05 September, 2008

"... and if you call it my 'wee-wee' again I shall kneecap you."

I have discovered something that makes me incredibly uncomfortable:

Medical professionals using slang or layman's anatomical terms.

You know, I don't actually find it reassuring talking to you about 'weeing'. You have been to med school and I am fairly sure you are aware that the correct term is 'urinating', and considering I have in fact used the word in conversation in the last two minutes, presumably you are also aware that I'm not too retarded to know what it means. Just because I am in here because I am worried about my health does not mean I wish to be comforted by yo
u talking to me as if I am a toddler who is a bit sore after a particularly big poop, but thanks for making the effort to soothe me, I suppose.

No laughter! I am serious! I am so glad I'm not in here to talk to you about my reproductive system because god only knows how you would choose to refer to my vagina. 'Lady pocket'? 'Special place'? In fact I am tempted to come in again and fake a vagina-related problem just so I can find out.

Also, whilst I am relieved that I am not in fact displaying symptoms of imminent death by ravenous cancer, I still don't appreciate you laughing at your own diagnosis. "Oh yes, you have a nice wee infection! Hahaha!" Yeah, your laughter is encouraging. Don't worry, I didn't genuinely spend the entirety of my Saturday thinking I was dying. Seriously. Thanks. How about instead of £7.10 for those antibiotics, I just punch you in the bladder and we see if it hurts next time you 'go for a wee'.


Then again, who blogs about a bladder infection? Takes all kinds, I guess.

21 March, 2008


So. Twenty years old and not impressed. I miss being a teenager! I think I'll just keep telling people I'm nineteen... to be fair, I still get ID'd, and I got away with being 15 the other day, so I'm sure it'll work out fine.

I think I have a bit of a Peter Pan complex.

26 February, 2008

A short lesson.

Dear world:

This is something I think you should know. It may shock you. It may surprise you. You may cry like a little sissy girl. But I think you need to hear it, because really, it's been long enough now and it's getting a little bit fucking ridiculous.


Now I know you weren't expecting this, but it is true, and has in fact been true for the last TEN FUCKING YEARS, despite what the tabloids and the High Court would like you to believe. I am fed up of hearing the following on the news:

"Today at Princess Diana's court hearing it emerged that..."

You know what? Today at Princess Diana's court hearing, it emerged that SHE FUCKING DIED! TEN FUCKING YEARS AGO!

Can we have some real news now, PLEASE.

That is all.


P.S. Dear God, whatever you want me to do to get that IT job, I'll do it. I swear. On your mum's life. Whatever that's worth.


03 February, 2008


So. I got smoked out of Waterstones by the hotdog man outside to the church next door playing the same fucking "Lord of Creation" song over and over again for fifteen minutes. As loud as he could. I could even hear it when I ran downstairs to hide out in the foreign languages section and try to make my way through the first page of Madame Bovary in the original French. I don't see why religion should drive me out of my quiet reading time. Does God think it's stealing if I stand there and read a whole book without paying for it? I really think he has bigger fish to fry, don't you? LEAVE ME ALONE!

My ears... they bleed.

In other news. Nothing.

24 January, 2008

Holy Fucktards, Batman!


Have I been Dooced?!

Well well.

Well, 2008, I suppose I should probably thank you for waiting a record 23 days before you fucked me over. It's an improvement on 2007, certainly, but then I suppose all that started in 2006 and just sort of carried on.

I am starting to feel like a piece of toilet roll, frankly. Wipe your arse with me and throw me away. I don't mind! I'm biodegradable! There should be adverts for me on TV with some little puppy dragging me around and talking in a disturbingly un-cute voice.

Anyway, as I have said many times before (although it's sort of like bolting the stable door...) I know it's bad form to air all this on a public forum. So please be grateful that I'm not doing that life-casting thing because there would have been a lot of swearing and violence before the watershed and god forbid the kiddies see all the horrible things life is going to do to them once you stop protecting them.

This is all probably making me sound horribly bitter and jaded, isn't it? Funny that. I was in such a good mood. What with having to find another job. With no notice. Again.

I almost (note: ALMOST - I haven't completely lost the will to live yet) wish that they'd done it when I got back from Christmas, just before the letting agency decided to fuck up and then tell us that, due to something THEY had done wrong, we were going to get served our notice the next day. Because then I could have said, right, you know what, fuck it, and just buggered off home for a while. And it's depressing to think that two years ago, I would have given everything - DID give everything, in fact - to be here. And I've been through all this shit, just to stay here. And every time I think it's working out, every time I think it's going ok, something knocks me back - but for some reason I keep going. I find somewhere else, I move, I accommodate all these things that keep smacking me in the face, just taking it and taking it and taking it, just so I can stay put. I feel like a salmon leaping up a waterfall. And also I feel a bit like a pile of crap. I suppose this is what you called 'mixed feelings'.

In other news: I will have this fucking novel finished by the tenth of March if it is the last thing I do.

Which, going by current trends, it probably will be.