Right so this weeks bumble comes courtesy of those beloved chuggers. Now don't get all antsy this isn't a post about how much I despise them always getting in my way, demanding my bloody money or God forbid not even caring about the charity their working for. No none of this is relevant. I myself use to be a chugger. I lasted all of two weeks. I personally found it soul wrenching and my poor ego just couldn't stand the day to day hit. I like myself too much and couldn't put myself out there in the way they wanted. I took every "no" personally.
However I digress. Me being a chugger or should I say an ex-chugger has nothing to do with what I want to talk about.
I was approached the other day by a very young, good looking chap who proceeded to tell me why he didn't want me to sign up for any monthly contract but he did want me to send a text to the company donating a small amount of money. So I did. Then they called and signed me up to a 3 quid a month package *sigh*. So why did I get sucked in? Mainly because he was an attractive young man and this got me thinking. (About chugging, not about how attractive he was. Come on now people he was like 19 that's pratically a baby.) The companies that employ these young people must only employ attractive young people. Makes sense doesn't it? No one wants to be approached and harassed by an unattractive person do they? If someone gravely disfigured and smelly came up to you asking for your money for their chosen charity would you give it to them? Probably not. But if their attractive it makes a hell of a lot of difference doesn't it? Sounds harsh but it's the truth. You wouldn't give you money to someone who you don't find attractive, even just a little bit? It does sound wrong but that's the world we live in. Think about it. I mean really, really think about. (It all comes back down to the real hair incident again really doesn't it).
Anyway I'm gonna pause my thought there before it goes too deep and I end up sounding like a crazy...
I will however be turning 25 next month and it is a slight cause for concern, mainly because the 5 year old me planned for so much more to have happened by now (I was meant to be working for the post office dammit. That however is another story!) So I'm throwing a party and trying to forget my life isn't quite where I would want it to be and I will drink my home spiced rum and have a good time. I'll appreciate the good friends I have around me and I'll savour the moments which make me smile. Something I find hard to do but something this new man friend of mine has been (unknowingly) teaching me. Who knows 25 may be a golden year.
Heres hoping.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
...Sentimental
Sentimental.
Breathe out.
Then next time I breathe in
You'll be gone.
Forever hopefully.
I'll stop checking your facebook
and your blogger
and you twitter
and I'll stop thinking about what went wrong.
What I did wrong.
I'm still holding my breathe
Hoping to prolong the moment
I let you go.
I don't want to let you go.
I'll forget the spark
The attraction
Instant.
And I'll remember the fact your an arse.
Breathe out.
Then next time I breathe in
You'll be gone.
Forever hopefully.
I'll stop checking your facebook
and your blogger
and you twitter
and I'll stop thinking about what went wrong.
What I did wrong.
I'm still holding my breathe
Hoping to prolong the moment
I let you go.
I don't want to let you go.
I'll forget the spark
The attraction
Instant.
And I'll remember the fact your an arse.
Friday, 6 April 2012
...Bumbling Bemusement
This weeks bumble comes courtesy of my old nemesis, cling film. I, like most people in London/United Kingdom/The World in general make sandwiches for lunch and like most people in London/United Kingdom/The World, my sandwiches are too full and lush to be contained by tupperware. That and I don't really have much tupperware. So the only solution is cling film and then it begins. I spend at least 5 minutes a day trying to find the beginning of said stupid role and then, RAAAAAA!!! The rage sets in and such thoughts like the ones to follow fly through my head and it takes everything inside me not to burn down the kitchen. Instead it leaves me weeping uncontrollably in a crumpled heap in the middle of the kitchen, desperately clutching said role muttering in between sobs "I can't even destroy you because I can't get you off the role! Why won't you come off the role?" It is a sad, sad sight to see.
Who invented such an evil device? Was it some twisted scientist who was mocked from a young age because he couldn't use the twisty tie thing so instead invented cling film?! Boo hiss. It is the one and only thing that can send me into a blind rage. That and constantly kicking/stubbing/general tripping over the baby gate. RAAAAA BABY GATE! But that is another subject matter altogether. It has however led me to investigate the evil genius behind cling film.
So like every computer literate university student desperately trying to pad out an essay, I hit Google and typed in "Who invented cling film?" I should, if this were an essay, receive full marks for being so damn clever. My favourite search result came up from Yahoo answers and some poor sod, like me, enraged by cling film, wants to know the evil genius behind it as well. This should be fun.
It wasn't fun. My brain aches and I've had to switch to the gentler side of The Black Keys album "Brothers" to rectify the problem. Now all of you out there who are so damn curious to know who it was are going to have to research it yourselves, muahahahaha! I can tell you it was made in the late 60's early 70's by some canadian dude who clearly had a lot of time on his hands. However my favourite answer from Yahoo answers was that the Klingons invented it. I much prefer this answer and it makes me chuckle to think of them bent over a table (not like that, sickos) thinking up ways to piss off the human race. Very well done sirs and err madams....?
However I have ranted for far too long over the absurd origins of said cling film. The battle however still rages on and up and down the country people, just like you and me are falling, demented and broken over the use of cling film. This needs to stop! There should be some sort of organisation set up to help people like this. I for one don't have the time or energy to do this so I am relying on you, the people, to do it for me. For now I will crawl back onto the battlefield and wage war once more. Fingers crossed I'll make it back alive or at least with my diginity intact.
Heres hoping.
Who invented such an evil device? Was it some twisted scientist who was mocked from a young age because he couldn't use the twisty tie thing so instead invented cling film?! Boo hiss. It is the one and only thing that can send me into a blind rage. That and constantly kicking/stubbing/general tripping over the baby gate. RAAAAA BABY GATE! But that is another subject matter altogether. It has however led me to investigate the evil genius behind cling film.
So like every computer literate university student desperately trying to pad out an essay, I hit Google and typed in "Who invented cling film?" I should, if this were an essay, receive full marks for being so damn clever. My favourite search result came up from Yahoo answers and some poor sod, like me, enraged by cling film, wants to know the evil genius behind it as well. This should be fun.
It wasn't fun. My brain aches and I've had to switch to the gentler side of The Black Keys album "Brothers" to rectify the problem. Now all of you out there who are so damn curious to know who it was are going to have to research it yourselves, muahahahaha! I can tell you it was made in the late 60's early 70's by some canadian dude who clearly had a lot of time on his hands. However my favourite answer from Yahoo answers was that the Klingons invented it. I much prefer this answer and it makes me chuckle to think of them bent over a table (not like that, sickos) thinking up ways to piss off the human race. Very well done sirs and err madams....?
However I have ranted for far too long over the absurd origins of said cling film. The battle however still rages on and up and down the country people, just like you and me are falling, demented and broken over the use of cling film. This needs to stop! There should be some sort of organisation set up to help people like this. I for one don't have the time or energy to do this so I am relying on you, the people, to do it for me. For now I will crawl back onto the battlefield and wage war once more. Fingers crossed I'll make it back alive or at least with my diginity intact.
Heres hoping.
Thursday, 29 March 2012
...Rambles Random
So this weeks ramble has been inspired by my trip to the black hair shop in Thornton Heath. I haven't been in one for years but the giant tub of coconut oil I had been using had whittled itself down to the dredgs that no one wants to use. You know the dirty end bits that have somehow contracted an unholy amount of hair and dust and you have to run you finger around the rim to scrape out the last few hairy morsels. However I digress.
What shocked me about this shop wasn't how spankingly clean it was (there was a man with a feather duster ala Kim and Aggie, making sure all the tubs/bottles/jars were as clean and shiny as they can be) - clearly I have been visting the wrong type of hair shops... No what shocked me was the amount of fake hair they had. Everywhere. Obviously in it's packets, not lounging around the shop, turning itself into strange tumbleweeds and roaming the streets of South London.
Now I don't use fake hair. I'm lucky enough to have hair that grows ridiculously fast, thanks to my Indian mother but it doesn't stop me from wondering where they hell they get all that hair from? Is it necessary? It wasn't your bog standard fake hair that my older sisters used to use. You know the synthetic hair, the one you had to burn the ends of and it somehow glued itself together. The new generation of hair is human hair. Not 10%, not 50% but 100% human hair.
From what I remember of my big sis doing her hair it took at least 2 and a half packets of hair to complete her whole hair do. So if 60 women came into the shop buying 3 packets of real human hair each thats what, 180 packets of human hair every day being sold. (I'm not that great at maths don't worry, this here laptop has a calculator). I'm not judging people that use fake hair, it's their prerogative. What I don't understand is where it all comes from! And this my friends is a dangerous topic for my already overactive imagination.
As soon as I saw all the hair all I could think of was hundreds of "real hair farms". Where thousands of people are hooked up to machines pumping chemicals into their bodies to make their hair grow super fast, super glossy and most of all tangle free. Creepy...
I know it's not true and it is my over active imagination and as the teacher I work with informed me, it's all probably Eastern European or Indian hair anyway so not to worry. But that in itself is a bleak, bleak concept.
Anyway, I feel like I have rambled (get it, rambled?) on about my obsession with real human hair for far too long and may have made a few of you tune out and wonder why you're reading about one girls obsession with "real hair farms" (the longer you think about it the more real and dystopian it gets by the minute). So I'll leave you with my final point and no it's not about hair (enough already!)
My social experiment has ended. I hear a collective sigh and no it is all that bad and yes most of the men on these websites are fucking creepy and no the 2nd date didn't end well. Sods law really. However I have met someone the "natural" way. You know the way mother nature intended. If you can call it that and so far things are looking good. Ironically he has taught me to like myself again and this my friends is a hard thing to do, especially as the mean reds (no I'm not talking periods, I'm talking "Breakfast at Tiffanys" and if you've seen it you'll know what I mean and if you haven't then bloody well watch it) keep popping their heads around my metaphorical living room door every 2 hours to question me on what I think is happening is actually really happening or if it's a made up image of an already twisted mind. Thankfully he hasn't sussed out how crazy I am. I may leak it within a couple of weeks and see the reaction. Hopefully he won't run.
Heres hoping.
What shocked me about this shop wasn't how spankingly clean it was (there was a man with a feather duster ala Kim and Aggie, making sure all the tubs/bottles/jars were as clean and shiny as they can be) - clearly I have been visting the wrong type of hair shops... No what shocked me was the amount of fake hair they had. Everywhere. Obviously in it's packets, not lounging around the shop, turning itself into strange tumbleweeds and roaming the streets of South London.
Now I don't use fake hair. I'm lucky enough to have hair that grows ridiculously fast, thanks to my Indian mother but it doesn't stop me from wondering where they hell they get all that hair from? Is it necessary? It wasn't your bog standard fake hair that my older sisters used to use. You know the synthetic hair, the one you had to burn the ends of and it somehow glued itself together. The new generation of hair is human hair. Not 10%, not 50% but 100% human hair.
From what I remember of my big sis doing her hair it took at least 2 and a half packets of hair to complete her whole hair do. So if 60 women came into the shop buying 3 packets of real human hair each thats what, 180 packets of human hair every day being sold. (I'm not that great at maths don't worry, this here laptop has a calculator). I'm not judging people that use fake hair, it's their prerogative. What I don't understand is where it all comes from! And this my friends is a dangerous topic for my already overactive imagination.
As soon as I saw all the hair all I could think of was hundreds of "real hair farms". Where thousands of people are hooked up to machines pumping chemicals into their bodies to make their hair grow super fast, super glossy and most of all tangle free. Creepy...
I know it's not true and it is my over active imagination and as the teacher I work with informed me, it's all probably Eastern European or Indian hair anyway so not to worry. But that in itself is a bleak, bleak concept.
Anyway, I feel like I have rambled (get it, rambled?) on about my obsession with real human hair for far too long and may have made a few of you tune out and wonder why you're reading about one girls obsession with "real hair farms" (the longer you think about it the more real and dystopian it gets by the minute). So I'll leave you with my final point and no it's not about hair (enough already!)
My social experiment has ended. I hear a collective sigh and no it is all that bad and yes most of the men on these websites are fucking creepy and no the 2nd date didn't end well. Sods law really. However I have met someone the "natural" way. You know the way mother nature intended. If you can call it that and so far things are looking good. Ironically he has taught me to like myself again and this my friends is a hard thing to do, especially as the mean reds (no I'm not talking periods, I'm talking "Breakfast at Tiffanys" and if you've seen it you'll know what I mean and if you haven't then bloody well watch it) keep popping their heads around my metaphorical living room door every 2 hours to question me on what I think is happening is actually really happening or if it's a made up image of an already twisted mind. Thankfully he hasn't sussed out how crazy I am. I may leak it within a couple of weeks and see the reaction. Hopefully he won't run.
Heres hoping.
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
...Nameless a Lipogram.
Nameless
Come softly,
Treading in my sleep.
Looking into the window,
Follow me.
Nights like this one are grand,
Revel in it.
See the wonder of it.
Enjoy the moments we steal together,
Breathe me in.
Charge the air with the feel of it,
Taste it,
Let it linger awhile.
Come softly,
Treading in my sleep.
Looking into the window,
Follow me.
Nights like this one are grand,
Revel in it.
See the wonder of it.
Enjoy the moments we steal together,
Breathe me in.
Charge the air with the feel of it,
Taste it,
Let it linger awhile.
Saturday, 17 March 2012
...Random Ramblings
This weeks ramblings are prompted by my walk to work. Yes I am lucky enough to walk to work. It takes 20 mins there and 20 mins back. The walk down is a lot easier then the walk back. Why? I hear you cry, because it's all up hill on the way back. Bloody sucks. At least my thighs are getting a jolly good work out.
Anyway, on my way to work I see the general commers and goers, the school kids, the office workers and the ones who are coming back from the night before (how I miss those days!). What gives me endless entertainment are the ones who are running late and are "running". I call it "running" because it is hilarious. They are blatantly late and obviously panicking but yet they decide to do some sort of strange half run half slide along the pavement at an attractive yet completely pointless pace and then, dear friends, after a few yards of this, I don't know shall we call it a "slun" (better amalgamations of the word are welcome) they stop!! As if that little slun got them any closer to catching the train! It's beautifully pointless and it makes my morning. I don't know about you but if I'm running late I bloody well run! Fuck looking attractive I need to catch my train! Right well enough of the apostrophes, I'll go back to my usual mellow state in a minute.
So back to my walk to work. Once I reach the station and pass all the non slunners. I have to enter the underpass. Yes it is as sinister and as deadly as every other underpass in London, nay Britain. Especially Bristol. Or so I've heard. Ok it's not that sinister, but it does have a pretty sinister smell to it everyday and everyday it smells different. Now I have quite a keen sense of smell and my poor little nostrils cannot take this violation everyday. I could walk round but then that adds on another 10 mins to my lovely 20 minute jaunt. Where am I going with this? I don't know, but you started reading this and I know your hoping for an end point or at least an exit cluase coming up soon. Alas you're not in luck, I will just keep going and like the title suggests this is a ramble and unlike the musings there probably won't be much deep thought involved. Or willl there? (Pause for dramatic effect, think 80's drama.)
What I don't like about my walk to work are the mothers. Not all the mothers. Some are quite attractive and friendly and want to be around there kids. But then there are the others, the ones who make my skin prickle, the ones I want to hit with a bat and tell them to LISTEN! Your children are trying to communicate with you, open up to them, embraced their random conversation, enjoy it now while it lasts. One mother I passed yesterday was unfortunately part of the latter. Her young boy was trying to explain something he obviously found fascinating and she turned round to him and told him to shut up. To be quiet. She didn't want to hear what he had to say. So he stopped talking and my heart broke. That poor child. Yeah ok she may be at her wits end and the little blighter may not stop talking. But he's YOUR child, you CHOSE to have him so bloody well listen to him. There will come a time where he won't want to talk to you because of incidents like this and God forbid he's in actually trouble and needs someone to turn to coz mate it won't be you! And people wonder why there are hoardes of unruly children roaming the streets, screaming out for someone to listen to them. Unable to express themselves vocally they instead turn to destruction. I'm hoping that the future holds a lot more for the younger ones coming up behind us. Lets make it a little brighter for them.
For now I will retreat into the shell that is my room and continue to write about the underpass and try to forget the troubled little souls of today. Well at least for a couple of hours.
Heres hoping.
Anyway, on my way to work I see the general commers and goers, the school kids, the office workers and the ones who are coming back from the night before (how I miss those days!). What gives me endless entertainment are the ones who are running late and are "running". I call it "running" because it is hilarious. They are blatantly late and obviously panicking but yet they decide to do some sort of strange half run half slide along the pavement at an attractive yet completely pointless pace and then, dear friends, after a few yards of this, I don't know shall we call it a "slun" (better amalgamations of the word are welcome) they stop!! As if that little slun got them any closer to catching the train! It's beautifully pointless and it makes my morning. I don't know about you but if I'm running late I bloody well run! Fuck looking attractive I need to catch my train! Right well enough of the apostrophes, I'll go back to my usual mellow state in a minute.
So back to my walk to work. Once I reach the station and pass all the non slunners. I have to enter the underpass. Yes it is as sinister and as deadly as every other underpass in London, nay Britain. Especially Bristol. Or so I've heard. Ok it's not that sinister, but it does have a pretty sinister smell to it everyday and everyday it smells different. Now I have quite a keen sense of smell and my poor little nostrils cannot take this violation everyday. I could walk round but then that adds on another 10 mins to my lovely 20 minute jaunt. Where am I going with this? I don't know, but you started reading this and I know your hoping for an end point or at least an exit cluase coming up soon. Alas you're not in luck, I will just keep going and like the title suggests this is a ramble and unlike the musings there probably won't be much deep thought involved. Or willl there? (Pause for dramatic effect, think 80's drama.)
What I don't like about my walk to work are the mothers. Not all the mothers. Some are quite attractive and friendly and want to be around there kids. But then there are the others, the ones who make my skin prickle, the ones I want to hit with a bat and tell them to LISTEN! Your children are trying to communicate with you, open up to them, embraced their random conversation, enjoy it now while it lasts. One mother I passed yesterday was unfortunately part of the latter. Her young boy was trying to explain something he obviously found fascinating and she turned round to him and told him to shut up. To be quiet. She didn't want to hear what he had to say. So he stopped talking and my heart broke. That poor child. Yeah ok she may be at her wits end and the little blighter may not stop talking. But he's YOUR child, you CHOSE to have him so bloody well listen to him. There will come a time where he won't want to talk to you because of incidents like this and God forbid he's in actually trouble and needs someone to turn to coz mate it won't be you! And people wonder why there are hoardes of unruly children roaming the streets, screaming out for someone to listen to them. Unable to express themselves vocally they instead turn to destruction. I'm hoping that the future holds a lot more for the younger ones coming up behind us. Lets make it a little brighter for them.
For now I will retreat into the shell that is my room and continue to write about the underpass and try to forget the troubled little souls of today. Well at least for a couple of hours.
Heres hoping.
Friday, 9 March 2012
...Museful Mindings
So chaps sometime has past since I last spouted my mind splurges all over this here blog and I think it's safe to say not much more development has happened. Or has it? (This is where I pause for dramatic effect.)
This time my musings have been prompted by a song. A very good song by a very good artist. Emeli Sande. (Sorry Ems haven't got one of those accent things on my laptop so the normal "e" will just have to suffice.) Her song "Daddy" reminds me of all the shitty men I've had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing. Made me think about love all over again. But I won't start, otherwise we'd be here for years.
On a happier note my social exprementation is going well. Apart from the fact I seem to attract the strange older man, who is in fact old enough to be my dad, winking at me. Yes thats right, winking. It's an absurd idea that said dating site feels is exactly the right way to go about "breaking the ice". It doesn't break the ice and in fact is rather creepy, especially if they "wink" at you everyday. I do feel like I've got enough "material" to write a whole series of books - but that was the point wasn't it? I may add a few characters into the new story I'm writing. Well I say writing, it's knocking around up here somewhere, it just won't let me write it down - yet.
I am getting itchy feet though. Not from my social experimentation, that would be a weird side effect wouldn't it? Doubt it would deter the weirdos though... No I think it's the change of season. I need a little bit of excitement, need to get the cobwebs out and start the old engine again. Go on holiday, in fact just go away, somewhere - anywhere!! My trip to Cambodia is on the horizon, so for now the thought of that will keep me going. In the meantime I may just go get another tattoo.
Oh and the date went very well.
For now chaps adios, hopefully the sun will come out and my mood will perk up.
Heres hoping.
This time my musings have been prompted by a song. A very good song by a very good artist. Emeli Sande. (Sorry Ems haven't got one of those accent things on my laptop so the normal "e" will just have to suffice.) Her song "Daddy" reminds me of all the shitty men I've had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing. Made me think about love all over again. But I won't start, otherwise we'd be here for years.
On a happier note my social exprementation is going well. Apart from the fact I seem to attract the strange older man, who is in fact old enough to be my dad, winking at me. Yes thats right, winking. It's an absurd idea that said dating site feels is exactly the right way to go about "breaking the ice". It doesn't break the ice and in fact is rather creepy, especially if they "wink" at you everyday. I do feel like I've got enough "material" to write a whole series of books - but that was the point wasn't it? I may add a few characters into the new story I'm writing. Well I say writing, it's knocking around up here somewhere, it just won't let me write it down - yet.
I am getting itchy feet though. Not from my social experimentation, that would be a weird side effect wouldn't it? Doubt it would deter the weirdos though... No I think it's the change of season. I need a little bit of excitement, need to get the cobwebs out and start the old engine again. Go on holiday, in fact just go away, somewhere - anywhere!! My trip to Cambodia is on the horizon, so for now the thought of that will keep me going. In the meantime I may just go get another tattoo.
Oh and the date went very well.
For now chaps adios, hopefully the sun will come out and my mood will perk up.
Heres hoping.
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