It’s been over two months since I’ve written anything of substance. The only form of writing I’ve done as of late is texting my best friend to ask her when she would be returning home to give me attention. Just like Justin Bieber, I’m a shell of my former self. I even had to google the word ‘Bieber’ to check I’d spelt it correctly, which might actually be an indication that I’ve not lost the plot quite yet. Like bingo calling or riding a bike, it’s been so long since I’ve done it, I can barely remember how.
On multiple occasions I’ve torn myself away from my beloved Gilmore Girls boxset and bag of doritos to try and document my thought processes and interesting events that have happened to me in recent weeks. I sit at my laptop, fingers poised to write something quirky and relatable with just the faintest hint of indignation when I have the terrible realisation that I have nothing interesting to write about: fascinating tales about spending a Saturday morning with toothpaste in my eye isn’t going to make J.K Rowling start quaking in her boots.
As the self-indulgent fear of leading a mundane life, which can’t be documented in a humorous tone over the internet clouds any desire to blog, I’ve decided to make a change in my life. I’m going to become a better person so that karma helps me win the lottery and attend yacht parties with Taylor Swift. Also, doing good deeds is rewarding, as there’s no greater pleasure in life than being able to help other people, obviously.
First port of call: giving up my seat on public transport. Not to worry, I’m not a complete monster, I already make sure that no elderly people are left clutching their walking stick whilst I stare at the floor and ignore any pangs of guilt. Rather, I plan to broaden my horizons and become the Florence Nightingale of public transport, ready to give up my seat at a moments notice to anyone in need! Not only do I burn extra calories per minute but I also gain a full view of any attractive men on the train that I might accidentally bump into whilst struggling with my tights and cape. Everyone’s a winner!
For now though, I’m so exhausted from all of the thinking about becoming a more fully-functioning human I’ve been doing, that I simply must put myself to bed with a cup of tea and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It’s good to be back!
As it’s almost the middle of July, and my desire to cry and drink Pimm’s is at an all-time high, I’ve finally decided to admit defeat and join the rest of the world in celebrating summer. Unfortunately, my wardrobe doesn’t quite match my mind set; I’d love to spend the next few months wearing woollen tights and oversized cat t-shirts but both society and the weather seem to frown upon that.
In search of a solution to my clothing issues, I spent the afternoon shopping for pieces that would further my plans to emulate the current queen of boho, Vanessa Hudgens. However, whilst trying on a multitude of patterned dresses and kimonos, I spotted something that changed any plans I had to look summer chic: Harry Potter t-shirts.
After 15 minutes of sitting on the changing room floor, torn between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin shirts, both two sizes too small for me, I realised: selecting my summer wardrobe is the least of my problems.
Accepting compliments isn’t my strong suit. In my head, I flutter my eyelashes and flick my hair with a confident-sounding “thank you for the kind words” but the reality is rather different.
Quite often, I find myself attempting to justify the way I look to the person flattering me in a bizarre tirade, filled with insecurity and self-doubt.
“Oh, I only put a dress on because I’m out to dinner later! I’m going straight after work and the restaurant is rather fancy so I don’t want to look out of place. It’s silly, I know; I hope I don’t look too ridiculous! I’ll be back to resembling a garden gnome tomorrow, don’t you worry!”
This makes it clear to the individual trying to compliment me that I feel uncomfortable with this particular conversation and would prefer to discuss the weather. They usually leave the room afterwards, so it works like a charm.
Unfortunately, I still haven’t mastered the skill of responding to the backhanded compliment. A pre-coffee conversation with a work-colleague this morning is a classic example.
“You look nice today Helen, I see you put some make-up on!”
“Yeah, I had some extra time this morning so I thought I’d get my spade out and go to town.”
“It looks good, you don’t usually make an effort.”
I wish I’d replied with wit and sass, but in reality I mumbled a quick “thanks” and told her what a lovely top she was wearing. Next time, I’ll ask whether she borrowed it from her mother.
As I’m still wildly unsure of what I plan to do with my career, and want nothing more than to spend every day enjoying champagne for breakfast, I’m partial to purchasing a lottery ticket every now and again. In fact, what started as a silly way to spend £2 whilst I’m buying groceries has evolved into the weekly panic attack of a desperate woman.
Whilst the only time I’ve been to a casino is at 5am to ply myself with more alcohol after all of the local bars close, it is worrying that I continue to pin my hopes and dreams on winning the jackpot. What’s even worse is that every time I wait for the numbers to be revealed, I’m convinced that this is the week my life makes a sudden turn for the better and I finally get to live the life I deserve. No more inner-debates over whether I should buy the £3.99 wine or splash out and treat myself to the £5 bottle: I’ll get myself a damn vineyard.
Unfortunately, once again my evening spent refreshing the ‘euromillions’ tag on my twitter timeline has been a fruitless endeavour, and plans to quit my day job in favour of becoming a lady of leisure have come to a grinding halt as someone else walks away with my prize.
At least I’m safe in the knowledge that none of my friends that claim the first thing they’d do with the money is give half to charity have won: the vineyard will just have to wait until next week.
I love to rant, it’s one of my favourite activities along with waking up before my alarm and drinking coffee in the bath. I don’t expect a resolution to my problem and I don’t need pity or advice, the only thing I need to get my kicks is five minutes of unadulterated, ranting pleasure. Just five minutes to verbally spout everything that’s on my mind to the poor, unsuspecting person in front of me.
Unfortunately, there are some people that don’t seem to understand the positive power of a good rant and seem determined to ruin my fun: the guilt trippers. There’s nothing I find more frustrating than being mid-rant about work or money problems, when someone tries to tell me “I’d rather have your problems than mine” or “I’ll swap with you anytime.”
I’m aware that most of my problems are minute in the grand scheme of things, but I still reserve the right to complain about life every now and again when things aren’t going my way and I don’t believe I should be made to feel guilty about that. There are people in the world with issues far greater than mine, but pointing that out to me won’t make my problems disappear, so how about letting me complain for five minutes whilst you think about the sandwich you’re going to get for lunch?
Rant over. Now I know how Taylor Swift must have been feeling when Kanye cut her off mid-speech to tell the world that Beyonce deserved the VMA more: pissed off.
If the dictionary contained pictures, directly underneath the word ‘pussy’ would be images of a vagina, a cat and yours truly. This past week I’ve missed dinner, locked myself in my bedroom and actively avoided showering until absolutely necessary, all because of a house spider.
Here’s a run-down of the terrifying evening I finally met my match:-
Step 1: Spot spider. Run out of the room screaming, hyperventilating and in floods of tears.
Step 2: Consider my options. As I can’t force my father to make the 50 mile drive to kill the spider, the most obvious plan of action is to text my best friend to find out when she’s home to dispose of it herself: I’m the brains behind the operation, not the brawn.
Step 3: Realisation: she’s not coming home tonight. At this point I cry again, fully aware that I’m still ten years old and am being held hostage by a bug the size of a kiwi fruit.
Step 4: Try to make a move. This has the same success rate as when I try to make a move on a guy at a bar: very low. I slowly walk to the spider-infested room with intent to throw a thesaurus in its direction but instead decide to cry into the tub of ice-cream that I’ve pulled out of the freezer.
Step 5: Move house.
Posted in humour
Tagged funny, humor, humour
It’s that time of year again, temperatures rise a couple of degrees for just a weekend and all of a sudden we’re in the bloody Bahamas. Every time Spring rolls around I tell myself that I’ll try not to behave like Wednesday Addams on crack but unfortunately the sudden spike in sunny weather has once again left me feeling like an anxiety-ridden, social pariah.
It all began with the wasp stinging incident of 1995, the day I lost my dignity and ability to act normally in social situations involving beer gardens, barbecues or ice-cream: the day Pollyanna replaced herself with Blair Waldorf’s less-nice sister. I can be sat having lunch, enjoying a large G&T with my friends until a wasp lands on my large order of fries and my palms start to sweat, my entire body is ridden with fear and I’m out of the door faster than Usain Bolt.
It’s probably for the best anyway: why would I want to be sat at the local park, surrounded by screaming children and half-price sausage rolls when I can be at home alone complaining? I miss Christmas, bobble hats, mulled wine and the sheer misery of everyone else in the UK.