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.