The Serial Breast Offender and His Fishing Victim

Me and Chris have decided to give things another go. He finally apologised for telling everyone that I had weird shaped tits. He said it's a year, so we should make a new start. He called me on the phone and he told me that he was still in love with me and he just couldn’t;t stop thinking about me all the time. He asked me to meet him that evening at 7:30pm in our local, The Goose, but I said 8, just to have that edge. It took me all afternoon to get ready for our date, and I'd made doubly sure that I'd picked all of the yellow heads off my spots, shaved those tiny black hairs that never go away from my top lip, but most of all I ensured that I picked up a pair of pants from the 'almost clean' pile, just in case things were to go a bit further.

So, I met him at the pub later that evening; he was already there, at a table with a glass of wine waiting for me. I approached the table and sat down opposite to him, and we exchanged the typical “Hello, hellos”- the preamble. I took a sip of the wine at which he snatched the glass from my hand saying “Sorry, that's mine. If you want one, you know where the bar is.” I was a bit embarrassed from assuming that he had made a gentlemanly gesture, so I did exactly as he suggested and ordered a bottle of wine. He had his glass, but I had my bottle, and I wasn't going to share a drop. I chose to order red wine, even though I hate it, I thought it would make me look classy and mature.

I returned over to where we were sitting and placed my purchase firmly on the table, putting it directly in front of his line of sight. “What have you brought red for? You know you don't like red, don't you”, he asked.

“Well, a lot of things have changed since we last saw each other Chris.”

“But that was only last week?”

I ignored his comment, and poured myself a glass, only just about managing to not heave as I drank it. The evening dragged as we chatted and drank more and more, and I finally got round to asking him why he had made the nasty-weird-breasts comment about me, the very reason we'd split up in the first place. I expected him to say that it was just a silly little lie that got a bit out of hand, but what he actually said was : “ Well, they are a bit strange, aren't they? I mean, they're completely different sizes- you have to admit. Your nipples as well... a bit wonky I'd say. I don't mean any of this in a bad way though, you know what I'm sayin'?” No, I didn't know what you were 'saying' Chris, you absolute arse hole.

I heard the front door swing open, and I looked around to watch it, as something to do to fill the awkward tension that has arisen from not knowing what someone had meant by completely slating you, but in a nice way, however that might happen... I recognised the face that had just walked into The Gooose, it was Ben unfortunatley. Ben is Chris' older brother, I should have known before that there would be a chance of bumping into him. Ben is also a massive twat that likes to get as many twats as possible. I probably wouldn't mind all that much if a million bees stung him in the eyes, or a train ran over his little toes, or anything else like that really. By the looks of things he had yet another girlfriend, who I had noticed, had incredibly large breasts, I'm sure they were actually bigger than her own head. I bet no one has ever told her she lop-sided tits or whatever Chris had said.

Not long after Ben had entered, a group of his mates had follwed behind him. As they walked over to the bar, Ben had caught my eye, I looked away far to quickly to conceal the fact I was trying to avoid being seen. “Well, well, what's this then” Ben trumpted from his big trumpet mouth “The happy couple back together again? Come on then everyone you miserable shits, this needs drinks to celebrate.” I did a double-take, there was no fucking chance I was getting back with his breast abusing arse of a brother, even if he isn't quite as much of an arse as you. An arse is an arse either way.

Ben left us to head for the bar, and Chris leaned over the table to take my hands into his and told me

“I'm really glad that you've stopped being so childish, so we can give this another chance. You really have got to stop being so sensitive.” I faked a smile, and wormed away from his grasp, making the excuse that I needed another drink. This was a complete lie of course, I'd sank the whole bottle of red that I'd brought and felt thoroughly pissed, but still, I ordered a vodka and coke, then returned to where we were sat. Ben had placed two shots of something on the table for me, I tried to get out of drinking them but Ben kept on and on, pressuring me to drink. Then Chris chimed in “Go on Ruth, you don't always have to be so boring. I've had mine.” I weighed up the situation and decided that a couple of tiny shots was not worth letting Chris shoot me down again, plus the fact that I'd been practically forced to be someone's girlfriend. It couldn't really have got much worse I figured. So, I necked them back one after another. I felt them burn my throat and I heard my stomach let out a tell-tale gurgle of warning of what was to come.

I got straight out of my seat and shot towards the toilets, with my head bent down, clutching my mouth. I wasn't looking where I was going and ended up in a head- on collision with Ben's new girlfriend. The blow of the impact instantly unleashed the load and I did the deed all over her legs. I heard her do a little scream, followed by Ben yelling “Chris! Get her out of here, she's a fucking mess”, as I flopped pathetically to the floor. I felt Chris drag me across the pub and out of the front door. He let it slam shut against my head...

I woke up this morning feel like someone had tipped cat litter down my throat, and the events of last night were a little hazy. I sat up in bed and saw Chris walk through my bedroom door.

“Morning” he grunted.

“Good morning.”

“I brought you a knife and fork.”

“Oooh, breakfast in bed, eh?”, I knew he wasn't all that bad really.

“Um no. It's just probably the only way you're gonna fish those chunks out of the sink.”

Invasion of The Wee-Wee Watcher, and Unacceptable Hand Related Behaviour At the Back of the Bus. Part I

Well, festivals are a lot of fun aren’t they? Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to take me to a shit-spattered field for a whole weekend. It was supposed to be a nice getaway to help me forget about my argument with Chris. Cheers mates for that one. The whole ordeal was an absolute nightmare from the start, right from when we got on to the coach. The girls ditched me almost instantly, and went and sat with a group of a group of hippy lads, probably in hope of some free lovin'. I'm fine for free lovin' thanks, I've got a highly trained Alsation that takes care of all that kind of stuff.

So I was left sitting by myself. I didn't care though, those dreadlocks smelled like absolute arse anyway. They probably just discussed which incest sticks they preffered to shag themselves with. I tried to resolve the situation with cider, lots and lots of cheap, yellow cider. To be honest, I'm not a great traveller, and I knew that alcohol probably wasn't a good idea, but I wanted to show them that I could have just as good of a time by myself- which I can. Everything was all fine as I read my cheapo women's magazine, revelling in the stories of babies with two heads and women that have had ten kids by eight different fathers- the kind of stories that makes you think 'how.'

I began to feel a bit sicky after we'd just gotten on to the motorway, about half an hour into our four hour drive. My mouth began to fill with slobber and my stomach was churning, but I kept sipping the cans though, focussing my breathing on swallowing down the fizzy sweetness. Despite these efforts, it was when my mind flitted to the thought of shitting in a hole filled with spunked-in johnnies and other articles of joy, for two days that made vomit ensue.

I didn’t want to make a fuss about the situation, or attract any attention from my sell-out mates or their blokes. I was having a good time, and they would believe it whether it was true or not. In order, to save face, but not really because it went exactly all over my face, I borked into my cupped hands, and then after I could just discreetly deposit it into the on-board toilet. I scrambled out of my seat, heading towards the back of the coach where the loos are normally located. I remember going on a coach day trip to Scotland with mum, just after she'd gotten divorced from dad. She said it would be nice to have some family time, she said it would be “lovely”. But it wasn't very lovely when I was on the toilet and the bus turned a corner, causing me to topple off the seat and wee over my own legs. It is also not very lovely having to walk around those bloody freezing hills all day with your own urine in your shoes.

When I reached the toilet, I was horrified. A little sign, with writing in capital letters read: 'OUT OF ORDER. DO NOT USE'. Fuck you sign. What the hell was I supposed to do with a rather large, and overflowing pair of hands full of sick? I decided to risk it and try and open the door, as long as I did it quietly and sneakily, I was sure that no one would catch me. The the door seemed to have been locked from the inside, or perhaps the driver had a key. There was no way I was going to ask him though, if I did, the girls would know that something was wrong, and I was definitely having a good time, remember, that and the fact that I'd have to admit to the driver I was currently using my hands as a human cup of of sick. I hung about outside the loo, trying to look casual, I would have tried the leaning on one arm thing that they do in films, but that would have risked an untimely disposal of vomit onto my feet. I heard someone behind me, out of view, sniffing the air and proclaiming they could smell sick. I knew I had to do something fast before I got caught, and the cramp in my hands at this point was really quite painful. I decided I had to somehow get the lock open, so I raised my cupped hands to the lock dial that read 'engaged', and carefully with my little finger, dragged the dial repeatedly until I finally heard the click of the lock- 'vacant'.

I did a little 'phew', and scurried into the cubicle, and splatted the contents of my hands into the toilet bowl. I was in there a few minutes cleaning myself up, I noticed I had a few spots on my forehead, and I couldn't really leave them unsqueezed, so I give them a little de-gunk. I was mid 'pop' and I heard the driver speak out over the tannoy system, he said: “Can the person, that has clearly ignored the sign, please get out of the toilet. Immediately”. There was no chance in hell that I was leaving that toilet. Everyone would know that I was a lonely loser that had thrown up, only half- an- hour into my first festival. My only thought was to hide there for nearly four hours until we arrived, and then I could sneak off with all of the other passengers, and no one would be any the wiser that it was me. I was there for a couple of minutes of longer until I felt the bus stop which was soon followed by the was a loud, repeated banging on the door, followed by an angry shout to “Get out. This coach is going nowhere until you go back to your seat”.

We remained parked at the side of the road for at least an hour. The smell of the sick in the tiny, hot cubicle was becoming unbearable, and I felt a second wave rising. I could hear someone fumbling with the lock outside, and I tried to hold the door closed with my foot as I retched, head still in the toilet bowl. It filled with light around me as the driver had managed to force the door open, I turned around to look at him. I could see a large mob of travellers had gathered behind him. They looked a bit pissed off. “Sorry”, I whimpered, feeling really quite pathetic by this point. “Sorry my arse, if you wanted to be sick” he said “then you should have let me know and we could have pulled over. Now get back to your seat, we're running late as it is!”

I toddled back to my seat, making my way through the group of people that were staring at me, I heard one of them mutter “Well done, dick head”, which I thought was a bit rude. So, I sat for the remainder of the journey by myself, I flipped back to the magazine to read about various freaks, that made me feel a bit better about myself at least. When we finally arrived, we filtered off the bus to wait for the driver to off load the luggage. The driver announced that there was a bit of a problem though, as he'd feared. The toilet that I had used was out of order because of a faulty waste tank, and the contents of it had leaked into the baggage compartment. I wanted to bloody die as he offloaded everyone's vomit covered tents and back packs, and the others were not best pleased to see that my bag was the only one which had come out absolutely spotless. I'd hoped there'd at least be a few chunks on it.

I rejoined my friends and we walked onto the campsite, and me and Slaggy Tits set up the tent we were sharing. I was feeling pretty miserable as Slaggy and the others still fussed around the boys, so I slipped inside the tent and snuggled down into my sleeping bag. A nice cup of tea would have made me feel better but I couldn't seem to find a plug socket anywhere, I'd have to remember to take one with me next time. I couldn't have been asleep for too long when I was woken up by a rustling in our tent. I hadn't opened my eyes but I could hear Slaggy whispering: “Sorry mate, his tent was taken so it had to be ours. Just go back to sleep we won't be long.” I had no idea who this “we”, that she was referring to was. I rolled over to find her straddling, mid-hump, on top of a bloke that looked like he was mainly comprised of hair. “There's not much room in here, is there?”, she said.

I left screaming things along the lines of “you're a filthy bitch” and “I hope you get herpes.” How could she shag away like that whilst I innocently slept? I stormed off to one of towards one of the music stages, and filtered in through the big crowd of people. I danced by myself for a bit, well more like out-of-time shuffling. There was a mixed group of girls and boys also dancing next to me, they looked liked they were having a great time, I felt pretty lonely and I just wanted to go home to my dog, plus I was still pegging for a good brew. One of the girls from the group caught my eye and gave me a smile, I smiled back. I bet she thought I was a complete loner, being there by myself. She walked over to me, and asked my to join there group. I said “That would be great, thanks”, and she introduced herself as Summer and told me the names of the others. I did and awkward wave to everyone and told them my name was Ruth. I felt like lying and coming up with an equally cool name as Summer, I toyed with Sunshine, or Starfish, but decided against it in the end.

We danced away for hours, and for the first time, I was beginning to think that festivals are actually pretty fun. One of the boys pulled out a small bag with white stuff in it and sneakily passed it round the group. Sunshine asked me if I'd like some powder, I told her that I didn't wear make-up any more, not since the time I'd turned up on the first day of school and a Year 9 boy had asked me if I was a drag queen. “No silly” she said, and rolled up a ten pound note and snorted a little bit of the bag's contents. “Like that kind of powder”. She handed me the note and the drugs, I felt a bit nervous, I'd never done anything like that before. I thought about how disappointed my parents would be, although they had been promising to buy me a car for well over a year, so stuff you mum and dad, you don't even know what disappointment is. I wondered if putting the queen's head up your nose and snorting illegal substances was against the law, like the same as killing a swan, or plotting against the crown, would what I was doing count as treason or something? Then I realised that the illegal drugs part of the situation was probably a lot more against the law than inserting money into your oraphaces. Summer seemed nice enough though, and I'm sure the queen wouldn’t be too bothered either, so I shoved the scabby note up my nose and snorted. I was a bit worried that she would see the watery residue that I'd left on the note, she didn’t seem to have noticed anyway. What I should have been more worried about was the fact that I'd never asked what this mysterious 'powder' stuff was, or what it would do to me.

I'd hoped it would be like you see on the TV with all those hippies dancing about with flowers and telling everyone that they loved everyone else. Although, I didn't want to cheat on Chris, this break was supposed to give us a bit of room so we could work things out, and anyway I hadn't taken my pill in ages because the dog ate the whole of the last pack. I hope it won't make him grow breasts, or ovaries or anything. As the drugs began to work, I started to feel a bit off. Not at all like those naked dancing people I'd seen in their summers of love type scenarios. I asked Summer what it was she had given me, but all's she said was “Don't worry about it, but remember whatever you see...it's not real.” I was a bit confused as to what she meant, and her words didn't stop me from fretting. So, I said my goodbyes, explaining that I was feeling a bit weird and needed a lie down. I headed back to the tent, I unzipped the door and was relieved to find that Slaggy and whoever she had pulled, had now left.

I was desperate for a wee, and was annoyed at myself for not going on my way back, but I knew I wouldn’t make it to the porta-loos, I could see them in the distance, they were right across the other side of our campsite. Popping my head outside of the tent, I searched around for a vessel to wee in; an empty pot noodle container on the floor near by caught my eye. Closing the tent back shut, I began to do my business, until I heard the zipper going, someone was trying to get in. I just couldnt stop though, everybody knows you cannot stop midflow, it's against the laws of human biology. A man that I didn't recognise poked his head inside. “Sorry love, I can see your busy”, he said, “Do you want to buy any pills?” I was caught in a dilemma, there was no way I could stop peeing, so I just stared at him as the pot beneath me slowly began to overflow. At least it wasn't on my side of the tent.

The chip of shame and his molesting owner

I started at Chip Shop Rod’s today. I turned up fifteen minutes late, not really a great way to begin a new job. Next-door boy was having a shitimus maximus, or maybe he was just tugging one off again in the bathroom because I didn’t hear any victory splashes? Either way, I didn’t get chance to have a shower so I had to go into work with hair that could have rivalled the grease in the chip pans. At least I blended in. As I left the house I realised that my legs could have probably done with a shave too, they were way past the point of acceptable spiky, couple of week's growth kinda' hair. Then again, I don't really see the point in grooming myself since the whole me and Chris fiasco ended, but saying that, I have managed to build myself up enough to get back to brushing my teeth once every day.

Anyway, when I finally turned up at the shop, Rod wasn't particularly impressed with my time keeping skills. He said that even Fat Maria had managed waddle in on time. I thought that was a bit mean to be honest, and I didnt really expect such a comment to be made by the creator of my creative workspace. Although, I think I was actually just more annoyed about being compared to someone that has the formally accepted first name of 'Fat'. He told me that as a result of my lateness I would have to wear the company mascot as my punishment. He led me into the back of the shop, where I had been before, and there it hung in a glass cabinet: the real-life, human chip suit. Rod explained that “This is Rod's Fish Bars' most prized possession. When you wear it, you wear it like you mean it.” I wondered how you could mean to be a chip. He added “Oh, and be careful with it. I paid a good twenty-quid for that from 'Dirty Dick's Discount Centre...it's one of a kind”. I'm sure it is one of a kind, it's fucking ridiculous.

After Rod's suit speech, I pointed out to him that the costume, was in fact, only half a chip, rather than a whole one. “That's why we've got these”, he said as he handed me a huge pair of yellow lycra underpants. I suspected that they were once worn like they-were-meant by Maria. I gave them a quick once over to see if they'd been washed since she'd last donned them. I wish that I hadn't. So, off I went to get changed into the suit of dread, and remembered my legs. My hair-carpeted legs... After dressing, Rod showed me around, how to use all of the equipment, and gave me a 'definitive guide' to the food that his shop offered, which consisted mainly of fish and chips, and fish and chips with stuff on it. After that the afternoon went fairly fast, well as fast as it possibly can when you're a hairy piece of cooked potato.

No one came in for food for a few hours in the afternoon, but eventually a lad popped his head round the door. He was short, and skinny with scruffy hair. He came over to the counter and asked me for chips, beans and curry sauce, the £2.99 deal. I told him that the deal only included one side, and you couldn't mix them. The same foolish mistake I'd made just a week ago, but I feel like I've come so far since that. He said that he didn't think it was very good customer service, and I replied that I was dressed as his bloody dinner, so what more customer service did he want. He agreed that I'd made a good point and opted for beans. He thanked me, and handed me his money, and left the shop. About half an hour later, as I was eating my staff discounted battered sausage, I noticed that the boy was still hanging about outside the window, every few minutes he peeped through the glass, then ran around behind a wall to hide. He continued to do this for another half an hour or so, so I stepped outside, and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. He said that his name was Matt and he had been wondering whether to ask me on a date. I told him that lurking around outside where I worked like a weird potential rapey person, was probably not the best way to go about it.

He continued to ask if I would like to go out for a drink sometime, I wasn’t exactly sure if he was even old enough to drink but considering the state I looked, I thought he must have actually been quite a nice guy. Not that I'm in the position to turn anybody down at the moment, legal or not. If I stick by my old motto 'If it's long, it's not wrong', then I'm sure it will be all right. I gave him my number written down on a serviette and walked back inside, asking him if he would please fuck off now because he was ruining my professionalism.

At the end of my shift I closed the shop door, pulled the shutters and got down on my knees to scrub the grease from the floor. I asked Rod if I could put my normal clothes back on as it is particularly hard to bend down when you're housed in 3ft of solid foam chippiness. He outright refused stating that I had to wear it for the whole shift. As I was scrubbing away, Rod came back behind the counter and watched me clean up. He sort of swaggered over, I'm not sure if he was trying to be cool or he just had a limp. He put one arm across my back, I could smell his breath as he breathed on my neck, it definitely smelled like curry sauce. Helping himself to the products no doubt, no way to run a business in my eyes, mate. He then placed his other hand on my lycra clad arse cheek, which in surprise, made me jump- knocking a fish from the serving grill, onto the floor. “That'll come out of your wages Ruth... unless you can find some other form of repayment...”. He trailed off, and I knew what he was after. I made my decision on the cost of the fish but I struggled to see if what I'd knocked of was battered, or breaded. Battered or breaded...battered or breaded....BREADED. Bastard. Breaded would cost me a whole hour's worth of my wages.

My decision was made and he pulled me up off the floor and leaned me back against the cooled chip fryer, and kissed me. My first day and I'd managed to become a victim of deep-fried frolicking with my middle-aged boss. Brilliant. I could feel him pressing against the front of the suit with his hands, searching for my goods. He'd have to search deeper than that though, the mini potato fritters from Menu A are bigger than my tits. I really hoped he wouldn’t use any battered sausage puns.

Unwanted foetuses and nipple based crises.

I cannot possibly believe that any human being could have produced the nasal violation that was born in my bedroom this morning, but the dog is at my mum's house so it must have been me. At first, I though next-door boy was cooking bacon again (he lives solely on a combination of processed meat based products) that inevitably leaves our house stinking of a combination of warty arse and dead donkeys. This foody aroma however, lasted far too long for him to be held responsible for this serious crime. Through methods of deduction, I came to conclusion that it was definitely whatever was breeding away beneath the wall of duvet; the one that was keeping me and it away from each other. I tried to see the positive side of the situation, and told myself that it was almost like breakfast in bed; with this in mind, I gave the covers a big waft- instant regret. There was no way that I could bare the sole burden of this surprising and revolting discovery, this rare event was one designed for sharing. I called my house mate Alice, who for future reference, lives next door, to next-door boy. There was four other people in the house that I could have chosen, but I carefully selected her as I thought she could 'appreciate' the experience most of all. She is also the smallest house mate in comparison to myself, the perfect size for the fate she would be about to meet. After hearing me, she plodded into my room, wearing her undies, which I pointed out to her were on backwards. She said she already knew, but wearing them the wrong way made her feel 'radical'. She would make such a shit hippy, or lesbian for that matter. I told her to come sit on my bed because I needed to talk to her about something serious. She told me that if I was going to lecture her about the pregnancy scare she had last month, then not to bother as she'd just had a 'severe' case of trapped wind, causing bloating. I'm not really sure if trapped wind can ever be described as severe but I let it slide. I was really disappointed- How could this girl excite me with the thought of unwanted offspring and then just dash my expectations to pieces. I was quite looking forward to the trip to the abortion clinic in Manchester, I haven't been on a train in ages...Well, that's selfish people for you, isn't it?

This let-down only fuelled my original aim. When she was busy being a boring bitch, blabbering something about grandmas', cancer and chemo' I took my chance and unleashed the wrath of the duvet and smothered her in it to ensure she got a good lung-full. I believe this is a common practice amongst kids these days, a technique often referred to as a 'gypsies oven'. She threw the cover off herself and stormed out like a prissy cow saying something like I'm an insensitive somebody who has sex with their mothers', and I never listen. What's so insensitive about farting on someone's head? Anyway, since that little episode she's not talking to me. I also noticed that she had not brought any more toilet paper this week, when the house maintenance rota clearly states that it's her turn to buy it. I don't give fuck about her conveniently timed bullshit grandmother's illness, I want my god-damned bog roll. I don't think I'm the insensitive one here Alice, my arse has needs- it needs to be wiped.

With Alice being all pissy-tits with me, I went to the uni campus party that we were supposed to be going with together, with a girl off my course. She's a bit of a slag, but on the whole she’s alright; I tried to be a slag once myself in all honesty, but it's quite a difficult thing to be when no one wants to shag you. I reckon the skin-full that I had at the bar last night was the reason behind the shameful acts of my backside this morning... We stayed at the bar on campus ‘til quite late, and headed back to the halls of residence where the party was on. We reached the block of flats and knocked on the door. Going inside I saw that the ‘party’ was in fact around five or six lads; really ugly, greasy lads. One particular boy had illegally short, shorts on. I couldn’t help but keep glancing at his crotch every few seconds, just in case it moved or something; if there had of been children about he would have been arrested, I think. After a while, I found something else to fix my gaze upon, so that nobody would know that I’m a pervert. This new fixation took the form of a particularly good looking, naked young lady that looked out from a poster on the wall. Yet after a while I found her presence a bit intimidating as her eyes persisted to followed me, even when I moved around the room to escape her. I wonder if this is to make wanking over her all the more intense... The poster in its entirety was quite nice to look at, the woman was situated in a picturesque forest, and she was holding an apple (presumably taken from one of the trees in the conveniently placed orchard), had taken a bite out of it-cheeky! She now held the fruit over her left breast, leaving the right one exposed.

 Everyone at the party gathered around the kitchen table and we started to play drinking games. By 10pm, I had been cautious in my consumption and had only drank two pints of lager that had been generously donated by  boy #1, seated to my right. Despite having only drunk so little, I was started to feel a bit pissed. I used poster-girl’s nipple as a point of focus to steady my vision ,and if the defined point of her nipple were to slip completely from my vision, I would know to stop drinking. It soon came round that it was my turn to deal the cards, ready for the next uninthralling set of games. As I shuffled the cards, I noticed that the aforementioned boy #1, poured a large amount of what seemed to be vodka, into my glass of beer. I was a tad worried at first but didn’t want to accuse him of anything, mainly because the slag that I had come with was living up to her reputation and was secretly, but not that secretly rubbing boy #1’s mate, boy #2’s cock under the table. She wasn’t likely to leave with me if I started pointing the finger... All in all, I decided what’s a bit of spiking between strangers these days anyway. It was free, although unwanted alcohol, and really, if anything, I should think myself lucky that he chose me, instead of giving booze away to some other unsuspecting victim.

 Later on in the evening, random-spiker/potential rapist guy, boy#1 stood up and announced that he was heading to the shop to buy more drink- all the better to spike me with I should imagine... As he turned and left the room I noticed that he had the world’s largest spot ever on the side of his face. It was almost certainly comparable to Mount Vesuvius, or something to its equivalent with the realm of diseased faces. No matter how much vodka he could have poured into my drink, there’s no way on God’s green earth that I could have shagged him with that shit on his face. I likened the spot to wall-girl’s nipple, both were fighting for my attention and I became torn between the two. I thought that at least if I did end up giving into his alcoholic seduction, at least I could use his spot, instead of her breast as a gauge for my inebriation. After grappling with the concept of the spot/nipple dynamic for quite some time, I decided against sleeping with him and thought that I’d show el pizza face-o that I’m not the kind of girl to take a spiking lying down (literally, on my back with my legs spread). Whilst everyone was busy picking their own arses, or fondling with genitals in slut-bag’s case, I swiftly grabbed boy # 1’s can, and went on a casual stroll with it in search of the bathroom. When I reached it, I shook off my bottoms and assumed the position over his drink. I paused my flow for a moment, which was particularly difficult due to the narrow nature of the can opening, and thought about a boy I went to school with. He had ended up in hospital on one occasion when he had inadvertently drank two litres of piss, after his friends told him it was cider. It turned out he had contracted a kidney infection from the contaminated urine. I hoped that my recent water infection had cleared up, I didn’t want to cause any medical repercussions- I carried on weeing, maybe I did want to. It was only a little top-up anyway. To be fair, if he did have to go to hospital, maybe they could treat his unfortunate facial affliction whilst he was there. I practically did him a favour.

The Tribulations of Money Spent on Lesbian Confusion Often Leads to Tears

Quite exhausted today. Last night took a bit of an unexpected turn, in the sense that my lasagne ready meal for one, still remains uneaten, and my day time TV catch-up, unwatched. I finished work, and closed up the bar around nine, jumped on the bus that would take me home. Unfortunately, this did not quite pan out as I'd hoped. I managed to fall asleep on the bus and ended up all the way on the other side of the city. I was only roused from my deep slumber when the bus driver poked me and was whispering in my ear: “Last stop love, wakey wakey”. Not cool you might think, and you would be right. “Never heard a lady snore that loud duck, you alright?”.

I replied that I was “Fine, thank you very much”, and asked him to tell me when the next bus home would be. He said that this was the last bus, there wasn't another bus going that way. I was confused and made him well aware that I had written to the council on several occasions notifying them that they are supposed to provide a late bus that departs at 11pm, prompt. I told him I was sick of this god-damned bus service with its shoddy drivers and expensive fares. I pay my bloody taxes! Well actually I don't, because I'm a student. I don't even pay national insurance, but he didn’t need to know that. Everyone tells porkies now and again, it's the only way to win a stand off, and you know it. My brother knows this well, I caught him drinking an alchopop, a blue one to be precise. I grassed him up, he told my mother I have a cocaine habit. This is a prime example of where lying is most definitely not ok (hence why now I'm living in the equivalent of a smack head's squat, but in my case, lying about taxes is fine. Even if it is a bit petty...the colouring on his tongue would have give him away anyway.

After my little moralising speech, the man informed me that the late night service certainly was in operation, but the current time was 11:30pm, meaning that I had been snoring like a warthog for two hours, also meaning I had unwittingly travelled the breadth of city twice, which the driver kindly added is “Approximately 33 miles”. I was feeling rather pissed off to say the least, I demanded to know why he had not thought to wake me up. “I thought about it, but then I guessed it might be your last chance for warmth and a roof over your head, you know?”. No I bloody well did not know, how dare he suggest that I am a fucking tramp. I may not have showered yet this week, and I must admit it has been two years since I cut my hair, but I am an upstanding citizen. I reinforced this point up by referring to the tax thing again.

I was at a bit of a loss as what to do; the taxi home would be pretty expensive. I thought I'd give my friend Lucy a call on the off-chance, to see if she wanted to go for something to eat, seeing as my poor ready meal would be sitting alone in the freezer. She answered and said something about me being a loser and she wasn't prepared to take me out for a romantic dinner for two. I personally was thinking more McDonald's, rather than a Lady and the actual Tramp type affair, but anyway she asked me to ditch plans for food and join her and some of her house mates, they were heading to some club in town. Being the outrageous, and spontaneous kind of person that I am, I agreed on the priviso that she took me for a chicken kebab and brought me a suitable change of clothing. I made it clear that I was only going to have one drink, then head back early because of work in the morning.

Lucy came and met me at the bus station . Her taxi pulled up to the kerb and I jumped into the back. I had to sit in the middle in between her two mates, Luke and Tom, apparently because even though I look fat, it's just the frumpy clothes I wear. Great. We did the usual bullshit “Hello, hellos”, the “Haven't seen you in ages'” . She passed me the carrier bag of clothes she had brought me and said “Go on, get changed in here. You won't mind will you mate?”, nodding towards the taxi driver. He grunted. So, sandwiched between two blokes and a pious Muslim taxi driver, I straddled my legs over the front seat and squirmed into the extremely tight, extremely short denim skirt that Lucy had provided. I was not impressed by her take on “suitable” clothing which also comprised of a boob tube and black leather boots, nicely accented by cheap diamanté detailing.

My sad looking stomach hung over the waistband as we got out of the taxi. Forget muffin top, this was more like a whole pie, like the horrible diseased ones in the tins that you really don’t want to eat. I asked where we were heading off to and they told me Diamonique's- the strip club. I'd never been to a lap dancing club before, I wasn't entirely sure what to expect or what might happen to me...

By 1am, I had obviously stayed for more than just the one or two drinks I had promised myself. After a whole bottle of wine, I was sitting by myself, well not entirely by myself- I'm not sure whether you can class 63 year old divorcee/ part time fridge engineer, Bill as company? More to the point, what the hell is a fridge engineer? Me and Bill chatted away for what seemed like an age, you know like when someone's got disgusting breath and you're trying to get away from them? Well it was like that. I later became quite disturbed when he suddenly, and rather bluntly asked me if I did the “Back room dancing”, or whether I was more of a “Front of house, pole kinda girl”. It must have been the boots that did it.... I took this as my opportunity to escape his old, fridge-fixing clutches.

I rejoined Lucy and the lads as they whooped at a young blonde girl and jeered at her to “Shake her little titties and ass”,the request went as I remember. I felt sorry for this pretty little thing, the object, I'm sure, of many a Bill-alikes' secret wank bank. I hoped that for the sake of common decency, that her jiggling little wobblers wouldn't creep into my mind the next time I should feel a bit of hand-under-the-duvet time coming on. The poor thing probably only worked here to feed her son, with baby daddy long gone, she has resigned herself to a life of sin. I worried that made me a sinner for watching her? I hope I won’t go to hell, I didn’t even enjoy it that much really. I think my vision of this stripper only happens to relate to women living in a trailer in Texas, going most commonly by the names of Destiny, Candy, or Crystal. Either way, I was overcome by the position of my moral dilemma, and so stuck a tenner into her knickers. About those knickers- She should really think about a different option of work uniform; it's common knowledge that knickers like that are a key contributor to fungal infections. A full fitting brief would be more sensible in my opinion. I don't know where the string that comprised of the garment lead to exactly, I think her arse must have eaten it. Hopefully that tenner should've paid my way in to heaven though, unless she used it to buy drugs, in that case it could lead to repercussions for me. I'm sure God isn't too nit-picky though. I mean, he let his son get nailed to a fucking cross , how fucked up is that?

At 3am the legs of the strippers closed, along with the doors and we were escorted onto the street where Lucy called herself a cab “You'll be ok getting back, won't you mate?”. I said I'd be fine and a couple of minutes later the Lucy's taxi drove away, she flashed her tits at me as it descended down the road. I had definitely seen enough tits for one night. I dug about in the bottom of my handbag to grab my phone, and I called myself a cab. I checked to see where I'd put my money, but when I got there the cupboard was bare. I just couldn't remember where I'd put my last note. I jogged my memory, and there it stood, my last tenner, my taxi money home- dangling from the skimpy crotch of the dancer. There was no way I could afford to dip any further into my overdraft, there was nothing for it. I had to get my money back.

Getting back into the club was a cinch, an excuse about leaving my purse in the toilet.

Finding that whore that had duped with her sexy dancing was quite another matter. I found my way into the 'staff room' where the said culprit was peeling sequinned tassels from her front, she didn't look as inviting as before when her nipple pinged away from it. “Please can I have my money back.” She looked confused, and then laughed. “So, you've decided you're not a lesbian now, and you want your cash back. Well sorry, I don't do refunds.” Refunds? You're not a corporate product, you're a corporate slut and I wanted my money. “Let's just pretend I never put it there and you can go back to doing whatever strippers do in their spare time, and I can get my taxi home.” I added a forceful “Now” and a complimentary give me the money hand gesture. This was returned with the equally unfriendly gesture of a bouncer on either arm, turfing me out as I added to the record, screaming that “I am NOT a lesbian either!”.

The change at the bottom of the bag , as I scraped around in the dark, reached the grand total of £4.23 exactly. Just enough for a kebab, and a long walk home.

The dynamics of the housewife and her electrical goods

Felt pretty glum and sorry for myself today. I had operation pre-work sexy time all planned out. I set my alarm for 8:45, this would allow foreplay to occur until 9am, the main feature until 9:15, and then the complimentary after party would occur until 9:30am. A well rounded and carefully constructed sexual agenda. I would then have an hour to consume a delicious breakfast and take a hot shower, then arrive at work on time.
It seems to be however, that this fate was not meant for moi. I tapped the male concerned on the shoulder and presented him with the proposition. What was the reply I got? "I'm too tired". Your'e too tired? What kind of fucking excuse is that? It sounds like a 1930s housewife being hounded by her oversexed husband. At least she'd drop her knickers like a good girl without her partner having to cause too much of a fuss. "Give it half an hour" he added with a mout)h full of duvet The wife wouldn't demand half an hour, you hadn't even spent all night basting turkeys with phallic objects all night, or what ever it is that those wifey type people do. Half an hour was reasonable; relatively feasible within the wider spectrum of my allotted time frames.  It would cause some difficulty in the breakfast and washing departments, but we could reach some agreement for that.
After waiting precisely thirty minutes, I reminded him of our plan. Yet, he declined once more, despite the definite deal we had previously struck. It's just not right. Men pester women for sex, primarily by humping the female's thigh until he relents. I would not be reduced to dry humping any of his body parts, not even his hands. It's practically an unwritten rule; long term relationships come with the premise of a readily available, easily acquired source of intercourse , of course this means that sometimes it must be no frills. Otherwise without this guarantee, what's the point?
So, I arrived at work, sexless and frustrated. As a result Imade myself a luxury chocca mocha, in order to cheer myself up. I am now however, writing this blog from my white porcelain throne. The milk it seems, as I later discovered was out of date, two months and four days out of date, inf act. Serves me right for not cleaning and clearing out the fridge since July.
To make matters a great deal worse, perhaps around eighty per cent worse, i have ran out of my personal supply of poo poo paper, and the arse who used the ast of the communal roll has failed to replace it. Any other time I would simply strip, enter the shower amd quickly hose any remaining substance from the areas. The issue is that I still have my laptop with me, water and electric articles are not keen friends... This presents me with the following dilemmas... a) either I toddle naked from the waist down to secure the laptop or b) I skulk with the company of undergarments,which would undoubtedly  collect any debris/excess that may be hanging around up there. My decision is that I will sit here for a little while longer and debate the matter some more. I;ve also just realised, from the toilet, my feet don't touch the floor.

Miscellaneous dog mess with a hint of misery

Someone vomited in a mug. Someone actually vomited in a mug, hid it under the table, and left it as a cute little surprise for when I opened up shop earlier today. This was not the only one of life's tribulations that stood in my path this morning. I must say, I did actually wake up in  a brilliant mood this morning. No, I didn't repeat my flamboyant faeces fiasco, I woke up at seven, not six... What was there not to be happy about this morning? My boyfriend hadn't stayed over for a few nights so I went to bed comfortably, without shaving my pits or crack, I farted all night to my heart's content. I even awoke to discover an absolutely clean' not altogether dingy  pair of knickers; not just one side either, both, in fact. Perfection.
As soon as I stepped outside however, out onto our fag-end bespeckled door step... what shoudlst thou findest there? I'll tell you what I fucking found! A huge choddy dog turd, all whipped up into some splendid mousse. Then what else would you expect to find within the perfectly positioned pooch poop? Yes, but of course. My boot, and yes indeed, one from the NEW pair I had had for Christmas, which i might add was only fourteen days ago. Exceptional performance.
At this point, there was only four minutes, exactly, until the bus to work would sail past my stop. This meant no time to wipe, or more suitably scrape up someone's car or even a discreet grass verge. So, I jogged, whilst doing some form of poo-befooted shuffle to the promise land (bus stop). Bad move. The jostling movement of my prance had flicked the said substance right up the back of my legs. Time HAD to be made for this occurrence. Fortunately, one of my nearby, but not too nearby neighbours has a low wall with a short, bushy hedge growing over it. The perfect place for me to take an innocent seat for a few minutes; and as quickly as I fucking could... rub as much shit on this hedge as fucking possible. Problem solved you might think? Life is not that kind.
A little not nosed girl on the bus constantly winged to her saggy mother that she could "smell poo poo" and she felt sick. Yes thankyou small child, thanyou for making it obvious that I have shit on my legs, we can all smell the shit, we are all dealing with the shit, everyone is very much aware that the shit holds presence within this vehicle. If the little kid hadn't of shut its face within five minutes of my disembarkation, I would have rubbed it in its sorry little eyes. I scowled at her as I got off the bus.
I then walked to the shop in the university complex that I work in, only ciggarettes could save me now:
"Ten malboro lights please"
"Sorry, it's students against smoking day",

Daytime TV feat. the landlord's disturbing sexual images.

Today has not been quite as productive as yesterday's mould defeating labours. I crawled out of bed at the appalling hour of 3pm, go to bed when it's dark, get up when it's dark- that's fine. I'm a student, it is definitely fine and acceptable. I might as well cram in as much sleep as possible before I have to get a real job and do stuff  like pay bills and wash my bed sheets and use soap after I've been for a wee, not just a poo. But by then I'll be earning more than 3 buttons an hour, so I'll have the luxury of affording both wee and poo-use soap products. We currently have a posh looking green, gel handwash that I am being particularly frugal with at the moment as it is my turn to buy the next bottle. Speaking of poo; I have now completed my revenge on the pube bearing seat pisser-on-er boy next door. This took the form of a sea-food bodily bi-product. We went out for a meal last night and I purposefully gorged myself on as much sea-food as possible, knowing full well the brown and runny consequence this would bear. I could barely contain myself, in both senses of the phrase. I had mussels, prawns and salmon. The perfect combination for an anal abomination. I set my alarm for 6am, the time at which next door boy would be heading towards the bathroom for his noisy, annoying daily shower. I sneaked in clutching my personal supply of toilet paper and unleashed a force that words cannot do justice. If you could see stench it would have looked green. You could TASTE it. To develop the situation I did leave a nice bit of artwork on the back of the toilet pan, nothing Monet but still quite impressive. I also did not politely spritz the room with some generic essence of rose, arse covering spray. No, no, that would never do. I did however, turn the shower on for a few minutes, in order to allow the vomit-inducing stench to breed in the steam , allowing it to develop to its full and proper potential. I casually strolled out after doing the deed, bade him good morning and jumped back into bed feeling both emptier and more complete as a person.

The landlord came round earlier too, I found his presence awkward since the time he unwittingly sent us an obscene picture of his girlfriend with his genitals stuffed into her mouth. To make matters worse his partner has some form of twat eyes, you know like eyes that point in opposite directions. I wonder if this gives her an extra special ability to cover a greater visual difference than normal folk? I found the combination of boogle eyes and general penis in mouth action all the more disturbing. More embarrassment for him, she managed to fit the entirety of it in her mouth without any (apparent) discomfort or difficulty. We replied to notify him that he had probably sent it to the wrong recipient and also that the bathroom ceiling was still leaking and would be so kind to come and fix it, preferably without him displaying any indecent images of either himself or his crazy-eyed lover. He returned a message stating that the picture ' was not what it looked like'. I think it is EXACTLY what it looks like... If a small child was to ask what it was, then I don't think they'd believe you if you told them it was how you play the new version of chess. If they did believe it, I hope you should ban them from chess, at least until a suitable age anyway. 

After he left I preceded to indulge in the brilliance of British day time TV. It is indeed true that the five episodes of Jeremy Kyle that I have watched today, have not resulted in any thing that vaguely resembles productivity, but it has made me feel around a hundred times better about myself, in the sense that I do not have children, and should I have, I would know who 'baby daddy' is. Also, that I still have all of my teeth in my head and my life is not quite as miserable as someone elses. I continued this power trip in the form of facebook. Facebook is a great tool to share memories, get in touch with old friends, stay on top of social events (if I had any of those) but its primary use for me is to stalk people that used to be thin people, who are now disgusting, horrible fat people. Just what any person needs for an instant ego boost. Behold my virtual scrutiny of your chubby little life. 

Mould and other happy prospects

Well, hasn't today been fun! I have spent a large majority of my time today picking green, scabby mould from my bedroom wall! Just how every young lady should spend their day off. I was particularly enthralled to pull back the wardrobe from the wall to find what can only be described as a thick scummy carpet of vomit-like MOULD. I was also thoroughly impressed to return to my student dwellings after a lovely christmas break spent at my parents' lovely suburban semi (how very middle-class!), to find none other than a set of newly-born twin pubic hairs on the toilet seat. Alas, these wiry lovelies we're not alone, not at all. In fact, they were accompanied by a lurid, yellow sea of  urine that had kindly congealed over the past two weeks, whilst I've been away. 

Today it seems, has been fraught with the general miseries of household maintenance. I spent a good two hours this morning sweeping my huge floor with a tiny dustpan and brush after the hoover backfired, spraying a joyous rain of my friend's hamsters' nuggety little shits about the vicinity. I collected the mini dungs and counted that there was exactly forty three poops to dispose of. I then proceeded to empty them into a small Topshop bag, this is my metaphorical way of shitting on capitalism. Fuck you Phillip Green! And ha! I have purposely spelt your name incorrectly you tax dodging, awkward name-spelled bastard. Although the clothes that your company makes are very very lovely, and I brought a pair of your jeans from the 'moto' range last week that I have found very satisfactory. My only gripe however, is that you could maybe make a size 10 just marginally bigger and it would a, Make me feel a whole lot better about my big fat jelly arse and b, It make loads of women with disgustingly low self esteem stop starving themselves or from sticking their colgate, extra strong bristled toothbrushes down their throats every time they eat a crumb of Ryvita, which I might add taste like complete arse and look like cat litter Ta.

Anyway, back to the small topshop carrier bag. As I attempted  to empty the craps into the bag, I missed. Completely. They are now housed inside my new leather boots that I had for Christmas. I refuse to remove them until the landlord delivers us with a new vacuum, they can stay there and make a new little home for themselves

First Blog/ New Year's Rant

I thought I would begin a blog for a new year in order to conceal the fact that I have absolutely no intention of making any new years resolutions, I had already decided that on January the 1st 2010. I have no plans to lose weight, even though my jeans squeeze my arse cheeks so tightly together you could slip a sausage between and you've got yourself a hot dog. I certainly am not thinking about giving up drinking either, that would be both dangerous and unwise to all parties involved; however I may reconsider my 'golden line', the limit, which is 1.5 bottles of wine (before going to the pub), I think this is ok. It is not.

I've never liked starting a new year, like I don't like starting anew page in a notepad, it seems like a waste. Is my life a waste of everyone's time? I probably shouldn't think like this yet, I've got to wait another year again before I can be miserable and flail about in my own self pity. The start of the new year means you have to do shit, this is why I find the whole affair particularly depressing. I have never understood why people get excited about have to actually do things, either for yourself or other people You have to be a better person; be nice to people when you don't really want to. When that clock hit 12 I felt a lead weight hit the bottom of my stomach, I really can't be arsed with it all- all the nice things, the work, the being a better lover, a better friend. Usually, I feel fine again by March, three months is plenty for any self-obsessed, over-weight, alcoholic cow to get settled back into her meaningless life.

Until last night I had refused to leave my house for a night out since new years eve. I thought I would break this seven day stint, rather unwisely, by going to see my friends' younger brother's band at our local working men's club. Thankfully the band was the saving grace of the evening, like the old saying the rose between two thorns. This musical rose however, was one that had been chewed, swallowed and shat out whole by a pitbull. The beautiful rose floating in a massive, steaming pile of fucking dog shit. It felt like an episode from Peter Kay's Phoenix Night's. It was in fact, such a terrible place, that my own mother knocked back her large glass of wine in the time that it had taken me to go for a wee, and left leaving me a text message "I am going. This is toss". It was hosted by the most annoying, slimy cretin of a bloke that I have ever witnessed in my life. His crotch grabbing and untoward sexual gyrating had the 12 year old girls (have you ever seen a 12yr old girl down a pint of Guiness?...I have). Apparently the host had been working of those red jacket/rent boy type people at Butlin's for the last three years, you'd never have guessed. Good lord.