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 The milk it seems, as I later discovered was out of date, two months and four days out of date, inf act.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.