Morning melt down

This morning I got ready for work and it was a disaster. Do you ever have those mornings where anything that could possibly go wrong, does in fact go wrong. I was a tornado of destruction wreaking havoc on my very own life.

I should point out I am not a morning person, I make sure I get every millisecond out of my allocated sleep-in time. I'm not a fully functioning human being in the morning. In fact, it could be debated as to whether I am a human being at all. I am typically woken by one of my starving cats (usually Dennis), who is quite obviously malnourished. Dennis is so tormented by his hunger that he will resort to batting my face with his paw and meowing in a hideous manner. The alarm on my phone is far less effective at waking me up than Dennis' method.

So Dennis attacked my face, I dragged myself out of bed and poured some biscuits into his bowl, much to his delight, and mine. I then proceeded to get ready. Now, before I get out of bed I think of what I want to wear.... AND NOTHING ELSE WILL DO. If I can't find what I want to wear I know I will have a shit day. It's that serious guize. This morning was one of those mornings where I could not piece together my outfit. Turns out I've lost my favourite black slip so I had to freestyle one out of a velvet skirt and black singlet, ohmygod it was tragic. I then proceeded to spill makeup all over my outfit, stab a hole and ladder in my stockings, and burst into tears on the motorway.

Oh it was a bad morning. Rull bad. I needed some serious Tony Robbins motivation to pull through that one.

Interesting drive home

I had car sex this afternoon. Car sex for me, is when I see someone in a really nice car and I sex them with my eyes. Am I the only person this happens to? An attractive person is driving a nice car, my eyes are greedy and I tend to stare, and I've been known to drool on occasion. So this guy he was driving this really nice Merc, it was sexual. We pulled up next to each other at the lights, and even though the light was red, I very much gave him the green light.
LOL

He noticed me staring at him so I just looked away and tried to be cool about it. Until, he went on the motorway as well and we sort of did the whole awkward you-over-take-no-you-over-take dance side by side. Agh and then he saw me looking at him again! But I was looking at him in a pointed way like 'are you going to over take me or not' and he was looking at me like 'bitch is still staring'.

So I make the move and pull in behind him, mostly because I don't want him to see the cat stickers on the back of my car. I have cat stickers on the back of my car by the way. And yes they scream CRAZY CAT LADY.

But then the unthinkable happens and he pulls off at the same exit, I don't want him to think I'm crazy so I go into another lane as to look like I'm not following him. I turn the radio up to listen to the ever so witty banter from the radio DJ's with Merc man safely behind me. I start laughing/creepy smiling at what the DJ's are saying and before I know it I look over to my left and Merc boy is sitting next to me with a look of fear in his eyes. He probably saw the cat stickers too.

I really wanted to make some sort of vulgar gesture to him but I realised that he was actually genuinely afraid of me. He probably had police comms on speaker. So I'm not having car sex again.

Sick as a dawg

Probably one of the most awkward illnesses you can get is Glandular Fever. After putting up with a sore throat and an inability to swallow properly (ahhh, hugely important function) I decided to go to the Doctor. And after feeling the golf-balls I currently have for glands in my neck he diagnosed me with the glanj. He then went on to advise me that people most commonly transfer this delicious fever via the exchange of saliva through kissing. This statement was followed by a very pointed look.

So yeah, along with glanj he also diagnosed me as being a slut. Which was fantastic, even though he went on to say I could also get it from someone sneezing etc, I knew he had already made his mind up. 

The bad thing about being sick is that I never actually look sick. I have puffy eyes but they're not that noticeable to people who don't stare at my face as intently as I do. Please see my sick face below, this was post a run because I felt lethargic. Yes I realise that is a symptom of glanj but I grew up on tough love, with a mother who didn't believe in common illnesses, one being Asthma. 

Shit I was a cheap drunk, one cider 4 pills = happy place. Opps. 

When I was about 11 years old I was diagnosed with Bronchitis Asthma, I can't really remember how it came about but I vividly remember being taken to the doctor and made to suck these horrid fumes through a mask. It was probably chloroform. The Doctor sent me home with various inhalers to take at certain times. I was quite clueless as to when I needed them. I remember freaking out at school because I started coughing and didn't actually know whether to take my inhaler or not.

My mother soon cleared it all up for me when she decided there was no such thing as Asthma. I remember taking my inhaler one night under her supervision and he saying "This is utter rubbish you don't need this junk, I'm throwing it out" in fact I remember our dodgy neighbour asking for them, so yeah my mum gave away my medication to a drug dealer.

Ever since then I've always been confused about whether or not I'm sick. As a child, if I was visibly sick as in vomiting/blowing my nose/lying on the floor dying my mother would believe me. Otherwise, I would not be taken seriously and sent on my way. 

This indecisiveness has followed me through to adulthood. Thank you mum. 

Once of the worst instances was when I fell off my pony and was actually briefly knocked out. I woke up on a pile of corrugated iron and barbed wire. Don't ask why this was in the paddock in the first place, my dads version of 'art' most likely. My mother came running down in a panic, genuinely worried about me. I had bitten down on the entire inside of my mouth and my gums were completely torn to shreds, as a result blood was pouring out of my mouth. The worst of it was my shin which collided with some metal and torn skin/muscle/flesh down to the bone. It was delicious. 

My mother was in shock at my state, needless to say. However, she did NOT send me to the doctor, rather she sent me to the bathroom to be cleaned up. It was my school production that night, and instead of going to A&E for a tetanus shot I was forced to go the school production I so desperately wanted to be in to WATCH IT. Yes, my mother not only decided that my injuries were not major but I had to be punished by being removed from the production and forced to watch. 

Oh the trauma. 

Thus the person I am today that associates injury/medical issues with very negative consequences. 

Quarter life crisis 2.0

So further to my last update, things have developed further in the Quarter life crisis front guys. And when I say developed I mean like in an a way a body builder "develops" muscles on steroids. Yes, my quarter life crisis is on the roids. But I'm not even embarrassed about it, much like a body builder I'm flaunting it, spraying it orange, and calling it a day.

Soz body builders, I totally respect what you do and maybe you're the only ones who will truly get what I'm going through. Ah, long shot?

Apart from the fact that I'm listening to house music while I a write this, I am doing something else that is very out of the ordinary for conservative old me. I'm just going to come out and say it. I'm wearing leather pants, here they are.

Body builders eat your heart out. Cat women-esq? Maybe. But hey, they'll go with the motorbike. I also kind of rustle and squeak as I walk like mouse trapped in a plastic bag. 

Quarter life crisis in full swing

So I feel like I have been fairly low-key about my quarter life crisis. Oh you didn't know already? Yeah I'm going through a quarter life crisis. See the reality of it is, is that you never turn 24, no sir-rey you don't. You turn 'I'm going to be 25 next year' there is no 24 kids. So wipe that off the list of numbers your teacher told you about. So when your teacher asks be sure to tell them 4 x 6 = 25 next year.

I have acknowledged the fact that I am experiencing a quarter life crisis, just look at the title of the blog and you will realise this is a shrine to my current phase. So I just want you to know I totally realise what I'm doing right now, but I had not truly realised the extent of my behaviour... until a couple of weeks back.

So I signed up for a motorbike lesson. I mean, I've always wanted a motorbike but there's always been a parent/guardian/common sense standing in the way. And now that I'm approaching 25 those factors don't matter anymore. So I was kind of hoping to channel a Britney-Spears-esq persona. Sexy leathers, red hair flowing in the wind, straddling some ripped black man.

Unfortunately my experience on a motorbike was nothing like the picture above. Britney made it look easy, she probably had a green screen too. Nope, my experience was more similar to the below picture, confusing yet hard to look away from.

So I showed up to my lesson in my cutest outfit consisting of real leather jacket (SORRY MOO-COWS BUT YOUR SKIN FEELS SO GOOD AGAINST MINE), 7 jeans, puma's, and white tshirt. I was like totally biker-chic, ya know?

The guy takes one look at me and already decides I can't ride a motorbike and informs me I need to "Zip up my jacket and do a basic balance test" at this stage I'm thinking "Well, screw it I've already failed" so I go to zip up my jacket, and no word of a lie, THE ZIPPER BREAKS!!!!!11!!11!1!!!ONE!!

So I'm standing there with my zip in my hand feeling very much like a soon-to-be-25-year-old fool. The news of my broken zipper does not improve the mood of my belligerent instructor and he just looks at me and sighs. I feel like a failure. Next minute, I am tossed onto a motorbike without so little instruction and pushed around (the motobike is turned off there's just some guy pushing me on it, reminiscent of my first bicycle experience) by mr grumpy instructor's assistant.

It is in this moment, while I am being pushed around on an idling motorbike with a broken zipper that I realise how uncool I am. Internally, I weep.

But I am then told by angry face instructor that I have excellent balance. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT BITCHES. And I spend the rest of the afternoon recovering from my bad start and working on my excellent motorcycle skills.

So yeah, I have a motorcycle licence now. Shit is getting real. Reel real.

I recommend you watch this space for more motorcycle updates. I promise hilarity xx

I'm probably an Indian God

So, you should know by now that I am a redhead. There's no if's or but's about it. My hair is redish-orange.. I am a ginga, ginger, carrot top, ginger nut, I'm all of those derogatory terms.
But I'm not an ugly gingner okay, I feel like I need to back this up with quotes I've received in my lifetime of being a ginger:

"You know the girl redheads look good, but the boys, they just don't suit it."

"IT'S A REDHEAD! IT'S A REDHEAD! A FUCKING HOT REDHEAD!!!!"

"You're a good looking redhead coz you don't have freckles" - I do in fact have freckles this guy was high

"You're good looking for a redhead" - I get this a lot. A LOT. "for a redhead" kind of takes away from the compliment."

"Do you dye your hair"
"You don't dye your hair? Wow I didn't know red hair could look nice on someone"

But I'm pretty sure someone once told me that Indians believe red heads are decendants from Indian gods. OH MY GOSH IS THIS TRUE?

Someone please verify the above fact for me.

Cat food and chocolate

I hate going to the supermarket, yet my survival depends on it. I find supermarket shopping more of a drag than a man in women's clothes,  even more of a drag than accepting a cigarette from a friend. And I just ran out of drag puns, I digress.

Supermarkets are awful places, so filled with melancholy that it spills out the automatic-doors and oozes into the car park. I sit in my car preparing for the task ahead and with an exaggerated sigh I drag myself out and into the black hole that is the supermarket. My supermarket of choice is usually Countdown, mainly because the Pak'NSave in my area is like visiting a third-world country. And you think I'm joking, no no, one of the isles' features a shanty-town of cardboard boxes.

So I get into countdown, and I usually decide a little green basket is a far better choice than to commit myself to a trolley. Mainly because the thought of pushing a trolley of food around a Supermarket is the most dismal thing I can think of. I have enough food in my body I have to push each day thank you very much.

My shopping list is all in mind - which means I manage to find everything that is the exact opposite of what is on my list. I can usually keep to a list of less than 5 things, otherwise I'm doomed.

I went to the supermarket tonight. I waited until after 7.30 pm to ensure children and the elderly would be tucked away safely in bed. It is also a peak time for pyjamas and slippers. But when you weigh the two up... sleepwear is the lesser of the two evils. I can't judge I was in my walking clothes, which involves three-quarter tights-as-pants and a tshirt. Sometimes I feel like wearing fitness clothes to the supermarket is as equally bad as wearing a bikini to anywhere but the beach. But I'm lazy and I wouldn't wear a bikini to the supermarket.

I had two things on my list; cat food and chocolate. So yeah, the necessities. I hate the layout of the supermarket because it means these two items are on direct opposite sides on the shop. DESIGN YOUR LAYOUTS FOR CRAZY CAT LADIES PLEASE. I grab my catfood first, oh yeah so cat food isn't just like one tin of cat food, it's like, um, several things:

The little green basket gets full and heavy quite quickly. But little baby kitty-widdies need the treaty-weeties. Okay? Don't judge me.

Then. For. The. Chocolate.

OMG ROLO.

So I'm feeling pretty good about my purchases and I've made good time. I make my way to the checkout to discover they only have one operator on at this time of night. Noooooooooo! This means that everyone can see the contents of my basket. It reminds me of a surpressed childhood memory when I first discovered white went see-through when wet after swimming in a white t-shirt with friends. EVERYONE CAN SEE BUT NO ONE TELLS YOU.

Let me paint this picture for you, I'm in a supermarket at 8pm on a Wednesday night, in my pre-sweaty exercise-clothes, with a basket full of cat food and chocolate. Jealous?

Got to go I just remembered I need to finish my rolo. 

Selfie

I take a lot of selfies. What's a selfie? It's when a terribly lonely person thinks they look fantastic and decides to take a photo in order to capture the essence of said persons beauty. 

Someone please tell me who is driving that car so I can have sex with them.

Tonight's blog post is the result of too much cider, heat exhaustion and Fast and the Furious 6. I'm actually enjoy this movie but there's a few things I'd like to broach before we really get to the essence of my purpose. Firstly, holy crap Vin Diesel's head - I can't even shave my legs to that precision. He must've had IPL on that bad boy, and google search brings up no images of him WITH hair, so I'm going with IPL.

Secondly, I love. LOVE. I need to use something stronger/worse than that. I'm passionate about the fact that Ludacris has a major role. It would appear he has produced a fair amount of hits for the movie-saga so it is only fitting that he plays a part. May I also remind you of this. SHIT NEEDS A GRAMMY!!

He's a ridiculous human but I love him for it. Even if he does have the same wardrobe stylist as Jim Carrey.

Luda did it first Jim. Go home.

Thirdly, for a car film this movie features a surprisingly shit amount of cars. There are like three cars in this entire movie. In fact most of the cars you see are police cars. This makes me impatient. I mean, it's like watching a porno and seeing no vijangle-jangle or in this case three. Now, I don't watch porno, but I can imagine for people that do this would be a pretty disappointing realisation. It's just not right.

So here's my guide to vijangle-jangle. HAHAHA I mean, here's my guide to what your car says about you. That really DID NOT segway as smoothly as I imagined. Everything is so much better in head - it's what I fear most about this blog.

Japanese-import coupe
I feel like my first impression from guys that drive this car is; 'where would you put a baby seat?'
Clearly you are a single (or recently single or just want to be single) male and you need to express this status through your car.

You're not afraid to let people know you don't want to commit to anything, especially babies and baby-equipment, and I like it.

But bucket seats are actually really uncomfortable. And you need a pretty decent wage to keep a thrashed-turbo car in working order. AKA will this cut into the fund of money you have set aside for me? Or will you just be dipping into this fund? Or did the 'girlfriend' fund never exist? I WANT ALL THE STUFF!! MAKE A FUND!

Also, will I be expected to pose in a bikini in heels and grind on aforementioned motor vehicle? Because lord knows that would end in a trip to the emergency room.

Plus, I don't have the required amount of hair extensions and/or fake tan to be a bona fied car slut.

Late-model sedan
In any form (BMW, Honda, Toyota) the late model sedan screams responsible. If it's a work car then I understand, free car, free petrol = ideal.

But if you went out and purchased this car because of it's ability to facilitate babies and baby-equipment. Then no. We're not going to have sex.

But bless you for trying.






Mid-to-early-90s sedan
See this is different, I have respect for people that drive these. These cars say 'I don't have a lot of money to spend on a car but I wanted a decent one and I don't know much about cars so I got something low maintenance.'

You have successfully gained my respect. Also, probably a girlfriend fund due to lack of car fund? Am I right?

 Hatch-back.
No.

Men in hatch backs are like knee-length denim skirts on women. What's the point? Are you trying to be cute? Because it's not working.

They serve no purpose for the male population. Don't drive them. There is also a possibility you could kick that front passengers seat forward and make room for the baby equipment.

Ute... possibly minitruck
If you drive a ute and you need a ute then I'm not one going to argue with that logic.
If your ute features flames and chrome wheels however, I can argue with logic. Please refer to my earlier notes on the girlfriend fund.
Also, will you have sex with the ute more than me? It's a possibility and I'm not prepared to gamble on it.

Finally, the muscle/vintage car
Something I've noticed about owners of these sorts of vehicles is that they're cars are typically cleaner than themselves.

If you clean your car more than you clean your person.. well. That's just disgusting.

But I admire the work required to go into these cars. I do question people that drive them as they look more expensive than the jap-imports-come-turbos. SO HOW DID YOU AFFORD THIS MID-LIFE-CRISIS-ON-WHEELS. Again, reference girl friend fund. But also very impractical for a baby... so it's perched quite nicely on the fence.

Oh and by the way, I never nor have I ever slept with anyone based on their car. But if I was to do so it would based on the information above. But I'm not.

Hopefully this helps you or a friend who is single and wondering what he is doing wrong. I realise I missed out station wagons, V8's, convertibles, european cars, and SUV's. But this is all I really had time for.

OH MY GOD VIN DESIEL JUST BEAT UP THE ROCK AND IT WAS AMAZING.

G2G xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Did I just see an incestual porno in the making?

I watched my neighbour's son fondle her breast.

Where to begin with this one. So we have front neighbours and back neighbours. This blog is going to be the first regarding our back neighbours - specifically the female. I'm actually kind of more frightened of our back neighbours than our front neighbours. And that's saying something because the front neighbours rap and give each other tattoos in their garage on a regular basis. And yes, it is as unhygienic as it sounds but that's a whole different blog post.

So, the back neighbours are a couple in their late 30s and have a 2 year old son. His name is Zachary, not Zach, Zachary - remember that. To come to think of it I've never asked the spelling, it's probably Zaphkkeriey knowing them. They're weird, let's clarify that. I also want to clarify their race and demographic without sounding like a racist or stereo-typist. So here's some clues, the only hiphop they listen to is 'Slim Shady' (her words not mine), they love death metal, casual attire involves jeans and a Metallica tshirt. Are you with me?

Recently I've noticed the female back neighbour wants to talk to me a lot. A LOT. I've never spoken to her partner, the male one, and I cannot confirm whether he has the ability to speak. Unfortunately for me I get home at the same time as the female and our cars are parked quite closely so we are within speaking range. I've just finished listening to this on full-blast and want to get inside for a cider. She on the other hand, wants conversation. But I've decided that a small amount of banter with her is easier than not speaking to her at all. She might come and stab me in my sleep. Legit.

One afternoon I got out my car, minding my own business and she started a conversation. We begin by complaining about the front neighbours, which is something I can do endlessly. Her son Zaphkkeriey is perched on her hip during our conversation. I know he's only 2 so it's probably normal, and I'm not a parent so I don't know the 'rules' per-say. But mid-conversation Zaphkkeriey began to whack his mothers breast. And I don't mean in a put-me-down kind of way, it was more... well... I CAN'T SAY IT. I just can't say it.

Sexual.

Obviously he was trying to get her attention so he went in for a more aggressive approach (at this stage I didn't think it could get more aggressive), he then began to squeeze her breast quite consistently and vigourously.

Now I need to clarify my neighbour is a big gal. She's probably about size 16-18 and quite curvy, so there's a lot of boob there to grab. Which is why I didn't think toooooo much into it by this stage. UNTIL, well. Nothing could prepare me for what was about to happen next.

Zaphkkeriey made his final move and squeezed her nipple through her top. He grabbed what appeared to be where the nipple would naturally be and tugged and turned on that particular area. Purple-nurple style.

I watched as my neighbour DID NOTHING TO STOP HIM but did however manage to stop our conversation short and suddenly had a distant look in her eyes like she was somewhere else. She then proceeded to tell me that she had to go and left me out on the driveway feeling both violated and mortified.

There could be an explanation for this. Maybe she has no feeling in her breasticles. Maybe Zaphkkeriey was doing me a favour and cutting the conversation short. I will never know and I'm not about to ask.

For the record, my children are never touching my breasts AFTER breast feeding. Gah. 

How I stay in shape and bootilicious

I'm currently sitting on the couch, towel on my head, sunglasses on (they're prescription and I can't find my normal glasses) and watching exercise infomercials. These "paid advertisements" are so painful, so so painful. Chuck Norris is in his 70s? He's looking good, I don't like beards, but he's looking good. Still not going to buy a total gym though Chuck. Soz.

It seems like I can't enjoy day-time television without having to encounter an advertisement that will "help me get into the best shape of my life" - well guess what, I've already been in the best shape of my life and I'm never getting it back. When was that? I was probably about 20, long skinny stick legs, big ol booty, flat stomach, I had it all. Four years on (yes I'm only 24) and things have changed, I will admit it... it hurts to say it... but I now have to exercise if I want to stay in shape. Agh, I feel sick.

There is so much pressure (more than I have ever experienced) to be "in shape" and I hate it. Social media is drenched in 'health/exercise nuts' between bloody Ashy Bines and Fitspiration, it makes me want to stab my eyes out. "Are you sure you want to block all notifications from Ashy Bines?" YES HELL YES I DO!!! GET THAT PHOTOSHOPPED BITCH OFF MY NEWSFEED! I'll stop because I don't want the Ashy-Bines-Army to come after me. I mean, good on you guys. I'm happy about it and I'm all for being healthy, it's just not for me. This one time I tried to diet and even did a cleanse. Day two into my cleanse I whimped out and secretly ate an entire bag of lollies - something I've been in denial about until this day*. It was a three day cleanse. I felt like I was dying. So I can't really eat healthy, I like sugar too much, so it's about exercise for me.

At 22 I joined a gym, but was a miserable failure at going. There was a hot gym instructor though (omg why do I have a raging boner today?) . I often found myself stumbling into him in a state of sweat and redness post-exercise. No one looks worse post-exercise than moi. Matted hair, red-faced, dripping with sweat, clammy, aching, shaking, it would be accurate to say I look like a pin-up girl for week-6 on P.

So when that didn't work I purchased a cross trainer. I used it, I still use it but only for about 10 minutes at a time. I just get SO BORED. I'm like; "Okay on the cross trainer, I'm gonna do half an hour.... Okay 15 minutes and do another 15 minutes later. Oh my god it's only been 3 minutes how am I meant to do 15? This is getting too hard, what level is this on? I need to get off! I NEED TO GET OFF!!! Oh good 8 minutes, I'll round that up to 10 by counting the minutes it took to get here."

That is my internal monologue.

Something I have been able to stick with however, is dancing. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. In order to stay fit...... I..... dance around in my bed room like a video slut.

How do you think Fergie got in such great shape?

So basically, I dance around to 'my humps' and other fantastic musical hits from the late 90s-early-2000s. It makes me feel great AND I stay in shape. I guess this goes hand-in-hand with my desire to be a famous singer. Because everyone knows if you're prepared to sing then you're prepared to dance. Unless you're Rick Ross, cause then you can just rap in a wheel chair.

I probably look like the most ridiculous idiot out but I don't care. And may I remind you how ridiculous I look now in my sunglasses and head-costume-towel. Oh no a Wen advertisement just came on. What happened Alyssa Milano? You were my idol in Charmed. Gotta go. I'm not a Wen girl.

*Omg I'm so sorry to my friend who is reading this and did the cleanse with me. She did super well and I'm so proud of her, but I failed. I failed miserably. BUT I LOVE LOLLIES!! It was a supply I was 'saving' for Christmas.... but who was I kidding? I can't keep lollies for longer than a day. It was always doomed.

My rap career

So my career is something I mention a fair bit, you'll get used to it and if you stick around long enough I might say something funny. When you listen to as much rap music as I do you slowly start to believe that the only way to get to the top of a pile of Maybachs is to become a rapper. It's the only way. The sad thing is, is that I'm not alone in this philosophy. The world is over-run with road-workers-come-jay-zs. 

Anywho, there was a period in my life (that went on for far too long) when I was convinced that I was going to become a famous singer and/or RnB star. There was no other goal, I lived and breathed the idea of becoming famous. I used to go out onto my trampoline-come-stage in the backyard and perform to my millions... of soft toys, who acted as my mosh pit carefully lined up in front of the trampoline. 

It was magical. Yet, I think the funniest part of the whole thing was how embarrassed I would become mid-act in response to any REAL LIFE human beings who happened to have the misfortune of witnessing my performance (typically one of my parents). 

Probably the worst incident was when a recently-made friend came over for a play date. I was so strange as a child that I became quite desperate for friends and fresh meat was valuable. Especially precious were the friends who I got to before my twin sister who would often ruin my friendships with four simple words; "my sister is weird" - agh it's all it took to destroy my hard-work. Anywho, so the girl came over and witnessed me mid-performance, me belting out some 90s RnB to an array of soft toys strewn across the lawn. She froze, we locked eyes, she anxiously assessed the situation, I turned bet-root-red. It was bad. I lost her that day, and I've never forgotten that only true friends can accept how weird I really am.

Yesterday while day-dreaming at my desk I reminisced on my ambition to be a famous artist of sorts. And then I watched this video, which I feel accurately reflects my possible-rap career:

Similar to this photo/video my rap career would start off with good intentions. This young man also appears to have good intentions as seen, he is simply trying to take a photo of himself shirtless, perhaps to add to his modeling portfolio? As I said, good intentions. But like me, he failed in his attempt although the end goal is quite obvious it actually turns into something entirely different, it becomes almost satirical. He (I) seeks approval and shows a friend his photo/video and said friend sees the funny side and encourages him to put it online. The whole thing quickly spirals out of control and turns into a humongous joke. He (I) is then forced to have a sense of humour about the incident and laugh it off. Secretly we wallow in our own self pity with Taylor Swift on loop and 20,000 bottles of aerosol-style whipped cream.

It's a sad life for us tryers..

But then I just watch this youtube video and realise I don't want to be a white-girl-rapper and feel like a raging success again.

My career, this blog and other things that are going nowhere

I'm pretty excited about this blog. I have some extremely high hopes for it. I  feel like my life is so surreal at times I need to share it with others = good reason for a blog, am I right? I also kind of thought it would be cool to blog about something that doesn't feature the tag OOTD. Fashion douche-bags it's your cue (LOL) to look away now. Shut the hell up. I really don't care what you wore today - unless it's funny or creative (ideally both).

For example, if you're dressed in your regular old douchey clothes - coordinated to fuck, I don't want to see or hear about it. But if you're dressed as say, a space-themed sex doll, I want to see it. I want to see it a lot.

Appropriate tags: #OOTD, #SWAG #Hellaflyyy 

I feel like my facebook, instagram, and twitter news feeds need more sex dolls and less douche bags. Anywho I digress, the purpose of this blog is for me to see the brighter side of life and for you to be entertained along the way. Perhaps you can use the comments section to offer constructive feedback, advice, or to complain about my grammar. Don't complain about my grammar. I'm lazy, leave me alone. I'm going to try to remain as anonymous as possible, because I really can't be bothered dealing with any sort of backlash as a result of my witty-bordering-on-offensive musings.

That's about all I want to say for now. BRB I've got to go steam press my sexy space girl costume.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Oh wow

Oh wow, new blog! Lets hope this is a raging success.