't intelligent or aspiring enough to look beyond what is, in reality, unrealistic.

Shows such as X Factor, Big Brother and T.O.W.I.E (to name but a cringeworthy few), have created a monster that could easily defeat the likes of Godzilla without breaking a sweat. King Kong? Not a problem! It could effortlessly take out the Event Horizon and once it's done, hop aboard The Nostromo and annihilate that dreadful Alien Bitch that made Ripley's life hell for so many hundreds of years!

It now seems that many young women no longer see the importance of obtaining and achieving decent exam results due to the fact that they all think they're going to forge a career through glamour modelling, marrying a footballer, or appearing on a "talent" show.

Have I missed something?!

Since when was it attractive to model one's skin colour on an Umpa Lumpa?

Since when was it attractive to have bleached, backcombed, straightened, extended or permed one's hair so much so, that both the texture and appearance resemble something that a horse eats for lunch?

Since when was it attractive to squeeze oneself into a dress that was made for a Barbie doll, whilst tottering around in heels that one cannot possibly walk in, before plunging head first into the nearest hedge, hoping that no one has seen?

Since when was it attractive to spend four hours applying makeup that renders one entirely unrecognisable, takes another four hours to remove and utterly disguises what really lies beneath?

And since when was it attractive to have nothing else to talk about than celebrity gossip and what's in the fucking tabloids?

Jesus, give me strength!

Are you too stupid to realise that the damning and condemning bullshit and lies that are constantly written about the A-Z Listers (and consequently damaging their lives), could also be written about you?

What the fuck is the matter with all of you brain dead idiots? I want to shake some fucking sense into you all, for goodness' sake!

Do these people not realise that, in the majority of cases, this type of "fame" is more damaging than it will ever be rewarding? For a start, it's not as simple to come by as they think it is (you're prepared for the constant rejection, are you?), but even if they do "achieve" it, it's often a five-minute-wonder that could potentially create more misery than they ever considered possible.

It's worrying to me that, having fought for years for equality, women are now sacrificing respect for what I consider to be complete disregard and subordinancy.

You want to spend a few years taking your clothes off for seedy tabloids because you think it will bag you a big bank balance and a footballer boyfriend?

Ok. As long as you realise that once your moment has passed, what you will actually be left with is depleted selfworth, zero respect, public disinterest and, oh yeah, no footballer boyfriend! He'll have cheated on you and moved on by then. As they all do.

You don't need to sell your soul to be happy in life, and you should certainly never throw away what intelligence you might have, even if it is only a little.

Just have some fucking self respect and realise your selfworth before you're exploited to Hell and back and hung out to bleed dry.

Oh, and please listen to me when I say this: orange is never a good colour for one's skin.

Give It Back, Punk!

2011-09-25T13:55:00.000+01:00

One of my absolute pet hates is people borrowing things and not returning them.

Another of my pet hates is the term "pet hates". So, let me rephrase.

One of the things I cannot fucking stand is people borrowing things and not returning them.

Whether it's books, DVDs, clothes or something as insignificant as Savlon, if I lend you something, I really don't want to have to ask for it back months later to then be given the answer: "Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I haven't even read it/watched it/worn it/used it yet".

Well, tough shit. Your time's up!

This is precisely the reason I rarely lend things to people anymore.

I'll happily lend to family, or to a small number of people whom I know will return things in a timely manner, but there are others that have taught me not to be so trusting or forthcoming with my offers anymore.

One of my worst experiences is an ex who borrowed over £1,000 from me during our 18 month relationship. He was in dire straits, I was able to help, so why on earth wouldn't I? Ha, what a fucking mug! When we broke up, he denied all knowledge, and to this day is seemingly guilt-free about it. How does he live with himself? That was over three years ago and it can still raise anger in me if I think about it for long enough. Fortunately I rarely do, plus, if I had the choice, I'd much rather have lost the grand and him along with it than still have both!

I also learned the hard way never to lend clothes to anyone. An ex flatmate of mine from about eight years ago used to ask to borrow the odd item of clothing, which I would hesitantly agree to in the hope that she'd try it on and realise that it didn't fit her. Sadly she was as delusional as she was psycho! In order to ever see my item of clothing again, I'd either have to venture into her pit of a room to retrieve it myself (usually from the never-to-have-seen-a-vacuum floor), or have it returned months later, stretched to the extent that it could no longer be worn by me ever again! You don't borrow clothing from someone at least two sizes smaller than you. In fact, you don't borrow clothing at all! You should never ever ask! Clothes are personal - they're someone's identity.

I shouldn't have been surprised that she turned into a carbon copy of "Single White Female". Although, fortunately, without the murdering.

Another ridiculous example is a DVD that was returned to me on Friday. I lent it to this person about fifteen months ago. He watched it within a week of borrowing it. So, please explain to me why on earth it has taken over a year to get it back? It's not like it's earned you any interest! It's a DVD for goodness' sake! All it's earning you is the reputation that you're not to be trusted with another person's property.

As insignificant as books and DVDs may be, it's the principle of the matter that winds me up.

In the recent months I've had to ask more than one colleague to return something of mine that they've had for months and not yet read or watched. Why did you borrow it then? I've felt guilty and extremely uncomfortable for having to ask, but at the same time I've thought: "No! I have a right to ask for my stuff to be returned!" It's not like I gave them a 24 hour turnaround period. I'm not unrealistic or unfair, but if someone hasn't bothered to watch a film or read a book at least three months after they've borrowed it, fucking give it back then! Clearly, you don't really want it! Clearly, I really do, which is why I fucking bought it!

To keep something that is not yours and has not been given to you as a gift, is theft. Pure and simple.

So give me back my shit, mutherfucker, before I have to come and ask for it!

Because if I have to ask, you'll never borrow from me again.

Plus, I'll think of you as a sly, opportunistic fucking thief.

Survival

2011-09-23T19:00:00.000+01:00

"Hello, Hana. I want to play a game..."

If you're a fan of the Saw films (all seven of them, so far), then hearing those very words addressed to you personally would be enough to freeze you to the core, let alone chill you.

I'm a massive fan of the horror genre, and can quite comfortably sit through some fairly brutal and horrific scenes. I'm even more a fan of horror films with twists and clever story lines. Hostel, for example, is just sick for the sake of being sick - I cringed on a number of occasions at the pointless barbarity - and don't even start me on The Human Centipede! Words don't even begin...

The Saw films, however, make you think. Well, they made me think, anyway. Obviously touched a raw nerve somewhere.

How much do you really value your life?

Having watched each one a number of times, and having them all in my vast and ever expanding DVD collection, I've often thought about my own actions in the past, and come to the conclusion that I would be a foolproof victim for the Jigsaw Killer, were the film a reality.

Well, thank fuck it's not, otherwise I'd more than likely be fighting for my life, restrained in an oversized wine glass, trying my damnest to free myself whilst watching the liquid quantity rapidly rise until I've drowned to death. Or drank my way out. Either/or.

I've demonstrated ways in which I certainly don't value my life, frequently between the ages of around 18 up until the present day. Some of the things I've done I would never do again, but other things are as much a part of me as my limbs.

So, how exactly would you go about "punishing" someone for drug abuse, alcohol abuse, self harm, suicide attempts, self pity, self destruction, inner hatred, outward contempt, eating disorders, reclusive behaviour, harbouring deep anger and resentment, the inability to forgive, disregard for others and pushing one's family away? (This list is by no means exhaustive. I could find more, but I don't want to make myself look bad.)

Maybe if I was placed in a situation where I found myself fighting for my life, I would realise how much I do value my existence, and how much I actually do want to be alive. It might make me realise that things aren't quite as bad as I perceive them to be, that compared to many others, things aren't quite that desperate.

I know that I will never shake the feelings that I retain about myself, nor the feelings that fester over the situation that my family was forced to endure almost ten years ago, but I have moved on from those eerie dark days that could have, and almost did kill me. I know that I'm no longer a danger to my own health or mortality.

Not right now, anyway.

Well, that's progress enough for me, therefore I must value my life somewhat more than I did, surely?

If I didn't, I wouldn't be here now.

Seize Your Opportunity

2011-09-13T19:12:00.001+01:00

I'm not sure how many times I have to say: "if there's ever an issue between us, please talk to me about it".

I thought perhaps once would suffice, maybe twice if you need proper assurance, but one hundred and thirty seven times in about three weeks? Fuck off.

I'm clearly stupid to assume that I'm conversing with adults. Although, anything around thirty and above is generally considered to be adult, yeah? Well maybe it's not me that's the stupid one then. All that aside, one thing I'm definitely not, is tolerant of moronic cretin imbeciles.

I'm always concerned if I think there's an issue, or some kind of atmosphere between myself and another person (well, most other people - let's not get carried away in thinking that I give a damn about everyone. Quite simply, I don't), and I'll happily make the first move to confront it and give that person a chance to talk about whatever it is that's bothering them if they need to.

Oh, and before you lot assume I'm all bolshy and abrupt about it, actually no. I'm not. I'm actually quite sweet and lovely. Seriously. I'm only a cunt if you cross me. Or mildly irritate me. Or look at me funny. Or don't support Arsenal.

So, I do the concerned thing (in a genuine manner) but what I will not do is then continue to give a fuck if you continue to sulk like a bitch. If I say it once, I assume you've understood me. If I say it twice, I realise you're a bit slow, but I appreciate that you might not know how to communicate effectively. I'm also pretty convinced that by now, you really do know that you can talk to me about whatever the pissing hell it is that's making you act like a spoilt fucking five year old throwing the mother of all psycho fits.

I won't give you another opportunity after that. In fact, if you do eventually bring the issue up with me, I'll probably tell you to go fuck yourself.

Not only have you lost your chance to clear the air and get it off your chest, you've also really pissed me off.

That's brave.

You'd have been much better off talking to me in the first place.

Maybe you'll learn for next time.

The True You.

2011-09-03T17:10:00.000+01:00

It's incredible that, despite my multitudinous "faults", I am allowed to live a life of freedom.

I mean, seriously, in spite of all that is "wrong" with me, it's almost inconceivable that I'm actually capable of living a life without endangering myself or others, or creating world destruction or global disaster.

Of these vast "deficiencies" that I possess, let's start with the drinking.

Yes, I drink far too much. I probably drink excessively more than my size six, (just under) five foot four frame can physically cope with. I drink every weekend, without fail, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and over that one evening and two day period, I probably comsume about four bottles of wine and half a litre of vodka. And that's if I'm staying in. In addition to my weekend habits, I'll probably drink on two out of the remaining four evenings, and that will most likely be another bottle of wine. Maybe even one and a half.

Well, shoot me down and condemn me to a life of rehabilitation. Because I'd rather that happen than witness the raised eyebrow that you don't quite manage to conceal as you turn your back with that exhausting air of superiority that emanates from your every pore.

The music that I listen to clearly proves that I have anger issues. No, it's that I'm unstable. Or is it that I'm a devil worshipper? No, wait, it's that I'm a criminal of some sort that shouldn't be granted freedom within the boundaries of society, just incase I hurt someone with... what? System of a Down lyrics?

Oh, you poor thing. How I laugh at the way you cringe when you walk into the room and hear the "noise" radiating from the stereo. It won't hurt you. Anyway, shouldn't you be more worried about the "nutter" that's listening to it, with that glass of wine in her hand, rather than a collaboration of instruments and vocals?

Couple the love of wine with the love of metal, throw in the ability to put the two together until 6am before finally falling into bed after an evening of harmless fun and enjoyment, and you have definite justification to call in the White Coat Brigade. Or do I mean the Grey Brigade? Well, it's irrelevant to me. Plus I already know which you have on your archaic speed dial.

My love for body art is a clear sign that I should be dumped in the gutter with the rest of the "dregs of society". I mean, who on earth would permanently mark their body in such an abhorrent manner? No sane person with an ounce of intelligence or social ranking, that's for sure.

Oh my word, what are you? A fascist with ideas of a pure and non-ink branded race? I think the person with the real issue for concern here is not the person with the ink on her skin.

Anyone who speaks their mind and believes in honesty, who doesn't partake in two-faced backstabbing or habitual nastiness towards others is, without question, one of whom to be cautious. Surely speaking the truth is a distasteful and unsavory trait to bear. It would be a much happier world in general if people were all deceitful liars and systematic frauds.

Erm... is that because you can't handle a few home truths? Is it because you assume that, due to my "undesirable attributes", I'm not observant or intelligent enough to recognise your true character? Is that why, when I do call you out on it, you are shocked to the core that your underhand nature and malice has been detected? In all honesty, you're not that good at hiding it. You don't try hard enough because your shallow judgements cloud the actualisation that you are, in fact, the truly iniquitous one here. Not me.

Oh, how ironic that the judgements you have constructed of me have, in actual fact, revealed yourself to be the one of whom to be wary, the one of whom to recoil from, the one of whom to distrust.

The problem is that you have been so busy adjuducating others that you have failed to recognise your authentic self.

You have thought yourself superiour, exemplary and supreme, yet you have proved yourself to be impaired, sanctimonious and insidious.

How are you going to cope with that?

I'm Omened

2011-08-28T17:45:00.000+01:00

I can literally see the rage surging through my veins as we speak.

It's like there's Formula One coursing beneath the surface of my heavily inked yet translucent skin. There's an entire world of existence going on within these layers of ferocity, and they're all residing, safe in the naive knowlegde that they're safely protected within this fragile shell of defiance.

I'm looking down at my arms, watching my pallid, amaemic skin violently pulsate, doing everything within its futile power to raise enough pressure to explode through my skin, splattering the walls and all that surround me in a thick, crimson, salty, sticky sludge.

Do it. Put me out of my fucking misery. Finish what you started, cunt.

The deep blue tracks in my arms are oscillating like crawling maggots, not dissimilar to those of a rotting corpse. If I didn't know myself better, I'd assume I was heavily anaesthetised, disintegrating and decaying from within, watching myself being eaten alive, but without feeling.

It looks like a private sideshow spectacle for one. Front row seats to my very own demise.

Instead, I recognise this as my inner asperity. I acknowledge the signs, and above all, I know the triggers.

I contain a certain susceptibility. I have siginificant deficiencies. I have an abhorrence, a contempt, a disgust, an aversion, a repugnance, a detestation and malice for certain elements in life.

I know what they are. I know my reactions.

I'm safe in the knowledge that my living shell is not, in fact, rotting in the physical sense.

In actuality, I'm rotting in the psychological sense.

I've been doing that for years.

Come on, no one's born to be this much of a cunt. It gradually evolved from somewhere, and it will continue to flourish and emerge until I can find someone, or something to repress and eventually eradicate it.

Since no one can handle me, I guess I'm omened.

Oh I Do Like To Live Beside The Seaside...

2011-08-28T10:11:00.000+01:00

As much as I love having a long weekend, and an extra day off work, I cannot wait for the Bank Holiday to be over.

This weekend spells the end of the summer holiday season.

The downside to living on the South West coast is the guaranteed invasion of tourists, year after year. Easter, Christmas, summer holidays, Half Term, Bank Holidays... Without fail, the town is suddenly not dissimilar to rush hour in central London. Every single day. For weeks on end.

To get to the supermarket, which is a two minute drive from where I live, will suddenly take twenty minutes, if you're lucky. To walk through town, which is usually not too much of a drama, will suddenly be comparable to fighting through Christmas Eve crowds in Tesco. Driving along the coastal roads, which you can normally do at 60mph, will take twice as long because everyone is crawling along at barely thirty, with their heads stuck out of the windows, staring at the sea! There are laybys for a fucking reason! Pull over and fucking use them!

If that wasn't bad enough, my apartment block, which is predominantly uninhabited for much of the year apart from myself and two others, suddenly becomes an unbearable place to reside. Once the holidays come around, the place is bursting at the seams with multiple families, all of whom bring along tens of thousands of children without a Goddamn volume adjustment! Every single bastard one them is stuck at 'Beyond Humanly Acceptable' with the only variables being 'Scream', 'Yell' or 'Cry'.

Shut the fuck up! People fucking live here!

The final straw came last night when, at about 7pm, another family arrived with two young girls who proceeded to SCREAM the fucking car park down for about four hours. It's that high pitched type of scream that rattles through your brain and pierces through your skull. It's the very same scream that I was woken up with at 6:45 this morning, in addition to what sounded like a herd of elephants running a marathon above my bed.

All I can say is, if I'd had to contend with a hangover as well as that fucking racket, I'd have trudged up to the next floor, banged on every single pissing door until I found the culprits, and told the irritating little cunts to shut the fucking hell up. Please. Thank you.

Fortunately for them, I only had three glasses of red wine last night and was in bed by midnight.

As I bring this to a close, I would like to point out that those very same cretins are currently outside, doing that very same screaming thing that they were doing all of last night. Do children not lose their voices? Because I'm pretty fucking sure that if I spent hours on end stretching my vocal cords beyond admission, I'd have trouble even uttering a whisper.

I've just got up and slammed the window, just to make my point known to the useless parents, and will quite possibly throw a bucket of boiling water at them if they continue with the bellowing throughout the day.

"You like screaming? Here's something to fucking scream about."

I kid, I kid...

Slammed Shut

2011-08-27T09:57:00.000+01:00

It's a feeling of relief when you can finally close the door on something. Or in my case, slam it shut so hard that it rattles the foundations.

It's not exactly an unfamiliar process - I've been through it before - but this time I've bounced back quicker despite being the most confused I've ever been.

I'm trying to gauge how angry I've been on this occasion compared to those in the past, but it's near impossible to remember my exact feelings that far back. All I know is that this time I've been fucking fuming. At least I did something about it, otherwise I'd probably still be simmering away, nearing an explosion.

There's a lot to be said for not sitting back and allowing people to get away with shit, and I'd certainly recommend a bit of "don't fuck with me" therapy to get over it. I can actually hold my head high knowing that I've not lost my self respect. Shame the same can't be said for others.

On the downside, half the town will be gossiping again, but that's hardly a revelation. At least they've had something to think about for a few weeks. They've probably all given themselves migraines and are in need of mental respite. Poor simpletons.

I was planning on lying low for a while, until it all blows over, but in actual fact I might do the complete opposite!

There's nothing quite like a bit of brazen arrogance to lift the spirit and create a bit of amusement.

If people want entertainment, they can have it!

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned...

2011-08-22T20:11:00.000+01:00

... Or, to quote it literally:

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."

William Congreve couldn't have been more accurate. I hope for his sake he was writing through speculation rather than experience.

Vengeance isn't the most desirable character trait, but when you're cut deeper than you can physically bear and you cannot see a single reason for it other than another person's fallacious, narcissistic, callous carelessness, it draws out the need to fight back rather than sit there and take what's thrown in your face.

I've mentioned a million times that I find it hard to trust men, that it takes me a while to even begin to let my guard down, so the fact that he knew this yet duped me into a situation that I believed to be genuine, only to find that I was the object of his temporary entertainment, is really hard to swallow. Add to that the complete lack of explanation or reasoning behind it all, and you can see from where the anger stems.

Having lashed out today, in retaliation to some utterly unacceptable behaviour, I feel a mixture of justification and horrific grief. The crux of the matter is, I'm hurting like hell, and I'm confused beyond any imagination. I'm not only hurting for myself and my own damaged pride, but also the desolate situation and the irreparable relationship and friendship.

Regardless of his behaviour, and the way he's made me feel, I can't switch my feelings off completely. I still care about him deeply. I probably still love him.

I don't enjoy inflicting pain on others, that wasn't the motivation behind my actions. But I will never ever lose my pride and self respect, and I refuse to allow anyone to treat me like dirt and carry on regardless.

I naively believed the past couple of months to consist of happiness; the start of something amazing and unique. Sadly, I now realise they are filled with nothing but memories of false promise and regret.

I wish those months had never, ever happened.

Shameless

2011-08-21T13:34:00.000+01:00

People take the fucking piss out of me.

Whether it's men screwing me over, friends taking advantage, or flatmates and colleagues not pulling their weight, it always comes down to me being taken for a fucking mug.

It's surprising really, as I do come across as quite a no-nonsense person who doesn't take any shit. Well, apparently I do! I can only imagine how much worse people would behave towards me if I was weak.

It's the audacity of them that really baffles me. How do people live with themselves? Where's their moral backbone? Where's their conscience? How do they just carry on with things, knowing what they are?

Maybe they're all oblivious. It certainly seems to be the case, because when I hit them with the truth, they either run off and cry, or sit there looking bewildered. Maybe that's part of the act. Not only are they abhorrent in their actions, they're also shameless in their performance as 'innocent'.

To an extent, I blame their unbringing. Clearly their parents were raving idiots and shouldn't have been allowed to give birth. But how do you get to thirty years of age and not have a clue how to behave? Not only were your parents shit, but you're also incapable of learning decency through life experience.

You're basically a fucking retard. You have no common sense. You're a selfish cunt. You should be put down.

For all my faults, I know I'm a good human being. I tend to put my faith in people and give them the benefit of the doubt, assuming that they're honourable. Nine times out of ten, I'm proved wrong.

People who I think are honest, turn out to be liars. People who I think I can trust, turn out to be backstabbers. People who I believe are selfless, turn out to be the opposite.

Is everyone just out for themselves and what they can get out of others? Is there seriously no fucking consideration for how they make other people feel? Are they really happy to go around causing hurt and confusion through complete lack of compassion?

Holy fuck. I think they are!

You brazen, audacious, unprincipled cunts. You should be fucking ashamed of yourselves.

Sadly, there's probably no hope for you now. I just hope you're never treated the way you treat others.

Actually, I lie. I hope you are.

It'll make me smile.

Meds

2011-08-20T19:40:00.000+01:00

It's common knowledge that I enjoy a drink or two, so the fact that I've been unable to enjoy one since Saturday 6th August is starting to break me down.

I had a really nasty kidney infection which had me in bed for about six days, yet despite antibiotics, things were still not quite right once I'd finished them. Cue another visit to the doctors' for yet another seven days' worth of pills, meaning that until next Thursday, I'm on the fucking water.

I normally wouldn't mind so much, but it just so happens to coincide with the first two Arsenal games turning out to be a fucking disaster, and discovering that the guy I thought was decent and had really strong feelings for is, in fact, a spineless, pathetic, lying cunt.

So, you can understand my pain, yes?

I'm at the stage now where a huge glass (ok, bottle or two) of red wine would really cheer me up. Either that or just leave me numb and semi-conscious. I'm literally almost at the point of tearing my eyeballs out of my skull because there is nothing else that does what wine does. I'd even settle for vodka. I'm not fussed. Just... something.

I realise I possibly sound like an alcoholic during an ever-failing rehab stint, but fuck it. It's how I'm feeling. I might as well be honest.

A supposed close friend of mine text me a moronic message earlier consisting mainly of the word "Liverpool", in capital letters, repeated over and over again. Intelligence. I replied with something along the lines of "How proud you must be to manage a win when we're without eight players, down to ten men, scored a goal for you, and your other was offside". He hasn't replied. At least I didn't end it with "so, fuck you, cunt". I deleted that part before sending.

I then had a call from my sister, inviting me to join her and a few of their friends over at their place this evening. Yeah. Right. They're all Liverpool. Why the fuck would I? Because it's fun to hang out with a load of pissed up Scouse fans, giving it the "we've won the league" bullshit whilst I'm sober as a fucking nun and miserable as shit? I think not.

As far as the spineless cunt story goes... well, I don't even know what to think, let alone what to say. I just feel confused, messed around and a bit stunned by it all. I'm more angry than upset, so it'd be advisable for me not to run into him (or his reinstated girlfriend) any time soon. When I'm fucked off, I'm a loose cannon. I could literally say or do anything, and since I have nothing to lose, I can only imagine the very worst.

Skip forward thirty minutes: I've had a call from the friend who text me. I know he worries about me, despite his constant winding up. I told him why I was so angry, he told me not to drink, I told him I probably would.

So, I am.

Yeah, I'm on the wine.

Yes, my kidney hurts. Yes, I'm on antibiotics. Yes, I'm an idiot. But I'm an ever-so-slighty-happier-than-I-was-five-minutes-ago idiot.

I consider wine to be an alternative form of medication, and whatever works, works, right?

I'll drink to that.

Breathe.

2011-07-25T22:17:00.000+01:00

Have you ever had that feeling where you suddenly think you're suffocating, only to discover that, in fact, you've gradually been running out of oxygen over a period of time?

It's been such a subtle process that you haven't even realised it's been happening until it's too late, and then what are you going to do about it? There's nothing you can do, except try and fight it or give in.

But, don't they always say something like, "if you're running out of air, don't panic"? Doesn't panicking use up necessary oxygen that you should be preserving? Couldn't one more breath make it a matter of life or death?

Well, my response to those oh-so-wise people is this: "when were you last in a situation where you were devoid of air but cleverly thought to yourselves 'ah, fuck it, let's chill out and preserve the oxygen'...?"

I thought as much.

It might be scientifically advantageous not to start heavy breathing and sucking the last ounce of 02 out of the atmosphere, but don't those same oh-so-wise people also come out with shit like: "hindsight is a wonderful thing"? Well, ain't it fucking just! I'm sure Susan Boyle could work that shit out, but make your Goddamn minds up, you're causing me anger.

The dilemma here is, do I listen to the oh-so-wise people and chill the fuck out, or do I accept the inevitable and let it go? Or rather, accept what I imagine to be the inevitable. After all, I can't predict the future, which is a bit of a bitch really, because if I was like that hot smack head dude in Heroes, I probably would've seen this shit coming and flown the fuck out like Peter Petrelli. Either that or turn into Niki's alter ego, Jessica, and wreak havoc on anyone and everyone who crosses my path. Now there's a thought. Don't I exhibit similar character traits anyway?

So, where are the answers? Whoever has them, I'm willing to pay! As long as I hear what I want to hear, that is. It's bad enough imagining the worst and crucifying myself for getting into a headfuck situation without knowing for sure that it's all been completely futile. At least not knowing means there's a glimmer of positivity, right?

Maybe.

One thing I hate about this life is, well, a lot of things actually. Where to start... But right now, I hate the uncertainty and the not knowing. I also hate not being in control of the outcome. I am fiercely independent, so the moment someone takes me out of the driving seat, I get narky as fuck.

Is that three things? Whatever. I've got more if you want them, but that would be digressing.

Conclusion: this is not good.

Hana, You Fucking Melon!

2011-07-15T16:16:00.000+01:00

I have a day off work today.

I had plans of some sort that involved being ever so slightly productive, but, predictably, they went straight out the window about five minutes after getting out of bed.

So, what have I done so far today? Well, let's see. I got up about 11am. It's now almost 3:30pm. That's four and a half hours of... what? I shall tell you what.

I've been on Twitter and I've made watermelon vodka.

Yes, really, that's what I've done today.

I must state though, that I haven't made just any old watermelon vodka. Oh hell no... I've made watermelon vodka "Hana Style". What seemed like a good idea at the time is now something that I am slightly regretting because it is so fucking strong that it's hurting my entire body.

I used three quarters of a watermelon, six blocks of ice and about half a litre of Smirnoff. Not only have I ran out of watermelon (or anything else that could be suitably mixed into it to dilute it), but despite no longer enjoying it, I'm adamant as fuck that I'm not wasting it, because you do not, under any circumstances, waste vodka!

Or any alcohol.

What on earth was I thinking? It's not absolutely necessary to spend every waking hour outside of work drunk, for fuck's sake. My best mate told me that the other day. I didn't cotton on to the fact that he was aiming the comment at me, I just glazed over it and thought to myself, "Whatever, dude..."

Ok, in my defence, I have done some washing and a tiny bit of cleaning. I also managed to get out of PJs, have a nice shower and get dressed at about 1pm. That deserves recognition, right? The fact that after merely two glasses of this shit, I feel the way I usually do after two bottles of red wine, is surely incircumstantial... It's fine. It's all fine.

In all honesty, I'm not just being a pissed up little cunt, I'm actually using "thought blocking" tactics. I figure that for the time I'm on another planet (my own, the one called 'Rage' that I wrote about a little while ago... go look that post up... it's educational...), it means I'm not on the Reality one that sucks to fuck.

Too much shit to think about, and too many conclusions to dream up without really knowing the truth.

So, yes I might be a bit of a twat for making a drink that's causing me physical pain, but my attitude is "fuck it, my bubble and my planet are good places to be, even if it is at 4pm on a Friday afternoon".

My attitude is also FUCK YOU BARCA. Cesc is still my boy. I told you this last season.

You can't afford him, and you can't afford the shit I will tear up if you take him.

And now back to this drink of death.

Smash This Bitch Up

2011-07-01T21:15:00.000+01:00

You know how people talk about "channelling anger"? Or "channelling sadness"? Or just channelling WHATEVER?

Well, apparently it's "good for you to channel your [whatever] in order to gain peace of mind, and ..." blah, blah, fucking blah. I'm not quoting an actual person here, by the way, just being an obnoxious twat.

So, tell me, non-existent unquoted person, how do you "channel" a conglomeration of anger, sadness, confusion, fear, rage and utter bewilderment, all in one go? Answer that one if you can!

To "channel" something is to "direct toward or into some particular course".

Well, I'm "channelling" like a mutherfucker "toward and into" my Twitter feed right now. Does that count? Or is it supposed to be "professional channelling"? Wait... Are you calling Twitter "unprofessional"?

Oh, who gives a fuck? What does it even matter? I'll "channel" my way thank you, and I'll do it in the cuntiest manner possible. I'd also be mighty appreciative if you'd keep your opinions on my "channelling methods" to yourself, purely because not only will I have to vent on my own shit, but I'll have to vent on your bitchass too. That's effort.

I literally don't have the energy. But I'll find it if I need to.

My method of "channelling" is really quite simple. Does it work? No idea. It's a fucking random, highly irresponsible idea I dreamt up, not the fucking cure. Ask me to rate it later, when I've finished "channelling".

So, yeah, I'm currently "channelling" (getting a bit tedious now) with strong vodka and System of a Down. I've backed off Twitter for a bit (reasons a-plenty) but no doubt after a couple more glasses of rocket fuel, I'll be back in full force antagonising, shocking and provoking everyone unlucky enough to still be online.

Apologies if I come along and tear up your timeline. I'm wrapped in barbed wire and I'm not treading carefully.

What I really want to do right now is scream the fucking place down Gia style, and throw every breakable item that I possess, hard into the walls until they break in sharp pieces around my bare skin. I literally want to rip this room apart to get rid of some of this venom that I cannot fucking CHANNEL.

Oh, the irony.

So, is my "method of channelling" working?

Clearly fucking not.

However, since I am far too sensible (sober) to be acting in such a way right now, I will stick to some musical chaos and mind blowing vodka shots.

Check back later to find out if my place is still in tact.

Check back later to find out if I am still in tact.

Disown Me. I'm Distant.

2011-06-29T20:00:00.000+01:00

Ok, two things.

First: no wonder I don't get into relationships or situations that could potentially lead to them.

Second: why aren't people as straight up as me? If you think it, say it. Don't not say it.

That is all.

Just joking - I wish I could just leave this blog post there (after all, sometimes less really is more, and I can see myself getting into trouble for writing this), but I have far too much to say.

So, point number one. It's a well documented fact that I don't do relationships and have a fairly negative opinion of the opposite sex. With good reason, you've heard it all before... So, why do I put myself into a situation where I'm now feeling fucked in the head, pretty bloody upset and like I've just been part of someone's temporary insanity case?

The answer? Because I'm a twat. I can't even claim to have been insane myself. Nope! I fully knew what I was doing the entire time, and what's more, I've had the best time ever. That's the worst part! Well, it serves me right, because now it's flipped a one eighty and I'm having the worst time ever.

Karma is a cunt. I'm sure I've said that before.

The problem is that when you come crashing back down to Reality after spending a bit of time in Denial, the landing is brutally painful. Talk about bruising - I'm broken.

I'm making it sound dramatic, I know, but I'm not exaggerating. Anyone who knows me knows that despite my awful exterior (and it is pretty awful), I'm actually quite delicate. I clearly need to toughen up even more, but if I do that I'll probably be disowned, plus I don't know how much more I can do to distance myself from anything emotional or potentially painful. I've tried so hard, and I've been doing really well, until now. It appears that my wall isn't quite as reinfored as I thought it was.

I'd be shit in a war!

I guess this is just one more example I can use to back up my defense. Because it is a fucking defense, the amount of people who attack me for being the way I am.

Well, you heard it here first - if I wasn't stonecold before, I well and truly am now. Oh, unless an animal gets hurt. Then I will cry uncontrollably like a bitch and probably need putting down.

So, point number two. The being straight up thing. Yeah, what is it with people just not saying things? What is there to achieve from any angle? Surely if you don't say it, you're not getting it out there, dealing with it and facing the music. And if you're not being told something you need to be told, well, then it just drives you fucking insane and screws with your brain until you want to tear it out of your skull, smash it through a closed window, before running outside, getting in your car and running over it. Twice.

Again, dramatic? Yes. Exaggerating? No. Not really.

I cannot bear not knowing what's going on, what's going to happen, what another person is thinking, and I especially cannot bear knowing that someone is probably thinking a certain thing, but not telling me. I mean, what the fuck do you think I'm going to do?

Your answer to that is, probably lose it, cause problems where no one wants them to be caused, say things that no one wants to hear, and generally act like a little cunt. Ok, well yeah, I can be a little cunt. But I'm not a fucking bitch. I'll merely get over it. Like I do with everything else that this bitchfuck of a life has thrown at me.

One issue is that I'm ferociously honest at all times, despite the fact that I often upset people (without necessarily meaning to) or land myself into a predicament where I wish I had just shut the fuck up. On the plus side, I know that a lot of people appreciate my honesty, and if they need a no bullshit answer, they come straight to me. Well, I don't understand why all people aren't the same.

Saying that though, I'm torn between whether my recent honesty has been a positive or a negative thing. Part of me thinks "at least I've been honest so there's no confusion over how I feel or what I'm thinking", whereas another part of me thinks, "you fucking twat. Why are you letting your guard down? Now look what's happened!"

I cannot decide!

All I know is, my head is all over the place. I'm not in control of this, I feel like I've set myself up for a nightmare, and I wish I could erase my memories and go back to four weeks ago when I was none the wiser and happy enough just getting on with things.

You don't miss things unless you have experienced them, even for a short amount of time. But once you have, and you decide you want them, it's more than a little devastating when you can't have them.

As I said before, I'm pretty sure I know what's going on. If I'm wrong I'll be the happiest girl in the world. But if I'm right, well... you won't notice a difference because I'll still look like the same unapproachable moody fucking bitch I always was.

On the outside, anyway.

Learn This Now, Or Bleed Like Me.

2011-06-19T18:26:00.007+01:00

It's Fathers' Day today.

I've known it all along, and I've been cool with it like it's any other day of the week. It's like my dad's birthday, and the anniversary of his death. I can deal with it because I don't deal with it. If you see what I mean.

The only reason it's just struck me as something of an issue is because of some inane mindless shit on Twitter which has just got my blood (or 'wine', as some clever perceptive mutherfucker has just pointed out) boiling higher than the temperature of the Sun.

Something along the lines of: #daddysgirl, which is trending in the U.K. right now.

Oh, where to start on this one. I'm just going to go straight in there.

To all you self-centred fucking spoilt fucking mindless fucking clueless fucking bitchcunts out there who look to your fathers as fucking cashpoints and bail-out fucking meal tickets, and as someone who fucking owes you something in your sorry-ass fucking life, I want to shake you so fucking hard until your brain rattles in your skull and reprogrammes itself to fucking REALITY.

How fucking dare you see your father as someone to bleed dry, someone to take for granted and someone to take advantage of? How fucking dare you?

In most cases, I imagine your father works his fucking arse off to give you a happy life, to give your family a happy life, to do the right thing for those he loves.

In most cases, I bet he works his tired soul into a fucking early grave trying to provide for you and your family whether you need or want him to or not, putting his own needs, happiness and health in last place to you and your fucking leech-like ways.

And I bet the fact that he does that goes right over your unappreciative, self centred, oblivious cuntlike heads.

When I hear people take their fathers for granted, complain about them, wish they weren't there, I want to get the nearest chain saw and rip it through their hearts until they feel what I feel.

Before you ask, no I didn't leech off my father or ask him for shit. I never asked him for a single thing in my entire life, except his love, which I got in bucket loads. He couldn't have loved me more, and he couldn't have given me more, done more, sacrificed more. I appreciated it, but I wish I had really appreciated it. In the "I may never see you again" way.

Because once he was gone, I fucking realised how much I had taken his undying love and unselfishness for granted in a way that, as a teenager, you don't fucking realise.

You need to fucking love your father, appreciate your father and hold the fuck onto your father because he won't be there forever. And when he isn't, you will look back on your life, your attitude, your selfishness, and you will fucking crucify yourself for not realising what's important.

Be a fucking spoilt #daddysgirl (which is also grammatically incorrect, but don't start me on that one) all you like, but one day you will be sorry, and it will fucking serve you right.

Don't come back to me after this telling me you wish you'd listened. It'll be too late and I don't do second chances.

Neither will your dead father.

What Can You Say?

2011-06-19T14:42:00.005+01:00

I know this is a public website and anyone can discover it, access it, read it.

I realise that this is not an anonymous site, that it contains my real name, facts about the real me and multiple up-to-date photos.

There's no getting away from the fact that this is my website and the content comes from one person and one person only (that's... me, by the way).

So, with all that as factual information, if I really put my mind to it, it's fucking scary how many people that I know read it. I don't mean people that I "know but don't really know", I mean people I actually know. You know?

My best friend reads it, but that's a good thing. We grew up together, she's part of my family and it's important to me that she knows what's going on, because often I can't talk about things. I bottle things and pretend I'm living the fucking dream, when in reality it's often more like living the fucking nightmare.

One of my colleagues said something hilarious to me last week: "What's the matter with you? You've got a fantastic life!" My first thought was "How do you know?", so I asked her. Her reply? "Well, you have a gorgeous flat and a beautiful car". Riiiiight.

Well, if that's all you need in life, then what the fuck am I complaining about? Shit, I should pull myself together and stop behaving like an ungrateful little cunt.

Back to the point. People who read this.

Ok, so it's not the fact that they read this - that's cool, couldn't give a flying monkey fuck what they think. It's the fact that they either...

a) ...don't own up to it when actually I know better - and believe me, I do know better. There aren't many things you can get past me.

b) ...will post 'anonymous' comments that are astonishingly easy to see through. If I know you, I know the sorts of questions you will ask me, why you're asking them and the way in which you will phrase them. That little ability comes from being intelligent.

c) ...will drop things into conversation that I know I haven't told them about, yet will then still pretend that they "just knew" or suspected I was "feeling down". You kill me, really, you do. I know I say I'm half alien, but I was still born on this fucking planet. Were you?

d) ...will use the information I purge on my page as a weapon to either shit stir or, generally, just be a fucking cock. Yes, sadly that happens, in the most un-subtle ways that, again, I wonder about people's brains. Surely if you're going to act like a twat, do it secretly.

I much prefer the people who read this to just own up to it and stop hiding. What do you think will happen to you? Am I really that terrifying that you're scared of losing your head for reading a public blog page that has zero identity censorship and absolutely no holds barred? The last I knew I wasn't forced into honesty. I wasn't forced into writing things that make some peoples' toes curl and stomachs turn. I could probably shut this site (yeah, I said 'site', not 'shite') down any day now, if I chose to because, again, I'm pretty sure I am not forced to keep it all going.

Surely anything you say to me or choose to comment on will never be half as extreme as what you've actually read in the first place. If I couldn't take the criticism, I wouldn't leave myself wide open to it. I'd write about lovely things and be a people-pleaser. It just so happens that I haven't evolved that way, and nothing will ever turn me into that.

I just find it a shame that people continue to hide behind anonymity on a blog page that maintains such open honesty and brutal reality.

What can you possibly say to me that's worse than what you've just read?

My Pea, My Swede.

2011-06-17T21:20:00.007+01:00

For those who swear by Facebook over Twitter, purely for the reason that you delusional fuckcunts think it's "real", whereas Twitter is "meh"... well you can kiss my fucking c***.

Ok. Even I won't open a blog quite like that. I starred it out, right? I normally crash down on people who star out their words, saying things like "WE ALL KNOW WHAT YOU'RE WRITING, WHY ARE YOU CENSORING IT, TWAT FACE?"

Why? I use "The C Word" as an insult. Not as reference to a body part. End of.

This week, I feel like I've experienced two deaths in one, and I'm in fucking mourning for some "sure-to-be-with-the-devil-but-angels-in-my-eyes" souls.

First of all, my Twitter soulmate and complete Pea in a Pod, Emily, left Twitter on a permanent time out. If there's any such thing (oxymoron?). When she broke the news, I was pretty fucking upset, it has to be said. My immediate thoughts were: "What's happened? Is she ok? What can I do? I'm worried! WHAT?"

It was sudden, out of the blue, unexpected. I knew I'd miss her, but oh fuck, I never realised just how much. I've known her for almost two years I guess. It feels like a life time but in the best way possible. I feel like I really know her, I get her, I understand her, I fucking adore her, would do anything for her. The sudden extrication of Emily from our warm and inhabited drink fuelled crazy fucked up no-holds-barred filthy mouthed Pod has yanked at those very sparse and tender emotional cords of mine in the way you'd rip a dying fetus out of a desperate woman on Last Chance Saloon.

In my non-maternal, bulletproof take on that, this girl was the light of my dark days. I could get on Twitter in a bitch of a mood, and within thirty seconds she'd have me almost peeing my pants with outbursts worse than mine. Example? Something along the lines of "I need to get a shower, I smell worse than Rooney's cock" springs to mind. This coming from a well-spoken, stunning, stylish, flawless, CLEAN, little diamond. She made me, Kaylee and Andreas gag at times! Now there's a fucking achievement, straight off.

I love her. I miss her. I weep for her.

And now we come to Andreas. The fucked up Swede. My fucked up Swede. My Swedish Twin. My Fellow Retard. #HashTag him all you fucking want, I fucking love the guy like we were born Siamese. Sometimes I think we actually were, but I'm yet to ask my family the question...

Andreas, for the last however long I have known him (long, long, always, forever) has never failed to either:

a) Cheer me up (always)
b) Make me see sense (sometimes)
c) Agree with my fucked up head/tendancies
d) Make me laugh on Twitter til I wanna pee my pants
e) Make me laugh on DMs til I wanna pee my pants
f) Make me laugh on texts til I wanna pee my pants
g) Make me laugh on MSN til I wanna pee my pants

This dude is the Lights to my fucking Northern.

So, on the same week that Emily deserted me, Andreas bailed too.

Yeah, ok, I can hold my own. We know this. I have my own shit to say. I started Twitter without them, I can finish it without them too.

But Jesus, I don't want to. It's like a wrench on my heart. Without even asking Kaylee, I know she'll agree.

I miss them both so much.

It's emotional blackmail. I will text the two of them this link now and milk it for all it's worth until I get my Pea and my Swede back with me, like they should be.

In a very rare and almost inexistent display from Hana...

Come back to me. Please.

You're The Ink In My Needle

2011-06-15T18:40:00.004+01:00

I sometimes wonder how it is that people I have known for the majority of my life and the entirety of my adulthood really don't have a clue about me at all.

Where have they actually been all this time?

It makes me think that they are either exceptionally stupid and grossly maladriot, or just a bunch of fucking charlatans.

For example, that strong-willed and ever so slightly rebellious nature that I demonstrated at school? Remember that? Well, it's still me, only stepped up a few gears.

The shit I got up to during uni, my idiosyncratic and often cursed state of mind, my chaotic behaviour and catalystic reactions at unpredictable times? Yes, still me.

The ever increasing anger that was always simmering away under the surface or blowing up like a regularly erupting volcano? I'm pretty sure that all kicked off around the age of twenty, and I'm pretty certain I'm still the same way now. Probably worse.

Defiance of and a strong dislike towards authority? Yes, yes, yes, all still there.

I think what I'm trying to say is: why don't you recognise me for all the character traits I always demostrated in the past, and continue to demonstrate now?

Surely you remember how old I was when I got my first tattoo? That would be fifteen.

Surely you remember how old I was when I got my second tattoo? That would be fifteen.

Third? Sixteen.

Fourth? Seventeen.

Fifth? Eighteen.

I then got my sixth, seventh, eighth, nineth and tenth between the ages of twenty seven and twenty nine.

So... is now really the time to be saying to me: "But Hana, how are you going to feel when you're older?"

Let's look at it this way:

Did I care, at fifteen, not only what I would look like when I'm older (which, incidentally, is now), but also about the fact that I was breaking the law? That would be a no. I didn't give a fuck then, and I don't give a fuck now. In fact, I personally think my body art is the dog's fucking bollocks, so spin on that one til you fall off your high horse like the dizzy-ass mutherfucker you are.

Shocking as this may sound, I do actually put a lot of thought into what I'm prepared to pay quite a lot of money for having permanently and painfully etched onto my skin. I don't run into a random tattoo place like an escaped mental patient, ask to be blindfolded then proceed to point, lucky-dip-style, at some run of the mill design that's displayed for all to choose off the wall.

Think of a bride who won't buy "off the rack". Is that more up your alley? You understand that terminology a little better? Good. Maybe now we might be getting somewhere.

With that in mind, I am fully aware that the developing theme on my back is dark and expressive with a hint of anger and defiance. What, you think I chose swarming bats, swooping claws-out ravens, open mouthed, sharp teethed snakes and blood red scrawls of the Seven Deadly Sins as a portrayal of light-hearted contentment, happiness and frivolity?

If you are truly honest with yourself, what do you really think is more suited to me? The above, or a brightly coloured picture of Braveheart Bear holding hands with Polly Fucking Pocket, skipping through fields of marshmallows and sweetie jars, surrounded by heart shaped balloons floating through a perfectly blue, cloudless, sunny sky, telling one another how much they adore one another and their equally vomit inducing sickeningly sweet lives?

Now, think really hard about that one...

I'm pretty sure that your preference would be the blank canvas that I was born with, but first of all, I'm not asking you what you want, and secondly, that idea to me would suggest that I have nothing to say with my life.

Again, do you not know me at all? I never shut the fuck up. You don't clock up over fifty six thousand Tweets in less than two years by being a wallflower. Sorry - that refers to Twitter. I realise I am dealing with those living in the Dark Ages.

The bottom line is, I know myself. I know my beliefs, my understandings, my likes, my dislikes, what triggers my anger, what makes me happy, what motivates me, what calms me, and above all, that the only person my body should matter to is me.

You can guilt-trip me, cry at me, plead with me, disapprove of me, be shocked by me, doubt me, raise your eyebrows at me, talk about me, bitch about me, form opinions of me, fuck, you can fucking judge me - you do all of that anyway.

And I love it.

You're the ones who fuel my inspiration, both on this page and on my skin. The next time you do it, just remember that you are enforcing in me one of the many reasons I continue to do what I do to my body.

I guess I should take this opportunity to thank you for your narrow minded, old fashioned, naive and judgemental bullshit.

If it wasn't for you, I might not be me.

Kiss Me, Merlot.

2011-06-09T15:31:00.005+01:00

Home is where the heart is.

Yeah, that and the twelve bottles of red wine that arrived on Monday whilst I was away. I will be honest: that's all I gave a fuck about.

When I put the order in last Thursday evening, my heart nearly disintegrated when I realised I'd just missed the next day delivery cut off. My first horror was, "Shit! It won't be here in time for the weekend - I'll have to go out and buy some more!", and secondly, "Fuck! When it does arrive on Monday, I'll already be at work and won't be home again until Thursday evening!"

Fail, Hana. Fail.

So, having left work early today and consequently spent the last three hours doing what I had planned to do with my free time (sort my fucking life out), I walked into my beloved flat to find my beloved wine delivery waiting for me on my beloved (?) dining room table.

Normally, this would please me in your everyday standard 'I'm not an alcoholic' but "Ooh, how nice! My wine is here!" kind of way, but after the last few hours I have had, I could've kissed a Scum player for delivering it, rather than breaking one over his head! Now, I realise how absurd that sounds, but just hear me out.

The last few hours have involved me running (yes, running) around Bridport like an ADHD blighted speed-balling nutcase. In 5 inch heels. And a fitted, knee length pencil skirt. In the torrential rain. Without an umbrella. Whilst trying to escape The Town Idiot (think Village Idiot, but on a much mightier scale).

I knew as soon as I swung my car into that illegal parking space (so, not a parking space at all really - more a convenient place to stop), slammed the door behind me and clocked his friendly face beaming and beelining towards me in that "YOU WILL NOT EVADE ME" kind of way, that I should have just listened to my cunt side.

The cunt side of me was screaming: "GET THE FUCK BACK IN YOUR CAR AND FUCKING DRIVE! DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE! HANA, I MEAN IT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! JUST FUCKING DRIVE!", whereas the slightly-less-of-a-cunt side whispered to me "Can't you be less of a cunt for a change? It won't kill you."

I weighed up my options.

In favour of being a cunt:

- You will be spared the burden of humouring a stalker for the next few hours.

In favour of being slightly less of a cunt:

- You took time off work to sort things out, not hide from weird men;
- You will waste your day hanging out at home only to have to add everything you didn't do today, onto everything you have to do tomorrow;
- It won't be so bad, he'll get the hint that you're busy. Surely.

He didn't get the fucking hint that I was busy. I never usually listen to that lesser evil side of mine (I wanted to write 'angelic' side, but would've been laughed off this page) - I usually go with the screaming demon. Why did I do the nice thing?

I tried to demonstrate my busy-ness by running, but the guy is about six foot fucking ten, so for every four running strides I took, he just stretched out a leg and ambled alongside me with a gentle stroll!

I had to endure a running commentry on my grocery shopping! The greengrocers sells fruit and vegetables. So, what was I buying? Fruit and vegetables? I would imagine so. After filling my basket with various, umm, fruit and vegetables, he took one look at it and said "That will never fill you up!". Ignoring the roaring obvious (where are we again?), I dared not get into the vegan explanation (imagine?), but opted, instead, for a laugh followed by, "Course it will! Look at the size of me! This'll last me a week!"

Trip to Blockbuster? Yep. Trip to Boots? Yep. The bank? Yep! I kid you not, the guy was with me every step of the way.

When I finally realised that this scenario was going to last forever and a day, I made my excuses and said "I have to be somewhere" whilst speedwalking to my car. You'd think that'd be it. NO!

The dude fucking walked me to the door of my illegally parked car and then got me to wind the fucking window down to say a final goodbye before I finally managed to floor it off faster than the speed of light - only to hit single lane traffic a millisecond later and have him hanging off the side of the fucking passenger side door for a further ten mutherfucking minutes (it felt like ten mutherfucking hours).

If you think I am exaggerating, you are mistaken.

Is it really any wonder that when I did finally rock up at home, minus a freak, I was more than a little bit happy to see my wine waiting for me! Hence the Scum player comment above. Which, in hindsight, probably was a slight exaggeration.

I'd have to endure that guy for the rest of my fucking life before I'd ever stoop that low.

And with that in mind, wine anyone?

Dead Certainty!

2011-06-04T17:46:00.005+01:00

I heard a really good quote earlier today:

"Life is a Hell that no one gets out of alive"

How very bloody factual!

If I am totally upfront and honest, I can't really see the point of this whole "life" thing. I mean, we get thrown onto a planet and left to our own devices, only to eventually get obliterated one way or another, at any time, in any place, and mostly without prior knowledge of our impending demise.

I'd rather not know about life and stay a 'nothing'. No disappointment, see?

We haven't got a clue (despite the failed attempts at various religious nutjobs to convince us otherwise) what will happen to us after we die, only the certainty that we will actually die. Oh hell, let's spell it out properly: we're slowly dying from the moment we're fucking born. You've seen what oxygen does to a peeled apple. Well, we breathe that toxic shit in every second of our lives, just imagine what it's doing to our insides! Rotting and decomposing our organs until we are a shell of desecration.

The message simply remains: You're all going to die. Deal with it. They might as well stick "cunt" on the end of that to really give it some impact.

"You're all going to die. Deal with it, cunt."

Yeah. I like that better.

As soon as we are old enough to "understand", we know that after everything we do, everything we work towards, everything we may or may not achieve, we're going to fall off the planet anyway, so what was the fucking point?

Nothing like putting a downer on things before you've even started.

We spend our childhood getting told off by our parents and our teachers, our teen years getting told off by our parents and our teachers, our twenties disappointing and consequently getting disowned by our entire family, and well, the rest of our lives working, working and working, telling off our own children and/or school pupils, taking shit in relationships and getting fucked over by various poor excuses for friends.

In amongst that there's the odd ray of light in the form of a bottle of wine, some shit hot music, a laugh with your mates, a Jonny Depp film, a jaw dropping haircut, some mindblowing sex, maintaining a size six, watching the Arsenal boys score, getting drawn on with a needle and ink, and perfecting the art of swagger in six inch killer heels, but other than all of that, what the fuck are we actually doing?

People say to you all the time, "life is short, make the most of it", but how in the fuck are we supposed to "make the most of it" when we don't know when it's going to end?

For example, if I knew I was going to die on 1st January 2012, I would spend the rest of this year partying like Winehouse. I'd take the bank up on all of the numerous loans they keep offering me, spend it on wine, cocaine, body art and shoes, and strut my decomposing soon-to-be-rotting-corpse around various parts of the world acting like a little fucking bitch.

I'd tell everyone what I really thought of them, not the watered down version (which is apparently still considered "rude", so God help them if they heard me uncensored), and I wouldn't give a fuck if no one came to my funeral because I wouldn't be there to fucking witness it!

I'd be dead, see?

All I want is to be buried in an Arsenal top, surrounded by my other Arsenal tops with the following words etched onto my gravestone:

"This is going to happen to you too."

Suspicious, Bitch

2011-06-02T21:32:00.002+01:00

I'm always suspicious.

Nature of the bitch.

Suspicious of what, then? Oh, you know... everything.

To kick this off, I'm suspicious of men in almost every (I actually mean 'every', scrap the 'almost') respect.

Scenario One:
You're out with your girls and some random dude approaches. Suspicious? I am. Why? Because he assumes you're up for it just because you're drinking. Sorry to disappoint, asshole, but I could drink you into your grave, let alone under that table I engraved my heel marks into last weekend whilst dancing on it and drinking the owner of this bar under it. True story. Sorry. Do one.

Scenario Two:
Your boyfriend suddenly makes an out-of-the-blue romantic gesture. Suspicious? I am. Why? It's obvious. Guilt. Cheating cunt. Do one.

Scenario Three:
He's just a mate, but suddenly he wants to go out for dinner, drinks, hang out, command your time. Suspicious? I am. Looks like he's trying to cross that boundary. Really, he should know better. If he's a proper mate he'll know that he won't be able to get me drunk and take advantage. See Scenario One. Do one.

I'm suspicious of random acts of kindness.

Scenario Four:
You don't know them that well, they seem like an alright human, but they're offering to go out of their way to do something nice for you. Suspicious? I am. No one does anything for free, especially almost-strangers. You're not my mate. If I say yes, you'll either stalk me all the way to Hell, or try calling in a favour at a later date whether I'm happy about it or not. I'll work my own shit out, thanks. Save it for someone who's dumb enough to appreciate it. Do one.

I'm suspicious of people's questions.

Scenario Five:
You're being asked, completely randomly, what you're doing all week, how you're spending your evenings, which nights you won't be home. Suspicious? I am. You don't really care. You're not really interested. You're planning your social life and calculating when it's safe to rip it up in my apartment without me being home to witness (sorry, oppose) it. If you want your mates down, your other half over, I suggest you just come out with it. I'm not a fucking monster. I'm not a stupid bitch, either. Know it.

I'm suspicious of random invites.

Scenario Six:
You're invited to some party held by someone you barely know, who you don't particularly hit it off with. Suspicious? I am. You've invited me for one of three reasons:

1) You need the numbers? Don't be such a desperate twat. It's quality not quantity, darling (although, I have to admit, I am quality, especially at parties);

2) You need entertainment? Ok. Fair play. I get that. I rarely fail to entertain when drunk, but whether that's a good thing or a seriously bad thing remains the question;

3) You feel like you should? Excuse me whilst I pick my hysterical arse up off the floor. Fuck you!

Look, to wrap this entire thing up into a concise, neatly packaged parcel of doubt, cynicism and excruciating distrust: I am one suspicious bitch.

Unless I know you, love you, trust you, believe you, I am always going to look for the ulterior motive and think you're a lying cunt.

Further to that? I don't really trust the people I "know", "love", "trust" or "believe" either.

Every motive has an ulterior.

Lesson Learned. Never Again.

2011-05-30T20:14:00.004+01:00

A Bank Holiday without alcohol clearly isn't good for me.

I haven't had a single glass of wine since Friday night. Oh, wait, no - I had two glasses last night between 10pm and midnight whilst I was watching a film (hugely insignificant in comparison to my normal standards), but apart from that, I've been very restrained.

I had my reasons. It wasn't just blind insanity. I thought I would experiment a bit.

Firstly, I thought I would see if I could actually manage it. No joke, I say all the time things like "I'm not going to drink until..." (whenever), and a day later I've caved. I'm rubbish.

Secondly, I thought I would see if it would make me feel better: better emotionally (spending a weekend completely sober from start to finish without any drunken rants, rages or tears is a fairly new concept) and also better the following day. No banging head, dehydration or acute lethargy.

Well, I should have stuck to what I know.

After drinking a fair bit on Friday night, I did wake up a bit hazy on the Saturday, but nothing major. I went up to Worcestershire and spent an overnight with my best friend, no booze involved, and woke up on the Sunday feeling really tired and groggy.

After my two glasses of wine last night, I felt fine this morning, but as my booze-free day has progressed, I've dipped from feeling relatively ok, to fucking miserable as sin. Part of me wants to crack open a bottle of red, but I'm now aware that it's almost nine p.m. and that is asking for trouble for work tomorrow.

I put this feeling of ruin down to the fact that I've had too much time to think coherently. Now, that does sound worrying but let me explain: during the week at work, I am obviously sober, but I'm busy all day and most evenings too (with one thing and another), therefore I have very little time to think about things in any great depth.

During the weekend, it's different. I am far too conscious of the fact that I have 'time'. So what's the best thing to do with that time? Spend hour upon hour going over things in your mind that you'd give anything in the world to erase? Or get on it and forget?

I don't even need to give you my answer.

That's what I should've done today. Well, consider this as one lesson painfully learnt.

I'm sure as fuck not spending another weekend sober.

No Excuses

2011-05-29T20:33:00.004+01:00

I suspect that, amongst other things, I'm considered fairly opinionated and outspoken.

I guess here's another classic example of why.

Never, ever, ever is it acceptable in any way, shape or form to betray or cheat on the person you supposedly love. Never.

There is no grey area as far as I'm concerned - if you're not happy, leave. Ditch. Get the fuck out. Say goodbye. Move on.

I don't care if your social life will fall apart because all your friends are mutual couples and it might upset the balance and force people to take sides. Real friends will remain just that. The rest don't matter.

I don't care if you have a mortgage together and it creates financial hassle and stress in the process. You should've waited before making such a commitment if you weren't sure you could see it through.

I don't care if you're married and it means having to go through a lengthy and painful divorce, dividing up your shit and starting all over again. You probably deserve it and I hope you get taken for half.

I also don't care if you've got children together - you'll damage the poor things more if you stay together setting them a piss poor example of parenthood and relationships. What chance do they stand? You'll fuck them up and turn them into you.

So, leave.

The moment you see yourself beginning to stray, you surely must question the reasons why?! Before you actually go too far to turn back, there are other options to consider! Cheating can only be the last, and very worst, resort. I mean, have you tried talking about your problems, like adults?

I have absolutely no sympathy whatsoever for couples who are experiencing relentless and emotionally draining relationship issues due to that fact that one of them has strayed. First off, who the fuck takes someone back who's done that to them anyway? PATHETIC. Secondly, if you've done it, deal with the consequences for fuck's sake, don't whine about it like a little bitch because you got found out!

As far as I'm concerned, you should never treat anyone in a manner in which you would not like to be treated yourself. Karma is a cunt, and it will come back around and bite you on your arse just when you think you're out of the woods.

In conclusion, my opinion does not make me "hard" or "uncompassionate", but I quite simply do not endorse the excuse that "sometimes there are valid reasons".

There aren't.

Untamed Abuse

2011-05-27T18:29:00.004+01:00

Tonight, I'm targeting a few specific areas of grievance.

First off, when I'm on the road on a Friday night after a long stressy day in the office, do not place your fucking vehicle in front of mine if you are dragging your fucking caravan.

I mean it. You can't overtake the bastards - they are too bloody wide! How are you supposed to see past the fucking things to gauge the safety element? Countless times I have been so tempted to drop two gears on a blind whim just to blaze past the damn things and move at more than twenty. I prefer to move at eighty.

Yeah, I realise that I live in Dorset, I realise people pay a shit load of money each year to come and visit the place (blah, blah, yawn my arse off blah) but really, can you not be a little fucking considerate and think of those of us who actually live here? Travel at midday! Travel at midnight! Do not travel at rush hour!

My advice is this: Grow a fucking brain. Oh, and stop going on caravaning holidays. (That should really be a given, but I appreciate that we are dealing with a group of retarded fuckwits here.) I despair.

Second on the list? Mind games. Ah, how we love them... Well, no, actually, we don't. What's to love?

I'm sure that for the game player, they must be fun. Otherwise, what would be the point, right? Personally, I wouldn't know. I don't play them. I'm not a cold hearted cunt. Seriously.

It seems that 2011 has been "The Year" for mind games. I can count on two hands the number of people who've tried it with me. Unfortunately, I'm not a dumb blonde. I can figure you out quicker than you can figure out that I know what you're up to. Confused? Yeah, course you are. Bless.

My advice is this: Grow the fuck up. Just because you've got a little prick, it doesn't mean you have to act like one. Understand that my life does not revolve around you, and it never fucking will. My life actually revolves around earning enough money to keep my plush apartment, my flashy drop top motor and my insane wine habit. Anything after that is null and void. In plain English: I couldn't give a flying muthercunting fuck.

Got it? Good.

I guess I'm done then.

Back The Fuck Off

2011-05-26T19:01:00.007+01:00

What's wrong with being a size fucking zero?

Ok, I get it if you've suddenly plummeted from a 20 to a zero in a matter of weeks - clearly there are issues there - but if you've never been bigger than a UK size 8 in your entire life, and have fluctuated between that and a UK size 4 (zero) over the past few years, it's hardly cause for the fucking weight-loss-police!

It bugs the fuck out of me when people look at you with that "concerned face" and say "are you eating properly?". Or when colleagues casually start to ask, "what did you have for lunch?" when you return from your lunch break. Well, they never asked before. Why now? Does everyone think I'm fucking stupid? I've been here before. I can read the signs clearer than you could interpret a bearded Asian man strolling onto a plane with a detonated bomb strapped to his mutherfucking back.

So, it's ok for the entire world to be on a diet and to be gradually shrinking before our very eyes, but for those of us who are not actually on a diet or consciously trying to lose weight, it isn't?

So, it's ok for someone at a UK size 16 to bang on about their daily eating habits, their weekly weigh-ins and their need for a new wardrobe as they rollercoaster up and down the dress size range, but for someone a UK size 8 to suddenly drop a dress size due to fucking stress and various other issues, it's not?

When did I enter a world of double fucking standards? Or has it always been this way?

I'm pretending to be naive - of course it's always been this way.

When I'm on the larger side of a UK size 8, I look "too big for my just-under-5'4"-frame" (apparently), but when I'm on the larger side of a UK size 6, I'm suddenly told "do not lose any more weight".

What the fuck?!

Am I not able to do what I fucking well please, what with being an adult and all? If I want to be a fucking double zero, I fucking will! If I want to eat my arse off and become a UK Size 32 I will! (I won't, but, you get my point.)

I admit that in the past, I have had some majorly fucked up eating habits, coupled with a hint of body dysmorphia. I know that, I've blogged about it - what, you think I'm going to write a different story and pray you never read about my past? What do you think I am? I told you before - I don't delete blog posts, and I don't fucking lie! What you read on here is real. It's a life, it's not fiction, it's not a story, and it's not a fucking laugh!

It's easy to get wrapped up in body size obsession - I used to rely on being able to count individual ribs and hip bones every morning and every night in order to get me through each day - but this time it's not been a conscious effort.

So will everybody get off my fucking case, please?

You wouldn't walk up to a fat chick and say "woah bitch, you've put on weight! What are you eating?"

In the same way, what gives you the right to say to me "You've lost weight! Are you eating properly?"

The simple answer is this:

Yeah, I'm eating "properly", and I'm still about a stone heavier than I ever was at my smallest. Oh, and back then, I was still never in any danger, diagnosed with fucking anorexia or hospitalised.

I was fine. I am fine now. I will always be fine.

So back the fuck off.

I don't need your fucking concern.

Laid Bare... Almost!

2011-05-26T15:46:00.005+01:00

So now that half of Bridport and my mother are regularly reading my blog, you'd assume that I'd feel the need to tone it down a little and start editing my language and content.

You might also assume that I've experienced more than a couple of cringe moments whilst thinking back to the things that might've been read, that might've been disapproved of, that might've shocked.

On top of this, I could also have facepalmed at the realisation that half my body art is on display - some of which hasn't been publicised in such an "in your face" manner in certain company before, due to the fact a lot of people hate the damn things and aren't exactly backwards in coming forwards to tell me so.

I've offended so many people on here without meaning to, and without really understanding why. As far as I'm concerned, this is about what goes through my head, about what I'm thinking and feeling, not about other people's insecurities. I shouldn't have to worry about their individual perceptions and over-sensitivity, or to be fucking apologising every other week.

Get over it. I didn't name you.

The truth is, I couldn't give a flying who reads this. If anything, I quite like the fact that I don't have to hide anything! Next time I'm in a bitch of a mood, or behaving in a way that is always misunderstood, they might cast their minds back to something on here and engage their brains. Realise that not everything's black and white. There's a lot of red in my world too.

As far as editing the content goes - absolutely not. Why would I change my style and need to vent in order to spare others' dismay and disgust? If I was worried about shit like that, these pages would be blank, and the photos would be non-existent! You'd be staring at a title and a black background.

I confess that I did have a momentary feeling of "oh shit" when my mother told me she'd finally looked at this site, but that was mainly because no parent likes to hear their daughter using 'the C word' and hating on her life all the Goddamn time. I'm not completely insensitive (believe it or not).

On the plus side, I have nothing that I feel the need to keep a secret from her. It's all here, laid bare.

One thing I have managed to keep under wraps though are my various body piercings, but in all honesty, if I started getting pictures of those out, this page would become a porn site.

No parent needs to see that.

Soz, God!

2011-05-21T18:49:00.004+01:00

Disappiontment doesn't even begin to cover it.

God lied. God, for fuck's sake.

It's now 18:49.

Where the fuck was this earthquake then?

I know I didn't see any people flying to the sky, Heavenbound.

So, there is no Hell on Earth - well, no more than usual, anyway.

Oh. Maybe that's the point.

The fact that I already live in Hell could explain why I haven't noticed a change. But... the flying people? Ok, I might have been indoors at the time. Wasn't looking out of the window. Too busy caning the Pinot Grigio and blaring out some Eminem to remember to look. But, how do you explain the lack of earthquake? Well, ok, I admit that with the volume turned so high on my speakers, the ground tends to shake anyway.

Basically, the conclusion that I have come to is that I missed it! I missed the fucking Rapture! In fact, I'm not even going to call it that. What idiot came up with that name anyway? There was no "bliss" involved. Life is the same as it was before. It still fucking sucks.

Will I still have to pay my quarterly British Gas bill, I wonder? I'm not sure. Maybe the idea is that I assume not, fail to pay and get slapped with a court injunction followed by a prison sentence. I mean, that would represent Hell a bit.

Clever shit.

And turning thirty? I still will, won't I? Yep. Hell.

The indecision over my body art remains. Hell.

And as far as petrol goes, I assume that the cunts who whack those prices up on a daily basis did not ascend into Heaven, so that's going to continue too.

Well, I'll be damned! It was true!

I take my previous Tweet back, God: you're not "a lying little cunt" after all.

Did You Know, Rapture Means Bliss?

2011-05-21T13:30:00.004+01:00

Wow, I really have been living in a bubble!

I had absolutely no idea whatsoever that the world was ending today! Oh, wait, no, hang on, sorry, allow me to rephrase: I had absolutely no idea whatsoever that a massive earthquake would strike the planet this afternoon, resulting in about three per cent of God's people ascending straight into Heaven, leaving the rest of us (yes, I would consider myself to be in the remaining ninety seven) to suffer Hell on Earth until October 21st when the world will then officially end in a ball of fire!

Absolutely no idea whatsoever!

Gosh! How stupid do I feel? I must be the last to know! It's a good job I popped onto Twitter when I got up, because my mother never mentioned it when she rang me this morning. Maybe it's because I'm seeing her later for coffee. She's probably planning to chat to me about it then. Discuss what we think Hell will be like and all that (I have a pretty good idea).

But seriously now, why did no one tell me? It's not like you could forget to mention such a thing. Perhaps everyone assumed I knew? Well, I'm such an absolute idiot! I mean, here was I worrying about my British Gas bill that's due at the beginning of June for Heaven's sake! What have I been budgetting for? I may as well blow the lot this afternoon on fast cars and loose men! Or... something like that... isn't that how the phrase goes?

My attitude is, why panic? This strikes me as an ideal time to celebrate! I've spent most of this year so far worrying about turning thirty in August. NO NEED! I've been stressing about the price of petrol increasing further, because I travel fourty miles to work and back every day. NO NEED! I've been umming and aahing about which tattoo to get next, and how long it will take me to save up for it. NO NEED! I've even been worrying about ruining Christmas for about the fifth year running and wondering whether to spend this year's on my own, eating Pringles in my pyjamas and crying into my brandy. NO NEED!

This is great news!

On a more realistic note, I should start planning. I mean, if ninety seven per cent of us are staying here in Hell for a bit, I take it none of us are actually going to die, right? We're just going to have a gigantic earthquake and all be ok? Well, that's something! So, where would I like to be when the earthquake hits? I mean, if I have to spend the next five months in one place (I'm assuming the roads won't be in any condition to travel on), who do I want to be stuck with? This is a toughie.

I love Bridport, but there are a lot of, ummm, fuckwits here! Plus, the gossip would be rife! I can just imagine it now:

Person 1: "Did you see Hana showing Satan her bat tattoo earlier?"
Person 2: "Oh my God, no way! Were they flirting?"
Person 1: "Well, now you come to mention it, yes, actually I would say they were!"
Person 2: "There is definitely something going on between them then. I knew it. I knew it all along."
Person 1: "I knew it too. I said that would happen, didn't I? Do you remember me saying to you that I knew that would happen..."

Blah, blah, fucking blah!

The problem is that I'm not sure I have enough time to get to Worcestershire or London, where some very close friends of mine live, and I certainly don't have time to find out where Cesc lives and pitch up outside his house! Although... what an idea! (In actual fact though, he'd be going straight up to Heaven, wouldn't he? The man is a God.)

Ok, so, I guess I'm stuck where I am then! I suppose that's ok, I mean we do have some very lovely beaches, and as it will undoubtedly be so very hot indeed on the Earth, I can work on building up a cracking tan!

Jeez, what am I waiting for? I'd better get a riddle on and start partying like it's The End of the World!

Oh fuck! What in God's name shall I wear?

Planet Rage.

2011-05-20T18:19:00.005+01:00

Want to hear some facts about a new planet?

Here they are:

Name: TBC.

Age: Unknown. We think it omits characteristics claiming to be younger than its' actual age.

Location: Unknown. It cannot be controlled by usual planetary force.

Diameter: Narrow.

Mass: Ever diminishing.

Average distance from the sun: Immeasurable. It continues to remain the furthest planet from the sun ever to be discovered. Due to this fact, it is shrouded in eternal darkness.

Number of moons: One. The dark one that turns nice girls into archfiend demons.

Atmosphere: Unpleasant. For the most part it is cold, cataclysmic, hostile, erratic, fierce and abnormal. Occasionally, it has appeared serene, tranquil, harmonious and warm. After further investigation and continuous monitoring, we suspect this is just an expert act of deceit and pretense.

Surface: Variable. For the most part it is erratic, unstable, capricious, unforeseeable, dangerous, formidable, viperous and fatal. Occasionally, it has appeared accommodating, domicile, calm and compliant. After further investigation and continuous monitoring, we suspect this is just an expert act of deceit and pretense.

Distinguishing features: Many. Despite it's nugatory size and senseless subsistence, this planet is the most volatile of all. No other planet or star discovered by humankind or alienbeing possesses such extreme characteristics. Such to be discovered are enlisted as follows:

- unpredictable and sudden eruptions of blistering, searing and noxious rage;
- an unequivocal, inflexible and enduring complexity of defense;
- an impassable surface structure;
- infinite layers of arbitrary activity;
- unnatural fluctuations in climate;
- a relentless ability to self destruct;
- an unfathomable dexterity to rebuild and repair;
- an overwhelming capacity to absorb toxic substances;
- a proficient display of Chameleon quality;
- a repellent and offensive chemical reaction to [the hormone] testosterone;
- a reflective and pensive distinction (often following a storm).

Further comments: We are yet to discover and unearth the hidden depths of this new addition to the ever expanding and never-to-actually-be-truly-understood universe. All we know is that it is one deeply afflicted and destroyed sphere. To understand its' journey is an impossibility. We can only assume that it has crashed into its' current [unstable and ever changing] destination following a turbulent campaign thusfar. We shall continue to monitor changes.

Hmm. Interesting.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that the "planet" that was discovered recently was a carbon copy of me.

I shall name it: Rage.

Now, Where Shall I Start?

2011-05-14T20:56:00.004+01:00

"Gonna write a blog about shit that fucks me off."

That's the Tweet I fired over immediately before clicking my link and signing into my electronic therapy session.

So, what's fucked me off today? Ok. Let's go.

I'm still cussing over the fact that I spent over two hours on a blog post on Thursday evening, only to have this site crash on me, not save what I'd written, and in neglecting to do so, send it off into cyber space, never to be retrieved or heard of ever again.

What a fucking waste - I had points that needed to be made. I had shit I wanted to get off my chest. I had opinions I wanted to share.

I remember the bulk content of what I wrote, but if I tried to write it again, I'd rip it apart and compare it to what never was. So, I'm not going to bother.

Waste of time. Yeah, I'm annoyed.

Tonight is Eurovision night. Immediately, as a British individual, I am incensed. Everyone (bar Andreas) on my Twitter timeline is watching this shit. What for? Are you really naive enough to think we have a chance?

Let me explain:

In the World Cup, we never achieve anything because WE ARE FUCKING SHIT.

In Eurovision, we never achieve anything because, NOT ONLY ARE WE FUCKING SHIT, BUT EUROPE FUCKING HATES US TOO.

We could reincarnate Freddie Mercury and still end up with "nil poi". In other words - you fucking suck you British cunts. Give up now.

In my incredibly overpowering and effervescent opinion, we should pull out of the entire competition and save face. What are we doing? I am ashamed.

Next up is the fishermen I saw on Burton Bradstock beach this afternoon, whilst walking the dog after a six hour emotional lunch with my mother. In the time we were there I drank countless glasses of Merlot whilst spilling out my heart and having a bit of a cry - thank fuck for aviators!

After sharing a solitary (meat-free, fish-free, seafood-free, dairy-free, anything-containing-a-trace-of-a-single-animal-free) salad and bowl of chips, we walked along the beach front, happily chatting away, only to encounter, on our return, numerous idiots lying under makeshift tents with their fishing nets securely rammed into the sand, waiting for a live being to bite the bait, drag it out of it's happy existence, and shove on a fucking barbecue.

As we walked past (my mother looking like a beautiful, classy, timeless catwalk model, and me looking like a blonde Lisbeth Salander), I made the comment, "I really want to walk up to that guy, break the fucking fishing rod over his head and tell him what a murdering bastard he is". This resulted in the dude turning round and staring at us like I'd actually gone and fucking done it! He was lucky! I was three large Merlots up, and I don't even need alcohol to put a murderer in his place.

As my mother giggled to me: "I think he heard you", I simply responded with "Good" and then, under my breath, " the cunt...".

I could seriously get caught up in this, and I could easily allow my feelings for humans' cruelty towards animals rein over everything in my current life, but I can't. I realise this. And it kills me.

On a slightly more positive note, there's nothing else to add to the list for now! Bear in mind that I am trying to write solely about today. I also had a request from Andreas to write about what fucks him off, but, like I said to him in response: "This is a blog post, dude, not a fucking book!"

The Fine Line Of Trust

2011-05-10T22:13:00.003+01:00

How do you know when someone's telling you the truth?

How do you know when someone's telling you a lie?

Should you trust someone just because they are a member of your family?

Should you trust someone just because they are your friend?

Should you trust someone because they are some kind of "authority"?

How close a friend must you consider someone before you can truly believe what they are telling you? After all, they are only human.

How much should you punish yourself for your own poor judgement if a "friend" lets you down? After all, you are only human.

How much can you really trust someone in authority, who is really just doing their day job? Be it your teacher, your boss, the police, the government. After all, they are only human. Kind of.

When exactly do you move someone from an aquaintance into that trusted friend position? What's the trigger point in your mind that suddenly makes you think "Yes. That person is my friend"?

What's the exact point at which that one person who, up until now you have been getting to know, suddenly becomes part of your trusted inner circle?

We all get to know people gradually, and we all move through the channels of aquaintance to friendship or relationship, unless, of course, we are complete social pariahs (which, incidentally, I could quite happily be, given the fucking chance - oh, and the money!).

My dream: to jet-set off to nowhere and never have to make an effort with another human being ever again. I could happily live in a cave with the animals. If I took my Batiste Dry Hair Shampoo, a pot of Carmex and some Sure and FemFresh wet wipes, I could easily remain half-human/half-feral for the rest of my (probably extremely limited) existence. In fact, fuck the Dry Hair Shampoo! Who am I trying to impress?

Happy days. Happy, peaceful, "I won't get fucked over because animals don't have it in their nature" contentment. And before you think I'll be like some Stone Age Cave Chick, clubbing animals over the head and roasting them on a spit fire - think again! I'm near-vegan, mutherfucker! I'd shoot down a human that was hunting an animal without a second's thought and a millisecond's conscience - let that be known!

So, besides the above, what happens when you realise you have made a mistake about someone?

What happens when you realise that the friend who you thought was a friend, is actually a backstabbing gossip?

What happens when the person you loved and trusted, and lent thousands of pounds to, not only turns into a monster and throws you down a flight of stairs, but also claims you never gave him a thing?

What happens when the one person you loved more than anyone, or anything, in the entire world, leaves the planet with no warning, no goodbye, and no promise that you will see them again in the "next life"?

I'll tell you what happens: you lose faith.

You turn into me.

Flicking The V's & Shouting The C's.

2011-05-08T18:43:00.004+01:00

Apparently, if I write "fucking cunt Manc scum" on my Twitter timeline, it means that that is the one and only reason I'm slightly perturbed. Purely because of the football. All I care about is the MancScum result, right? That's what my weekend revolves around?

Sorry to disappoint, but that kind of comment is normal for me. I come out with that kind of shit when there isn't even a fixture. It's in my blood. It's like Gooner Torrettes.

To be fair, and to cut you a bit of slack, because I'm nice like that, you are a fairly new follower. I guess you can be forgiven for your naivety. You possibly can't be forgiven for your choice of teams though.

Did I say possibly? I meant definitely.

Hater? No. Gooner.

Even if I was the happiest, most content little inked-up, multi-pierced, vodka-infused madamoiselle currently residing on the planet Earth, I would still give out to the scum cunts. Why? Because I can.

I've talked about freedom of speech and freedom of expression on here before. I've also said that even if I was living in the Dark Ages, where women were the lesser sex, unable to voice opinion and beaten down, I would still get up on a fucking podium and tell you fucking cunts what I think.

I'd do it in my Arsenal top whilst flicking the V's and shouting the C's.

Unfortunately for you lot, it's the twenty first century and there's a no-holds-barred freedom clause on humanity. At least, there is in this country.

Well, I'm going to make the most of that.

So, if I post up a comment that offends you, whatever you do, do not scroll back down my timeline or read the archived posts on my blog.

If you do, you're asking for it.

Ahahahaa.. Pfft!

2011-05-08T15:58:00.004+01:00

I would laugh, but, well, it's just not fucking funny.

I've only been out of bed for about three hours (it's almost 4pm on a Sunday afternoon), and I can't name a single positive thing that's happened so far.

I initially woke up at about 7am, which is normal for me when I'm not having to get up at 6am for work, turned over in bed and somehow managed to twist my right shoulder, meaning that ever since it happened, I've been in a fair amount of pain and discomfort, and can hardly fucking move. I wasn't able to get back to sleep properly, despite being more tired than I thought was humanly possible, so let's add my foul mood to the list before I even kick off with the rest of it, shall we?

Next up, we're playing dirty, cheating, leg-breaking, scum bastards, Stoke, away today. At half time, we were already 2-0 down.

Now, you know that's going to cause some kind of "less than pleasant" verbal reaction from me. Not to mention the 'plummeting even further into the depths of hell' mood that we may have come across on more than one occasion in the past.

"Vodka? Before breakfast?" Uh huh.

"Mixer?" Yeah. Ice.

Next: I receive a text saying: "Hana Erickson has joined the group 'You know you're getting old when you injure yourself in bed' and 'I now support Liverpool because Arsenal are losing 2-0 to Stoke before half time' xx".

Why bother with the xx's at the end? Am I supposed to smile? Two guesses who that little jem was from. I give up. Again.

Next up on the 'Kill Me Now' Sunday agenda is a spell in Twitter Jail. I'm still there now. Can you cut me a break? How am I supposed to rant to over 1,300 people if I'm stuck on a timeout? I'm close to getting on my Blackberry and ripping into my family and friends.

Anything else, whilst I'm on a roll? Yeah, actually. I've been contemplating what to have for breakfast since I dragged my injured-through-zero-exercise self out of bed. So far, I've failed, which means I'm not only hungrier than a tramp, but irritated to fuck and firmly on that downward slope to an alcohol induced coma. Been there before and it wasn't fun - not that I remember, of course, but they ripped one of my piercings, the cunts.

It's hard to find inspiration when you don't eat half the things other humans do - meat, fish, dairy, eggs - anything that harms animals, basically, but let's not start me on that one, or this blog post will become a book!

I also can't be arsed.

So, vodka it is then.

On the plus side, I've just read the ingredients in the Diet Lemonade that's been sitting unopened in my fridge for weeks - no aspartame! I can now safely mix it with my Vanilla Absolut and prolong that coma visit.

The day is looking up.

Female or Fembot?

2011-05-06T23:12:00.005+01:00

For years, my mother has been telling me that I am not a robot, I am a female.

Well, thanks Mum, I would never've known.

In all fairness, I guess it comes down to a number of facts that she has picked up on over the years.

Not only have I been taking a contraceptive injection for twelve years that means I never get a period, I also have a complete aversion to children, pregnancy, child birth, motherhood... you name it!

The sight, let alone thought of a pregnant woman makes me want to vomit. The thought of carrying an alien being inside my own body (because to me, that's what it is), not only makes my uterus scream, it also reminds me of the film "Aliens".

I cannot physically watch, hear, nor speak about anything pregnancy, gynaecological or birth related. It's a subject that is as far removed from my understanding as supporting Spurs. I don't want to know about your morning sickness. I don't want to know about your back ache, your stretch marks, your cankles, your blood pressure, your cravings or your piles. I especially do not want to know about the fucking labour and birth.

I don't want to hear about the battle to lose the baby weight, the change in your sex life, the sleepless nights, the strain it has on your relationship/job/social life.

The fact of the matter is, I'd rather watch "Hostel" on repeat for thirty five years straight, without sleep or a bathroom break.

And that's just the beginning! Breast feeding? Are you fucking serious? In my world, boobs are for sex, they are not for some parasite to suck dry, leaving you with breasts that resemble peas at the end of socks! And that's if you're small, like me. The "heftier" women end up with cows' udders. Fuck that. Fuck all of that.

If that's what they do to your boobs, what the fuck do they do to other parts of your body? It's the worst idea of torture I can imagine. Give me anything. I will endure wood shards hammered under my finger nails. Electric volts to my most sensitive areas. You can cut my kidneys out with a scalpel whilst I'm fully conscious, watching an episode of "Glee". Anything. Just don't give me pregnancy or child birth.

To me, it's the most unnatural, inhumane act on the planet.

I know I'm going to get a load of grief for this, but since when did that stop me? We live in the twenty first century, we have freedom of speech, expression, opinion.

Even if we didn't, I would still say it.

As far as I'm concerned, the thought of my body operating like a "real female" is enough to make me want to either slit my throat or request a sex change. And since neither appeals to me, I shall just continue as I mean to go on.

Apparently, I will get some deadly disease and die.

My response?

We all fucking die.

Live Remembering or Die Oblivious?

2011-05-06T19:48:00.004+01:00

I watched a film called "Gia" today. An Angelina Jolie film: "Based on the tragic life and times of America's first supermodel".

Gia Maria Carangi.

I can't say I'd ever heard of her before, but if the film is an accurate portrayal of her life, and death, she was a troubled, fucked up young lady who spiralled into a life of fame, exposure, money, sex, drugs and... well, all she wanted to be was a rock star! Except, she didn't have the voice.

She died from AIDS at the age of 26.

I don't usually write about films - I own hundreds of them, and I rent about a million on a continual basis. I am so into my films that if I were to dissect every one I watched, I'd have to give up my day job!

This one struck a cord. I am far from a supermodel, and I certainly don't have the money, the fame, nor the lifestyle. But, I get it.

At the start of the film, you see a young, innocent, happy child witness the breakdown of her parents' relationship, followed by her mother's swift exit, leaving behind her father, her two brothers and herself.

You then see this young, tattooed, crazy, rock-chick of a girl, 17 years old, getting signed up to a model agency in New York before she knows what's even hit her. Off she goes, taking her boyfriend with her, and gradually becomes the most in demand "face" of the late 70's.

After a short while, you begin to see the effects of abandonment. Her boyfriend leaves. She goes crazy. She has a fling with a woman, who, initially, won't leave her boyfriend. She goes crazy. Her mother comes to visit, but eventually has to go home. She goes crazy. Combined with these outbursts, she turns to drugs, as a means of escape.

Ok, well we all start off as young, innocent, happy children. Some of us, if we're lucky, remain happy and untarnished until the day we die. The rest of us... well, it's not quite the same. And here's where I can feel it!

When I see the meltdowns on screen, I get them. It's amost like she's been a fly on my wall and used my behaviour as research. Without seeing the film for yourself, you won't understand what I mean, but the sudden outpour of emotion, the lamentation, the breaking glass, the grief and despair, both vocally and physically... wow. It's accurate as fuck.

When I watch things like that, regardless of the trigger, it makes my skin crawl. I'm immediately thrown back into my own version of events, the ones that caused a similar reaction for me, time and time again, yet I don't associate with a certain time. It could be anything. Hey, I'm spoilt for choice! But, it brings it out of me again. It reminds me of everything that's buried deep within, the things that I'm trying so hard to keep pushed down.

She got into an uncontrollable life of despair and desperation fuelled by drugs and the feeling of neglect. She was capable of this because she had money to burn (snort, smoke, inject), and the feeling of invincibility.

I can honestly say that if I acquired more money than I needed tomorrow, I'd go exactly the same way. I'd be dead within twelve months!

Why live your life remembering, when you can die oblivous?

They Call Him Mr Injunction...

2011-05-04T20:18:00.009+01:00

Perhaps I am a little bit behind the times with this, but I have only just realised that "Mr Super Injunction" himself might just be that little-known Welsh prick of a footballer we all affectionately know as "Giggsy" (or, unaffectionately know as "Scum ManUre Wanker", if you're me...).

When I read about the latest "Footballer Cheating Scandal", I originally thought they might be banging on about one of the latest Man U, Chelsea, Spuds, Real Madrid or Barcelona games. My second thought was, maybe it's another footballer caught in a cheating scandal, having his way with some pretty little wannabe WAG whilst his wife and kids are at home pretending to be oblivious whilst spending his money and burying their heads in the sand.

I was bang on with the second one! Ten out of ten for that, but maybe zero out of ten for trying to guess who it was.

Until tonight, I was vaguely wondering who on earth paid for this super injunction to prevent his family finding out about his "little indiscretion", whilst the poor "mistress" is left to deal with the exposure, the criticism and, allegedly, a broken heart to boot!

So tonight, I got onto Twitter, and after pondering this within 140 characters, I was bombarded with reply after reply - all of which contained the same name (and most of which also contained something along the lines of "Did you not know that, Hana?!"). Ok, what can I say? I don't read the tabloids, and I only buy Closer for the TV Guide so I don't miss the occasional Masterchef, Apprentice or Corrie episode!

Getting back to the point, was I surprised when I learned who it "allegedly" was that paid off the courts? Yes and no. Yes, because I hadn't thought of it (we always assume it's going to be Rooney, Crouch, Lampard, blah...), and no, because a) well, he's a footballer, and b) because he plays for one of the most corrupt and morally deficient teams in Europe. If anyone has sufficient hubris to try and pull off something like this, it's a fucking Manc.

The thing that troubles me even more than the audacity of these men, is the fact that he was allowed to pay to prevent his wife from finding out!

What the hell kind of world do we live in where those with more money than brain cells are allowed to pay their filthy, devious ways out of facing up to their actions? What's next? "Sir" Alex shoots Arsene Wenger, but pays the courts for anonymity and continues to rein over Scum United, whilst his family are left devestated, never to discover the truth? Well, it wouldn't fucking surprise me. I can guarantee this though: if Wenger's ever found with a bullet in his brain, I'll be the first mutherfucker to hunt down Fergie and nail the cunt. Your money won't pay off Arsene's Army, sunshine, so don't even try it.

I digress.

So, she claims she was in love with the idiot. She claims that she tried to end it after the "first time". She claims she was left heartbroken and shocked at his sudden change of heart and rather harsh outcome (I'd say an injunction was pretty harsh, no?). If that's true, I feel sorry her. I also pity the poor cow.

Without standing too firmly on the moral high ground here, who in their right mind, with an ounce of intelligence and self respect, gets involved with a married man with kids, especially when they are a footballer? Sorry love, but a (huge) part of me thinks "You were asking for trouble. Deal with it."

I will hold my hands up and agree that yes, sometimes you cannot help who you fall in love with, but really... a Man U player?

What the fuck were you thinking, lady?

Scars

2011-05-02T19:52:00.005+01:00

It's becoming more and more apparent that no one knows the real me.

It's my own fault.

I'm so concerned about keeping my wall up, protecting myself, keeping people at arm's length, that everybody has developed an excessively fallacious impression of me.

I'm not just talking about people I've known for a short amount of time - you could forgive them for not knowing what to think. Sadly, family members have recently remarked on aspects of my character that aren't even real. You know you're in trouble when people you've known all your life know the pseudo-character better than the intrinsic existence.

Well, what's wrong with keeping your personal feelings and thoughts out of your every day life? What's wrong with letting people get to know you, but only on the surface? What's wrong with keeping aspects of your inner being locked away? You're not harming anyone. You can still do your job successfully. You can still maintain strong relationships with friends and family.

Yeah, only you can't maintain relationships with family members when they see you turning into a stone-dead version of your former self, and you certainly can't establish new friendships, let alone relationships, when you have more issues than you'd wish on your worst enemy.

Call it selfish, call it self-indulgent - that's bollocks; it's quite the fucking opposite. It's about protecting those who care from seeing what's happened to you. It's about protecting them from seeing what you've become, what life has done to you, because there's fuck all they can do about it but watch you deteriorate in front of their eyes.

Personally I'd rather they didn't know.

It's been a steady downward slope for years - oh, those were the days with the beautiful long blonde hair, the innocence, the untarnished background, the future full of such potential, the privileged upbringing, the fucking princess - I haven't wanted that since 2001. I sure as fuck don't want it now. It doesn't mean anything to me anymore. It all died a death, along with the closest thing to me, and therefore a huge part of my soul.

That was the past. And that's where it belongs.

People are supposed to suffer less as time goes on. They are supposed to deal with things successfully, to enjoy their lives, to achieve happiness, to develop the ability to cope and move on.

Well, I've developed a side to me that apparently doesn't really give a fuck. A side that doesn't need anyone besides myself. A side that can't be hurt by anyone. And that's not even attained through effort - oh no. It's become such a natural alias that I'm struggling to remember who I really am anymore. I'll just carry on expressing my anger through the increasing amount of permanent ink scars scrawled across my skin. At least those scars are intentional, unlike most of the others.

That's at least one aspect of my life I can maintain control over, despite people's prejudice and revulsion.

My father would be so proud.

In all honesty, I can hardly complain about people's perception of me. How could they judge me any other way? Until I stop with the defense, until I stop with the terror of getting close to someone, just in case I lose them again, I'm always going to face the battle of people's misunderstanding and assumption.

Well, for the record, I'm not some hollow, emotionally devoid, vacant, depleted shell of a former human being.

I'm just struggling.

Hello. I'm a Retard.

2011-04-30T18:41:00.004+01:00

Something that really bothers me is people who refuse to watch subtitled films.

It's the typically moronic, mentally-deficient response that comes from so many people who insist that films can only be worth watching if they are in English - preferably British or American, no other variants.

I cannot count on two hands how many times I have recommended a film to someone, only to receive a response such as "Isn't that subtitled though? Nah, it's not my thing..." or "Oh right! Sounds good... subtitled though... oh... isn't there an English remake? I'll probably watch that one."

Recently, someone I know very well watched "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo", but rather than watching it in the original Swedish language with subtitles, they opted for the dubbed-over English version. How on earth can you watch a film that does not have the original voices or the original essence? That's ridiculous!

I was disgusted, and I said so. Is it too much effort to have to read something? Or are you just averse to anything "foreign"? Either way, be ashamed of yourself, you poor, unfortunate, hopeless simpleton.

Without even going into the asinine closed-mindedness and intransigence which are obvious character traits, you don't know what you're missing! The most recent subtitled films I have had the utmost pleasure of seeing have been: "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo", "The Girl Who Played With Fire", "The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets' Nest" and "Let The Right One In" (Swedish subtitled); "Rec", "Rec 2" and "Pan's Labyrinth" (Spanish subtitled), and "7 Days" (French Subtitled).

This evening I am going to watch "We Are What We Are" - another Spanish subtitled film that I chose knowing full well that on a Saturday night, I might have to read! Imagine that?!

Jeez, if people only pick films based on what language they are in, they are immediately limiting themselves.

Although, with that attitude and mind-set, I would say that they are pretty limited anyway.

Ballet Mind Fuck

2011-04-28T20:36:00.005+01:00

Just when I thought it was dead and buried, deep in the ground, no chance of resurrection, rotten to pieces, maggot infested and decayed like a century old corpse, he Goddamn picks his mind-fuck mutherfucking game back up, bats it into million-mile-an-hour orbit and hits a flaming home run.

Fucking Goddammit.

I am so frustrated with this situation that I could scream the bricks and mortar of Bridport down whilst shattering a few mirrors for added bad luck and good measure.

Maybe it's because I've had almost a bottle of red wine and I'm mulling it all over and picking it to pieces. But, no, I think I was feeling like this before I poured the first glass!

Over the past week I've neither seen nor spoken to this guy (ok, maybe one or two half- hearted texts at the most), and prior to that, when I have, it's begun to feel as though it's fizzled into nothing more than a huge effort and an eye roll.

I started the week stubborn as fuck with a face of stone. No botox for me - I can paralyse my own face. It's the effect most men have on me.

Well, today was different. He's got me smiling again like I've just bedded Johnny Depp! Fuck me! How'd he manage that?

Hats off to him, he's playing a blinder. Just as he begins to sense that I'm losing interest, he makes a tiny, insignificant, simple gesture that has me playing right back into his hands again - particularly given the fact I won't see him for a few days so he knows damn well I'll be thinking about it.

The worst thing about this is I know it, yet there's fuck all I can (and am willing) to do to change it! This is far too much fun.

It's about time a guy kept me on my toes, and my God, this guy's got me on them like a pro' ballerina!

Fair fucking play.

I've never met anyone who can get away with doing this to me, but my God, it's working.

It's driving me crazy!

Eat My... Sand!

2011-04-25T16:39:00.005+01:00

You'd think a day at the beach (or beach bar) would be an enjoyable thing, especially on a boiling hot day, with people you are supposed to love, in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, that we're lucky enough to live in.

But, oh no. Of course not. Because I was there, therefore it was ruined. Naturally.

Starts off fine, always does, but after a few glasses of wine it all goes tits up and the truth starts to come out. Again.

What I don't get is that it's always the same shit - why are people surprised? Once it's all kicked off, I sit back and think "here we go again" and let it go over my head. Actually, I usually leave in a cloud of dust and rage (like today). After all, it is me that causes it.

Where to begin...

Ok, well this fucks me off for a start:

My mother has had "sleepless nights" since I told her of my intention to get my back covered (in the tattoo sense). Ok, she doesn't like them, I get that. But come on, I am nearly 30 for heaven's sake, I already have nine, and when it comes down to it, what I really want is sleeves and a chest piece, so... really, she should be relieved.

Plus, isn't it about fucking time I was accepted for my individuality and my own interests? Why am I still struggling, at my fucking age, to get my family to understand that, ACTUALLY, I LIKE TATTOOS? No, scratch that, I fucking LOVE them. Uphill, ongoing, life-long battle. At least it has been for the past fifteen years...

Moving on: the microdermal implants? Not quite as bad a reaction as I'd feared. Although, not a great one either. Everyone non-family has loved them! My mother felt sick and "disappointed" that I'd had "more piercings" (to which I replied, "they're not piercings, they're implants"), and my sister? Well... screwed up her face and said "I'm not sure..". Did I expect any different? Not really. But, am I doing it to please them? Hell fucking no. This is my body. I'm not doing it to please anybody! This is me.

So, we get past all that, and we get onto... well.. what? What the fuck do we get on to now, for fuck's sake?

Jesus... if only I knew how issues manage to jump so quickly from one to the next, without us even realising!

Ok, so the next thing I know, I'm in an argument with my sister over the fact that she has absolutely zero time for me, and on the odd occasion that she does, she's fucking clock watching!

True.

I met her on Friday at about 4pm for a few drinks. Well, after her first drink (Diet Coke) she was checking her phone to see how long she'd already been. "I have to get back to take the dog out, Hana..."

Right... so.. your boyfriend (ok, fiance, whatever the fuck you want to call it)... can he not take the dog out..? Seeing as... he is at home... all day... and... erm... you see where I'm going with this...?

If you don't want to fucking be here, and if you don't want to meet your sister for a drink on a Bank Holiday Friday, in the sun, in one of the best places in Bridport, if it's all too much for you, DON'T FUCKING SUGGEST IT IN THE FIRST PLACE.
And there was my issue. So I voiced it.

Bring on the fucking onslaught: sister and mother both telling me how out of order I am, how I'd "better go home" because I'm "ruining everything".

I left them to it.

Eat my dust - or, sand, as it probably was, as I blazed out of The Hive Beach Cafe car park at 40 mph, getting a right telling off by the car park attendant: "This is a 20 zone, you know, love..."

Fuck off. I'm pissed off.

Story of my life.

Lovely day though - weather-wise...

Mind Games & Power Struggles

2011-04-22T13:19:00.005+01:00

I'm quite glad that, currently, I'm fairly fickle when it comes to matters of the heart. Maybe it's because mine has turned to stone over the years, so I'm now incapable of feeling anything long lasting.

I can literally go from really liking a guy and genuinely thinking to myself: "yeah, I could actually have a relationship with him", to waking up one morning and thinking: "Hmm, I'm not that bothered anymore".

I figure that this is my subconscious way of protecting myself from any future disappointment. I also figure that I could be doing myself a huge injustice by never giving things a chance.

What if, what if...?

I ask myself this:

"Would I rather get into a relationship and risk the heartache and grief that often comes with it, or avoid it altogether, safe in the knowledge that no one can hurt me or put me through that again?"

I don't know the answer! I know that I'm more than happy being single, but I also know that I'm extremely capable of meeting someone who could challenge that.

The guy that I've been interested in recently (who has shown a mirrored interest in return) has confused me on more than one occasion, and because of this I'm now finding myself backing off and reinforcing my wall. A few weeks back, I was thinking about him a lot, but now I'm only thinking about him very occasionally, and when I do, it's with mixed feelings.

The main thing is that I won't be messed around. I won't allow someone to have the upper hand or any feeling of control over a situation that involves me. Equality is good, anything other than that doesn't do it for me.

I feel as though we're locked in a power battle at the moment - he's younger than me and, knowing that I'm interested, is using this to his advantage and playing games (which he strongly denies). Immediately, this puts me on the defensive and makes me distant and wary, which he doesn't understand in return.

Talk about issues - technically we're still only "friends"! We've only been out for a few drinks together and had lunch one or twice. Physically, we have an obvious attraction and are very flirty, but that's as far as it's gone. I'm happy with that, but I can't see it getting off the ground whilst we're locked in these games.

We're currently planning a dinner and DVD evening at mine for sometime next week, but haven't arranged the finer details yet (including which day, for goodness sake). I think it will be nice to spend the time together, and I guess it'll confirm whether things are going to go anywhere or not.

That's assuming we actually get round to organising it, of course. The way things are at the moment, I can't see it happening.

Well, the ball's in his court. I'm happy to just kick back and wait and see...

Abhorrent Bastards

2011-04-09T18:35:00.003+01:00

So we heard today that two horses fell and died at the Grand National.

As if that wasn't tragic enough, the BBC then referred to them as "obstacles".

Oh, what I would have given to have been in that studio when that fucking bastard uttered those words.

It never fails to amaze me how excessively abhorrent most human beings' attitude towards innocent animals is. It's bad enough that such beautiful creatures are used for sport, but to witness their deaths and then treat them as a mere encumbrance is nothing short of outrageous.

Imagine the uproar if an athlete plummeted at the third hurdle and lay there whilst the others trampled all over it nonchalantly in their individual bid to win the race. Imgaine if, after that, the althlete then died as a result. In fact, multiply that by two! Pandemonium and media commotion would be an understatement.

Oh, but it's only a horse or two. They're animals. What does it matter? What's there to get upset about? Aren't they all on the planet purely for human entertainment, consumption and contortion?

There is no excuse. A human being has no higher value than a horse, a dog, a pig, a monkey, a spider, a killer whale. Who the fuck are we to annihilate fellow inhabitants of this planet without a moment's consideration or conscience? Who the fuck do we think we are?

Human beings are disgusting, and if things ever change and the animals start hunting the humans, I'll be one person to stand up and say "It serves us fucking right".

Karma, Cunt.

2011-03-31T18:50:00.004+01:00

I started today with a mixture of happiness and positivity, horror and tears.

What a combo!

Generally when I get up for work, I'm looking forward to the day and I'm perfectly happy. The only things that piss me off or bring me down are either getting stuck behind a twat doing a steady thirty for a twenty mile stretch, or the amount of dead animals I see on the side of the road.

Well, this morning topped all mornings on the horror scale.

The fucking wanker in the car in front of me ploughed over a baby rabbit without even bothering to brake, swerve or give a fuck. I actually screamed my head off! I can hardly bear seeing the poor things once they've been hurt, let alone witness the event.

I realise that most human beings care for no one except themselves and a few other humans, don't give a shit about animals and assume they have no feelings and zero importance on this planet other than to feed their greed. Well, I can pretty much guarantee that the poor little thing felt those wheels crush him to death whilst that human bastard carried on like the careless cunt he clearly is.

I am not ashamed to say that I burst into tears. I was absolutely devestated. By the time I got to work I was miserable as fuck and raging like a bitch. Even half an hour of Jacoby Shaddix couldn't sort me out.

After that, the day was pretty steady but it left me with a bit of a cloud over my head. After nearly a week of zero appetite I still can't eat properly, my appetite is shot to fuck, so after a day consisting of a slice of melon, a packet of Squares and two rice cakes with some cucumber, I'm on the red wine and planning a relaxing night of music and, well, wine!

Tomorrow's another day, and rest assured if I see that motherfucker on the road again I'll be sure to flick him the V and call him a cunt whilst blazing past him in a flame of rage.

Hopefully one day he'll come back as a rabbit and some heartless prick will do the same to him.

Karma, cunt.

The Raw Truth

2011-03-19T18:05:00.004Z

If I could start my life again, I would, and I would do things differently.

If I had just one chance to turn the clock back, perhaps twelve years, I would do it without a moment's hesitation.

That would be the right time for me. The right time for me to realise how perfect my life actually was. The right time for me to appreciate everything I had, to be immensely grateful for it, and to show it to the people I loved - the people who provided it all for me.

As some of us very well know, your life can suddenly change and the things you never really gave a thought to can be ripped from under your feet so fast you barely registered it happening.

It's not ideal to have regrets, and many people relay that over-used phrase: "Better to regret the things you haven't done than to regret the things you have". I can argue both sides, and can bet my arse that the majority of people who spout that little saying have very little understanding of what it actually means.

If I were to pin point my biggest regret, it would be going to university at eighteen and not moving to South Africa to work with my father.

I took the path that was expected of me. I was intelligent and went to a really good school where I guess 95 per cent of the pupils went on to do "great things" with their lives. Or at least, that was the plan. My memories of that time are pretty hazy, but I do remember not knowing what I wanted to do, and not really wanting to go. I was given an option: go to uni or go to South Africa to gain some valuable work experience.

I knew what my parents wanted, deep down, and in the end I went with it. I can't remember my reasons, I can't remember my method of thinking or when I made that final decision, but I do know that the decision was mine. Was I doing it to please others, or was I doing it for me? I honestly don't know. I do know, however, that it was wrong.

From the moment I left home at the tender age of 18 years and three weeks old, my life took a dive. All the happiness, security and innocence that I'd known until then vanished quicker than an extinguished candle flame.

Apparently our brains have a way of blocking memories of deep trauma and unhappiness, so that when you look back on certain periods of your life you are protected from the pain. I suppose I can use that as an excuse for hardly remembering much of the past eleven years. Now and again something will come back to me, but it's never anything that I want to remember.

I shouldn't dwell on my past because it isn't healthy or productive, but I do. I pine for the years when we were a secure family unit of four. Before my father went to South Africa on a major promotion purely to make our lives even better - that's what he thought he was doing. He only wanted to give my mother, my sister and me the life he never had. Well, looking back, our lives were pretty fucking perfect before he went away, but at the selfish age of sixteen, who was I to realise? I didn't know he was going to die.

I can't remember how I felt when he announced he was going abroad - I can't remember how I felt when I knew I'd only be seeing him every other weekend, when he'd fly back, spend a weekend with us, then disappear again. I suppose I didn't mind too much - he'd be around forever, right? At least I'd still see him fairly regularly.

I was twenty when he died. I'd already bombed out of uni because I was so miserable and had easily spiralled into a mess of cigarette smoke, all night partying and vodka, but I was on my way up again, trying to make him proud. It was too quick and unexpected. I still can't remember very much in terms of detail, but I will always remember that it was the worst time of my life.

One thing I do know is that I loved him more than I have ever loved any other single thing in my entire life.

I also know that that feeling will never ever go away. I am utterly incapable of feeling that amount of love for a living being ever again.

I weep for him constantly, and nine years on, it is no easier for me.

My regret: not grabbing that one opportunity to go to South Africa, to live and work with my father, to make the most of every single second possible to be with him, to get to know him even better, to have those few final years with him.

I will never forgive myself for that, and I will suffer that decision for the rest of my life.

Metal Imposter

2011-03-18T21:19:00.004Z

How many times have I heard someone say to me "Wow, you don't look like someone who listens to Metal"?

About as many times as I've heard someone say to me "Hana, you've got issues".

A lot then, basically.

My answer to both?

"Explain to me exactly what a Metal fan has to look like to qualify."

and

"Go fuck yourself."

... respectively.

That's 'respectively', not 'respectfully', by the way.

Both answers usually get me the desired result: silence.

The idea that you need to look a certain way to listen to a certain genre of music is ridiculous. I liked Snoop, Dre and Warren G when I was a teenager, but I didn't dress like an American gangster. Ok, actually I did. A blonde American gangster in an Arsenal top and black eyeliner. But that's not really the point.

It seems that unless I appear as though I don't wash, have several piercings in my face, a body covered with tatts and a mane of matted, dreadlocked hair, I shouldn't be listening to bands like Pantera, Korn, System of a Down, Metallica, Slipknot... yawn.

So, ok, I am very high on personal hygiene and washing my hair frequently, but I have tattoos and piercings all over the Goddamned place, you just can't always see them. Please can I listen to metal now? Please?

Fuck off.

Once we get past that, it's then the concern about your mental stability. "How can one listen to such angry sounding music and yet be classed as clinically sane? Surely there's a chemical imbalance or some serious issues brought about by a damaged childhood".

Give me a break and go hang yourself. I'll even hand you the rope and kick away the stool.

I'm not doubting the fact that I get a little fucked off at times, but with justifiable reason. For example, listen to what I had to endure today:

"You're a Gooner? Does that mean Spurs?"

Yes. That was a serious question. From a male who considers himself a football fan. Huh. I've got plenty more rope, if he wants it. I'll even tie it for him.

So, the odd bit of rage is expected. The truth is that I love it, it rocks my boat, and yeah, I've been known to put on a bit of Slipknot to kick back and chill.

Someone kidnapp me now and tattoo my face.

Quick, before I get accused of being strange.

Friends?

2011-03-14T18:42:00.004Z

How many chances do you give your friends to let you down before pulling the plug?

Half the reason I'm the way I am is because I've consistently been let down and disppointed by people over the past decade or more. People wonder why I can be cold and distant at times, and appear not to care. Well, I do care, I just know where most things are headed so I try not to care too much.

Despite being treated, in the past, with complete disregard, indifference and oblivion by a lot of people I had considered to be friends, I still managed to keep a little faith in human beings. When I start a new friendship with someone, I naively think of that person as decent and trustworthy, after a while - otherwise, why would I choose a friendship with them in the first place?

Is the answer to stop "making friends" for the rest of my life? To treat every new person that I meet as irrelevant and of little importance to my life, regardless of whether we hit it off or not? I know that if I did, it would save me a hell of a lot of grief and hurt.

One thing I will say about living in the place that I live is that if someone is going to talk about you, you'll know about it. Eventually. Whilst I accept that this happens in most places (as the majority of people are gossiping, shit stirring fuck heads), it does surprise me when I find out it's one of my closest friends.

I have said to this friend on numerous occasions that if there is ever anything relating to or concerning me, the best person to talk to about it is me. I kind of thought that was a given anyway, and after a couple of situations that have upset me over the past year or so, I really thought we'd got that clear. You'd certainly never find me talking about my friends behind their backs - if I was concerned or had an issue I would speak to them directly. I respect my friends and think they deserve to hear it from me, not second-, third- or fourth-hand. I am also honest and open. I wish others could claim to be the same.

I give up really - I don't know what else to do other than to just get over it and accept that we do not all possess integrity, loyalty and honesty.

Sadly, I've already tarred men with the same brush, now it looks like I'm having to do the same with my friends.

I just wish people would stop making these decisions so easy for me.

Shame On You.

2011-03-12T16:58:00.005Z

I'm writing this blog fully aware that a couple of people who know me (and don't particularly like me) are reading it. They should know who they are because they've used this very site against me recently to attempt to cause shit.

Well done, nice try, but the only person you hurt was my mother.

To read something I've written with blatant honesty and raw emotion, and to then use it as an opportunity to try and cause trouble, whilst dressing it up as "concern", is very clever. Well, it would be if, firstly, it wasn't screaming with desperation, and secondly, such a thing could actually hurt me. They clearly don't realise how very little causes me pain. I suggest they do their research properly next time, starting by reading every blog I've ever written (they're probably already in the process), then they'll learn that the only thing that hurts me is ME.

To give the rest of you a bit of background info, this whole thing kicked off when one of these people "found me" online. Something I was slightly amused to hear, but also slightly freaked out by. What, were you Googling me until you hit the inside-info jackpot? Jeez! Should I be looking over my shoulder when I leave the house, too?

Following the discovery of my blog (ta-da!), this person apparently read "just one", which just happened to be about my sister's engagement (and what do you know, this person knows my sister and her boyfriend very well - what a coincidence!) and felt it only fair to alert her boyfriend, who, following that, alerted a third person... Are you still awake...? I know...

This is the bit that makes me laugh the most: apparently it was "out of concern".

Oh I could laugh myself into an early grave if I wasn't so certain that would make those individuals happy.

I feel like I have to repeat myself on this blog so many times, so maybe I should add a disclaimer as a permanent page header:

Nothing on this blog is a "secret"; everything I write about is, in some way, known to at least one or two people who know me, or are related to me; I do not bullshit, either on my webpage or in "real life"; I do not write to intentionally cause offence; I do not write to gain approval; I do not write for dramatic effect; I do not write to cause trouble or controversy; I do not write for any reason other than to vent my own genuine feelings and emotions; I do not give a fuck whether or not you agree with my thoughts, feelings and opinions. This blog is about me.

Ok, so here's the thing: do you really think that my sister isn't aware of my feelings? Do you really think I have only talked about this on my blog page? Do you really think that I would choose a public website as my only outlet? Do I not have the capability to communicate my feelings in person? To my own sister? Do you also think that she doesn't know how to access my blog page at any time, should she wish?

The bottom line is this: if you are concerned about something that I have written, speak to ME about it. If, however, you are not concerned, but merely seeking entertainment through my misery, why don't you just read my blog? It is full of misery, all of which is genuine, real life agony.

If that rocks your world, well... what can I say...

The World The Arsenal Way

2011-03-10T15:10:00.003Z

This is my first blog since I politely requested a Carling Cup victory from my beloved Arsenal boys, a couple of weeks ago.

Not only did they not grant me my wish on that occasion, but they also got booted out of the Champions League - in a spectacular display of dirty Catalan play and fucked up refereeing - by Barcelona on Tuesday evening.

This coming Saturday we have the FA Cup Quarter Final against Man Utd, at none other than Old Scummy Trafford. We are without Cesc, Theo, Szczesny, and Alex Song, not to mention the well known fact that the ref will definitely act strongly on the Fergie backhanders that we know they all receive. Forgive me for not being too optimistic that we'll still remain in two competitions after the weekend.

I've been accused of being many things in my life, but being the type of Gooner who can pick up and dust off after a massive disappointment has never been one of them. I am quite incapable of just "getting over it", and anyone who uses those words "it's only football" on me is likely to get kicked in the face.

Not only am I miserable immediately after the disappointing event, I also remain that way for days. I have to try so damned hard not to sulk and to respond to people with more than one word answers without glaring at them as though I'm going to commit a murder. It's not their fault I'm ridiculous, but I'm fairly sure it's not mine either. It's the way I'm made.

I'm currently suffering from an acute case of negativity, otherwise translated as: "We're not going to win a fucking thing this season, yet again, therefore Cesc will leave in the summer and we'll get relegated in 2012".

Now, obviously I know this is a little far-fetched, but try telling me that when we've just lost an important game that I had every ounce of faith and hope in that we'd nail! In fact, don't bother. You'll be talking to an iron wall projecting deadly laser beams.

I'm going to move on from Tuesday's result and look ahead to Saturday. I don't need to tell you that a bad result will ruin my weekend, but I would like to tell you that a win over the Scum will make me the happiest I've been since, oh I don't know, since we beat Barca 2-1 in the home leg on 16 February, probably.

Did I mention the fact that Arsenal make my world go round?

Bring Me The Silver

2011-02-25T21:51:00.006Z

High five:

Friday night.

Pay day.

Booze stocks fully replenished.

Internet connection competent.

Curly Fries for dinner.

Bottle of red wine down.

More-than-decent-and-very-loud music filling the room.

Arsenal fleece blanket draped over the sofa.

Carling Cup Final approaching.

Kiss the badge.

After a ten hour day in the office, a forty five minute journey home and a fifty minute ordeal in Morrisons, I finally arrived home with a feeling of utter achievement and exhilerance. Another week done, household and food shopping out of the way, and all I have left to do is relax on the sofa and have a few drinks.

All tomorrow holds is a trip into town to meet my sister for a long boozy lunch at the best bar in town, followed by an evening of whateverthefuckIwant.

Sunday? Long lie-in, indulgent late breakfast, doss around the house in PJs and the Carling Cup final against Birmingham.

Yeah, we're without Cesc. Yeah, we're without Theo. Ok, not ideal, but please, I'm not about to pin our entire hopes on two players. I have more faith than that.

I've been a Gooner for over twenty years. I've been through some mega highs and some desolate lows. I've witnessed biggest disappointments and ultimate achievements, at both live games and on the big screen. For anyone who thinks I'm just an arm chair fan: think again.

As far as this weekend goes, what will be, will be. I desperately want us to win some silverware this season, and I truly believe that we can. I believe we can win at least one trophy. But if we don't win on Sunday, I won't let it spoil my weekend.

No matter what happens, no matter how good, no matter how bad: my blood is Red and White.

I am a Die Hard Gooner until the day I die.

N.B. That part about not letting it ruin my weekend? Utter bullshit. If we lose on Sunday I'll cry my heart out and throw things. Following that I'll be hell to work with and converse with for at least an entire week.

But I'll still kiss the badge.

Lesson Of The Day

2011-02-12T16:21:00.005Z

For those less gifted in the brain department than others, let me explain that there's a big difference between 'moaning' and 'ranting'.

Let me help you out:

Moaning: to utter (something) inarticulately or pitifully, as if in lamentation.

Ranting: to speak or declaim extravagantly or violently; talk in a wild or vehement way.

Got that? Marvellous.

I think it's still within the laws of the country for me to get on Twitter and blow a fuse over rumours of various European clubs trying to steal Cesc for a second season in a row. At least, I haven't heard anything on the World News to suggest otherwise. Do correct me if I'm wrong, of course, but I will require proof.

Football, especially my beloved Arsenal, is a subject I am passionate about, and I will express that passion in any way I feel appropriate at any given time.

Please note that what I find appropriate and what you find appropriate may differ greatly.

I would like to clarify the fact that when I do launch myself into such a vehement rage (fairly regularly when it comes to Arsenal and Cesc rumours), that I am never 'uttering inarticulately or pitifully'.

Far from it.

I honestly didn't realise that Twitter was exclusively a place for polite comments, sickly-sweet compliments towards others and sycophantic bullshit.

Oh, wait a minute, it isn't.

I've said it once, twice, a thousand times before: if you don't like what you read, don't read it. I'm not there to make friends, seek approval or ask opinions, I'm there to entertain myself and pass the time of day when there's fuck all else I feel like doing.

Selfish, yes, but anyone who claims otherwise is either lying or mentally deficient.

The End.

Drown You Out Or Drown

2011-02-12T11:04:00.004Z

Let the pyjama day begin!

I was mildly perturbed at 8am when the loudest contraption known to humankind turned up to work on the new houses that are being built virtually next door, but somehow I managed to get back to sleep. By the time I woke up again, it'd gone!

As tempting as it is to take full advantage of a Friday night by drinking copious amounts of wine and crawling into bed at 5am, I don't seem to be able to do it at the moment - not if I'm in on my own anyway. I put a film on at 9:45pm and by 11pm I was nodding off.

Which reminds me - what the fuck is Pan's Labrynth all about anyway? From what I saw of it last night, it's just freaky as fuck but in a child-like way. I feel quite ashamed to say that it scared me a little. I'd rather watch films such as Saw and Rec - at least you know it's ok to be freaked out by those. Being slightly disturbed by a "Gothic Fairytale" is wrong at 29, surely?

Anyway. Moving on.

Tonight I may have to factor in a pretty late night. One of the apartments above me has been rented out to a bunch of over-excited middle-aged women who are clearly alien to the concept of walking, not stomping, talking not yelling, and laughing not screeching. Give me strength.

If it's the same bunch of idiots that have been here before (and I suspect it is) then I'm in for an evening of hell. I'm not used to be kept awake by loud talking and laughter and the fear that my ceiling will cave in from their movement: it should be elegant ladies, not elephant! The great thing about where I live is that my apartment and two on the ground floor are the only ones that are occupied full time.

When all ten were bought up in the summer of 2009 I expected to be surrounded by neighbours, and fully appreciated that noise does travel in buildings like this. How happy was I to learn that, apart from a sixty-something lady and a sixty-something couple in two of the apartments below me, the rest were second homes or holiday rentals. Bonus!

For the most part of the year this place is quiet as the grave, but when the holidays hit (summer, Christmas, Easter, half term) it turns into the tourist venue from hell. Fucking kids everywhere, arseholes that use my parking space (ok, that happened once, but I was raging) and bloody inane women who you think had never seen the sea before.

Either get over it, or get in it and do me a favour. Drown.

So, the aim of today is to slob around, watch DVDs, watch the beautiful Arsenal hammer Wolves at the world's most incredible stadium, kiss the badge, drink some wine and contain my irritation.

I think I'm right in saying that the only way to deal with a cackling bunch of old witches is to drown them out with some heavy rock or thrash metal?

Either that or my tears of woe, so please give me a win today boys.

My night is depedant on you...

Bring On The Weekend!

2011-02-10T20:23:00.004Z

One more day of getting up two hours before sun rise then it's all about my bed!

To say I cannot wait is an understatement.

One of my colleagues is kindly lending me the first series of True Blood on DVD boxset, so all I have planned is twelve hour-long episodes of highly sexed Vamps, Weres and Shifters, accompanied by a giant packet of Skittles and numerous bottles of red wine.

Having just started book six out of the ten that have been written, I'm starting to be won round by Sookie Stackhouse and the much more adult version of the Twilight Saga. Dare I say I'm enjoying them a little more that Stephanie Meyers' efforts? Dare I...?

With a weekend of peaceful bliss and heavenly laziness planned, could life be any more perfect?

Ha, let's not start that controversial debate...

I am well aware that as Valentine's Day is on Monday, the entire weekend will be crammed with loved up couples gazing longingly into one another's rose-tinted eyes whilst actually believing they love one another and "this is a fresh start". Almost makes me choke with laughter.

Anyway, I digress... The point is that even if I wasn't feeling so full of bitterness and contempt right now, I would still be looking forward to my weekend of nothingness.

To top it off nicely, I've even got an Arsenal game to watch on Saturday afternoon - as long as we win I will refrain from any crying or wrist slitting.

And if we lose?

Well... watch this space.

Miss Unsociability

2011-02-07T19:55:00.003Z

It's amazing what a silent phone can do to decrease one's stress levels.

I have to confess that I haven't plugged the house phone back in since I yanked the cable out the wall on Saturday evening, and my mobile has been purposely left in a no signal zone as much as possible. At least that way I haven't intentionally switched it off... Can't be accused of being unsociable then, can I?

Except that I am, big time!

And why am I? Because I can't stand having to talk to people all the time, that's why. Isn't it obvious? It's other human beings that cause all the shit that goes on in life, why would I want to converse with them all the time? Get the message and leave me the fuck alone for a bit.

Never has an individual been so unsociable in the history of the universe! Never ever, ever. I am the record holder for avoidance tactics, the master of oblivion, and possibly a bit of a bitch in the process.

I can live with that.

This weekend, I managed to see only one person, my mother, and that was purely because I had to. She was the only human I spoke to other than the checkout boy at Morrisons on Sunday, who barely qualified as a human anyway.

I plan to conduct this coming week and weekend in a similar manner, speaking only to my work colleagues and my flatmate. At the weekend I will have to see my mother again, briefly, but other than that, bring on the silence, the peace and quiet, the bliss.

I want to spend all of Saturday and Sunday in my pyjamas. I want to lie on the sofa under my duvet and only move when I absolutely have to. I want to leave my hair looking the way it looks when I first wake up. I want to have food delivered so I don't have to cook, or leave the house to get it. I want a stack of DVDs to watch, collected from Blockbuster on the way home on Friday, and I want to sleep and read.

I want to do what I want to do and answer to nobody.

I don't want my phone to ring. I don't want my BBM going off. I don't want texts or emails and I especially don't want anyone turning up at my door! Who does that in this day and age without an invitation anyway? It's just fucking rude, not to mention intrusive and presumptious! It's also a wasted journey because I never answer it anyway.

There are four evenings and four more days of the working week left before I can come home, shut my front door, be on my own and breathe a huge sigh of relief. Another week of masked emotions and blank indifference passed. Another week of this so-far-relentless New Year, a year full of promise to challenge my sanity!

I think I deserve a fucking medal. It's almost the middle of February and I haven't self destructed yet.

Long may it last, however I am thirty this year so maybe I'll save the suicide mission until August.

Joke...

Your Call Cannot Be Taken At The Moment...

2011-02-06T13:01:00.004Z

I thought that last night would be a major depression zone for me. Home alone, refusing to go to the party, all that time to drink and think... Cue catastrophe.

During the day I had ever so slightly considered the possibility of turning up at some point, mainly to show my face and prevent the "Where's Hana?" questions that would surely arise, but after our disasterous performance at Newcastle, my mood was firmly set to Negative. Had Manchester United not lost spectacularly at Wolves, I can quite see how my evening could have plummeted even further. Surprisingly, they did me a favour and lifted my mood from 'enraged and inconsolable' to 'just slightly fucked off'.

Cheers, Scum.

As soon as my mum left at around 6pm to go to my sister's (with a tentative question of "So... I might see you at the party later then?" followed by my rather charming response of "I'd rather slit my wrists with a blunt knife"), I cracked open a bottle of red and poured about a pint of it into a large wine glass.

And here I was, all settled in for a typical evening of gloom, the scene set for tears and mental torture - a regular past time of mine. Who would ever think that a bowl of pasta would save the day?

Well, I was bloody famished! I hadn't eaten since breakfast and it suddenly struck me that if I was planning on drinking myself into oblivion, I'd better eat something first - then I could stay up drinking for longer.

A huge bowl of homemade king prawn and mushroom spaghetti later, I was so full that drinking was actually an effort. I managed one more glass (which took me about an hour to drink) before admitting defeat and heading off to bed. Would you like to know what time this was? About 10:30pm. I know!

Shocker.

Fortunately I had enough savvy and sense to unplug the house phone, switch off my mobile and deactivate the buzzer on my intercom door system before climbing into my heavenly bed, drawing the blinds and putting on an eye mask. Nothing was going to wake me up on this occasion - I wasn't waking up until I was good and ready.

Well done me, is all I can say. When I woke up I had a couple of texts and voicemails waiting for me. The words "fuck" and "off" immediately sprung to mind, so they went straight into the virtual trash before I even contemplated the content. I guess I will never know what they said, and I can't say I care.

Today I feel rested and harrassment-free. No one's been able to get near enough to enforce their opinions on me for my no-show, and no one's been able to tell me what a great evening I missed. Perfect.

I can now contemplate a relaxing afternoon and evening before another busy week at work, with peace of mind that can be ruined by no one.

And yes, I am still uncontactable in every manner possible.

Here's to a day of rest.

Do I Look Like I Fucking Like Weddings?

2011-02-01T19:11:00.003Z

In case any of you thought things had settled down a bit, that maybe I'd come to terms with things a bit better, possibly chilled out ever so slightly or even become a much nicer person... sorry to let you down.

My sister came over Friday night. I'd avoided seeing or speaking to her since she broke the "joyous" news to me over the phone almost four weeks ago, and was beginning to run out of excuses. In the end it came down to a splurge of back and forth emails where I spilled everything I was thinking and feeling (thanks, red wine!) and all my justified reasons behind it, and she expressed her utter shock and dismay in return.

Well. That was a lie. You'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to realise I've been harbouring these feelings for well over a decade. Everyone has a breaking point and I guess I finally reached mine. Nice acting though.

Our evening started off full of tension (on my part) but I made an effort to ask questions, be gracious and smile, and share my news in exchange (albeit a lot less interesting or important than hers. Naturally). The night of course turned into a booze-infested party with two bottles of white consumed by her, two bottles of red consumed by me, and music played and danced to at full pelt until the early hours.

We talked a lot, laughed a lot, danced a lot, cried a lot, got a lot off our chests, and when we put on a Michael Jackson DVD towards the end of the night, I had my usual breakdown where I confessed to my incapability of dealing with his death.

As you do.

The next morning, still clearly quite drunk, I called her to tell her I was sorry about my feelings and that I would try my best to push things to the back of my mind, be involved in her wedding and be happy about it in the meantime.

Well, how things change when you sober up.

By Saturday night I was well and truly coming down off the wine-trip, feeling depressed as you like and dreading the fucking "Wedding of the Century" that I'd just agreed to be an active part of.

Fuck. My. Cunting. Life.

Last night I received a twenty thousand page email telling me the date of the wedding (September this year), the arrangements, the guest list and the venue.

Prague.

Ok. Here's the thing. I haven't been able to afford so much as a weekend away for the past two years thanks to living in THE REAL WORLD and not a fucking dreamworld. I have to smile generously every time my sister tells me she's being whisked off on yet another three week holiday to Thailand, or another four day mini break in a fabulous city, whilst idiot here with the REAL LIFE has such things as a mortgage and bills to pay. Independently, I might add.

I have to witness the joy of yet another eighty shopping bags full of new clothes and shoes whilst I have to justify buying a new pair of jeans. From New Look, I might add!

So do excuse me if the thought of now having to fork out for flights and accommodation for a week in Prague to get it shoved in my fucking face seems a little unappealing.

Yes, it's her wedding day, yes she has the right to choose to do whatever she wants - it's their day after all. Fine. But I'll be fucked if I'm expected to turn up to watch them flaunt their cash and their good fortune in another part of the world. I get enough of that living two miles down the road from them, for free!

Give me a fucking break.

I don't want to go.

Oh, and in anticipation of everyone who will read this and respond predictably (and anonymously, as always) with something along the lines of: "Oh my God, it's your sister's wedding for fuck's sake, how can you be so selfish?", ETC... - I will only give your comment a single second's acknowledgement or moment of thought if you've actually lived in my mind for the past twenty nine years.

Well then.

Ssshhh.

Haunting...

2011-01-16T21:19:00.005Z

I had a wave of the past drift over me just now.

I don't know what it was - what triggered it or why it happened - but for a millisecond I was fifteen again in the one family home that I loved, with my mother, my father and my sister.

Complete.

My God, that fucking hurt.

I can't explain it articulately, or even begin to describe the pain I just felt wrenching myself back into reality, but my God... It hurt.

It's the kind of feeling where something is being dragged from my inner core - something that's attached to me and isn't coming loose easliy. I feel it being heartlessly grabbed and ripped from inside; gradually, slowly, leaving open wounds and a flowing, open escape route for all the love and happiness I contained in my past.

I feel as though I have been stripped of my essence. I feel as though I have been stripped of my meaning. Of my reason. Of my purpose.

It really hurts.

Whenever I start to feel like I'm climbing back up my personal mountain, something happens to floor me and leave me in a heap again.

I have to try and understand what's happened.

I have to try and get up again.

I wish my past would leave me alone.

I wish my past would stop haunting me.

One Day At A Time

2011-01-16T19:06:00.004Z

I'm sitting here this evening, on my own in my flat with a glass of red wine, watching 'Dancing on Ice' and feeling... ok, actually.

First time you've heard me say that in a while, hey?

Since Christmas and New Year, I've had a bit of a tough time psychologically, which I accept has mainly been due to illness and my often negative state of mind, but tonight I feel as though I'm finally lifting out of it a bit.

Tomorrow is my first day in my new (permanent AND full time) job, and I'm not nervous, I'm not apprehensive, I'm just calm and ready to start this new and hopefully successful chapter of my life.

On Friday I woke up feeling a lot better, physically. After almost three weeks confined to my bedroom with flu and only my laptop and books for company, I was desperate to get out of my flat and start to feel human again.

After a drive over to Yeovil to take my passport to my new place of work, prior to tomorrow's start, I went straight to my mum's where I stayed until earlier this afternoon.

To be in another location and to have some relaxing, familiar company in a comfortable and homely environment was just what the doctor ordered. We went out for coffee and then to the cinema to watch The King's Speech on Saturday afternoon - a film I wasn't necessarily looking forward to, but it proved to be a fantastic way to spend a couple of hours.

I got home this afternoon and have been relaxing ever since. Whilst I'm aware that I'm not a happy soul, and that I'm far from being content in my life, I am also aware that I've achieved something positive by getting a really good job and am determined to give it my all.

I don't look to the future, I don't have a positive outlook in life, but I'm sure as hell going to focus on what's ok for now, and pay little attention to anything else.

I've got The Emirates next weekend, and that's all I need to look forward to for this year. Whatever happens after that, so be it, but for now, the forefront of my mind is "Three points please, boys".

What else really matters in life?

What Lies Beneath.

2011-01-13T22:22:00.006Z

If you take me on face value, you assume I'm content, advantageous, a joyous human being.

If you take my words as literal, you believe I'm optimistic, genuine and loving towards others.

If you judge my facial expressions, you assume I'm carefree, blissful and satisfied with life.

If you analyse my life as a whole, you assume I'm affluent, successful and thriving.

If you were any worthy judge of character, you'd have realised without me needing to correct you.

If the look on my face was enough to tell a story, it would tell one of pristine bitterness, hostility and detestation.

If you looked hard enough, my eyes would give you a window into the damage, distress and suffering that festers within.

If you listened to my words beyond their obvious meaning, you would hear the roar of anguish, of desolation, of agony.

If you could read my thoughts, you would see the true uproar of lamentation, the devestation and the deep mourning for the past.

If you cut into my outer shell with a blade, you would spill my blood with a flow of unclouded black venom and poison. A toxic overflow of abhorrence and loathing.

If you gouged out my heart it would be blackened with decay and frozen to the core with disappointment and heartache.

If you picked through my brain, you would find the darkest thoughts of self destruction and angelic distortion.

If you searched through my memories, you would find a matrix of irrational and unstable reasoning mixed together with obscurity and insanity.

If you didn't know the real me, you'd assume that you know me.

If you were any worthy judge of character, you'd have realised without me needing to correct you.

The key is what lies beneath the expertly contrived exterior.

That is what tells the real story.

Do It Like A Dude?

2011-01-13T16:53:00.004Z

I guess to "Do It Like A Dude" means to swagger around Planet Earth like you're God's gift to the opposite sex, well above the law, answerable to no one, a heartless fuck and beyond recrimination.

Yeah, I'll go with that then. Why the fuck not? If you guys can do it, why can't I?

I think I've already proved to myself over the past twenty nine years that trusting, loving or relying on anyone other than yourself is a complete waste of time and I've certainly met my fair share of wankers. It would be easier to list those who don't fall into that category - oh, wait a minute... Are there any? I can't think...

I'm not sure why women I know insist on telling me repeatedly that there are good guys out there. Surely they're sick of my unimpressed face and eye rolling? Seemingly not. What they really mean is "My boyfriend is perfect, look how lucky I am", when actually they're only "lucky" because they're so fucking dumb and naive. Wake up sweetheart, you're making yourself sound unintelligent.

I'd also like to take this opportunity to tell all those illogical, puerile excuses for females that it's actually okay to be single. Really, it is! All this, "Aw, well, I'm sure you'll find someone..." bullshit alongside the sympathetic head to the side and a pat of the arm is enough to get yourself a kick in the face. Seriously - don't do it. I'll only hate you for it and you'll know about it.

In all seriousness, I do realise that not all men are evil. No, that would be a generalisation. I do actually know that they fall into two categories, not just the one. 'Evil' and 'Leech'. I'm pretty sure that most of us are familiar with the former, but those that have not been introduced to the latter, you're in for a treat!

A Leech is the kind of guy who comes across as the true gentleman, the one who tells you til he's blue in the face that he's "different from other guys", that he knows how to look after and treat a woman, and that he would never, ever hurt you. He's quite clever really because what he actually does is gradually suck the life out of you bit by bit, drain you of all emotion and energy, and leaves you utterly deadbeat and extorted. When you finally wake up to this realisation and have to get rid of him in order to save your dying soul, he then paints you as the evil party and goes for the sympathy vote as the poor innocent victim in all this.

Suddenly, you're the evil bitch from hell who chewed him up, spat him out and then stamped his remains into the dirt for good measure.

So, you see? I really don't need to be in a relationship, thank you very much. The very thought of it makes me want to vomit, so I'd appreciate it if you kept your smug fucking complacency to yourself. I'm not interested. You bore me.

From now on I will return to my ways of old, I'll give a shit about no one but myself and will only fulfil my own selfish needs and desires.

I'll do it exactly like a dude.