I burn, I pine, I perish

Spending one hundred new English pounds on a coat, in summer, just before I move and go see Prince at a festival and go on holiday is a really bad idea right? RIGHT?



"Oh baby, you know I want you too. I can't stop thinking about you and how good you'd feel inside of me."

SHUT UP COAT.

"Baby, don't be like that. Look at my deep-front pockets. You like that huh? Yeah? That turns you on right?"

Well, I guess... I mean... It's been so long since I looked at a coat the way I've looked at you.

"You know you and me are meant to be together. It's fate. Check out my bracelet-length sleeves. You know you love a bracelet length sleeve. We belong to each other. You think this is something that just happens every day?"

But what if my mum found out? She'd kill me.

"This is about you and me sugar. I got a shawl collar and I'm not afraid to use it"

*swoons*

Indie Sindy

I am seriously in love HARRRRRDDD with Emma Stone (don't worry Bill Murray agrees with me).


Sample quote on her obsession with Farmville: “I got to level 42, and I wasn’t doing anything else anymore, so I had to stop.”

I've seen all her movies and LOVE EVERY SINGLE ONE (yes! Even The House Bunny! That's actually very good! It's got women working together rather than against each other! Until they start turning against each other! But then they learn that working together is better and we should accept people as they are! And stuff!). I love that she sounds like she's a 40 year old woman that's been smoking 3 packs of Lucky Strikes a day for the last 20 years. I love that she's sarcastic and funny and pretty. I love that scene of her slowly growing to love the 'Pocket Full of Sunshine' song in Easy A ('I got a... I got a... I got a...') (we have all been there right? I have never related so much to any scene in any movie ever).

But MAN, if I can't stop thinking about that shoes and tights combo in her Elle picture.



That's literally all I'll be able to think about for dayssss (since you ask, I would team that with a short bright pink cocktail dress. Um, a bit like this one in fact). Polka dots on polka dots? SWOON.

I choo choo choose you

I know a gay man (not telling you who!) that spent £12.10 on the Valentine's Card he made (MADE! Like, by himself!) for his beau. Apparently the materials were pretty expensive but were bought in bulk so we can all expect button related cards for the next two or three years (which is the amount of time it'll take for us all to grow tired of these stupid button related cards he keeps making for us and cease our friendship with him. The materials will last a lifetime one expects).



It's nice right? Yeah. Ok. Quite sweet I guess but why bother? Why bother when you have this option:


Now THAT's what I'm talking about.

[Via]

Dream Weavers

It's not very often I get really excited about people finding love (normally it makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little). Not that I'm bitter you understand, just cynical after YEARS and YEARS of disappointments (I may also be a little bitter) but Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer getting engaged really warms my cockles.

In many ways I truly believe that I'm just that little bit *too* weird to find someone who would put up with me but also, I like that weirdness and would kind of like to find someone who not only understands why my lunacy is awesome, but also has their own unique brand of bizarre for me to kick back and appreciate on my days off from working the crazy train you know? I'm not talking about the type of guy who is exactly like me but with man parts instead of the womb and vagina that I was blessed with, I mean someone who can bring their own awesome to the table and it meshes well with my awesome. Like, I'm humous and they're pitta bread. I mean, they're different, but MAAAAAN are they good together you know? Sometimes that seems like a dream too far (apart from the times when I am eating humous with warm pitta bread and I don't care about anything in the world except for how awesome it is inside my mouth at that moment in time) but VERY occassionally along comes a couple who epitomises this dream in every way and just happens to be real. Neil and Amanda got their own thang workin' for them but put it together and it becomes even bigger and more beuatiful than the sum of it's parts... which allows me to feel hopeful that maybe one day I could find that too.

I mean, if I don't, then no biggie but it'd be cool if I did ya know? You know.

A comfortable silence

Endless Love

Black dog and I have a complicated relationship. Throughout the years she has gone through stages where I feel she barely tolerates me (I'm just the person that sits in her chair and she'd rather I didn't), or outright despised me (would run away and hide behind a chair or person until I left her alone). Recently though our love (or, her love for me) has blossomed quite suddenly and deeply. She'll sit on my lap and give me kisses and sleep on my bed and follow me around - all the things dogs are supposed to do - but a couple weeks ago she proved her devotion excels the norm. I was lying on the sofa with Black Dog and I were snugling as I waited for a gay to finish his conversation with my housemate. My stepdad was in the room and came over and attempted to tickle my belly (yeah, this sounds dodge I know but it's just ma famille okay?) at which I politely I geared up to politely request he 'eff off and leave me alone'. Except I needn't have as Black Dog started growling and snarling and making it clear, in no uncertain terms, that bitch needed to BACK OFF ELSE HE WAS GOING DOWN (it was all scary and in caps like that). Which he did.

It is the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me. Defending my honour like that. That's true love that is.

She does, however, remain unphotographable. I think that means she's a demon or on the run from the FBI or something.



Jeez, I got a lot of shit on my windowsills innit.

In case you were wondering

I have a friend staying with me who is having problems at home.

Last time this happened I ended up in a relationship with a (still technically) married suicidal alcoholic.

This time I've been playing a lot of Buzz and watching Snog Marry Avoid marathons on BBC3.

Times change I guess.

Anyway, sorry, what was the question?



Unless your husband happens to be gay of course.



[Despite the face he is not the one who is having problems. Apart from the problems he has with his face*]

*This picture posting is what we call in the biz 'revenge for being a bitch to me this evening'. You have been warned.

Boom goes the dynamite

My search for love is over. Finally.



That's so weird because I love going out with friends playing with kids going to church too! Assuming he means that he loves playing with kids who are on their way to church when he goes out with his friends. I don't do any of those things separately. That would be weird.

It's also nice to know that he am a simple person don't have a problem. Because that's basically how I would describe myself (were I to take away the guff about snowglobes, Simpsons quotes, and dogs in hats as you can view now to your left). He does not need to know me 'more well' as we are obviously soul mates.

I also feel I should point out that I don't know what profile he's talking about. (Unless it's the one on here? I hid my match.com profile so it must be). And although he says he needs a woman for a long relationship, he doesn't make it clear if it's actually me . Chris, if you're reading this, I'm not involved in the human trafficking business. Please amend your records on this point.

The best thing is that this isn't the first time this has happened.

I guess some of us are just more lucky in love than others.

Love is in the Air

This day, this sunny-no-wait-rainy-no-wait-blowin'-a-gale-all-up-in-here day of a Moontag I am mostly in love with...

VV Brown. Who I went to see last night and I just... I mean, Christ. She's soooo pretty. There's pretty and there's pretty and she. Is. Pretty. I always love slightly nutso girls who wear daft outfits and manage to make them look amazing. Particularly ones who sing catchy pop songs with hand claps. Especially ones who understand the inherent ridiculousness of pop music and how vitally important that silliness is to our fundamental well-being as humans (I am being completely serious on this point. If there's one thing guaranteed to make me passionate it's the topic; 'The Importance of Being Silly')

VV gets it. And has it. And works it like she's broke and the rent is due tomorrow (I don't know what that means).

AND she walked past me (!) (Me and her! Breathing the same air!). AND she was wearing a hat that looked like a giant marshmallow*. Imagine the size of marshmallow that the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man at the end of Ghostbusters would eat. That's how big her hat was. Except, if the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man eats marshmallows isn't that cannibilism? I haven't got time to think about that now (but really, is it? I think it is. But then if he's made entirely of marshmallow wouldn't that just be like re-absorbing himself into himself? Like, if he just pushed it into his skin then it would be a part of him and therefore ok but if he put it in his marshmellow mouth and swallowed marshmallow down his marshmallow gullet that'd be gross right? Would it? I JUST DON'T KNOW ANYMORE).

Anyways I love her. Until she gets too popular and I decide I don't want to be associated with her fan base and then you and I will forget this little conversation ever existed.

Glad that's clear.

I also love Irish cardigan man. Oh my GOD how I love Irish cardigan man.

I've loved him long time but then he has a moustache in the latest advert for FM and my how I swoon:
(side note: FM, as a sitcom, I quite like [disclaimer: I like all sitcoms] except for the band cameos as there is a reason these people are generally musicians and not actors) but then, but THEN he was on Something for the Weekend and I was falling deeper and deeper for his tall, Irish, cardigan wearing charm. Particularly as he seems to have the sarcastic/silly humour balance spot on AND THEN he said this (fast forward to 5.26):



and I'm like, oh my GOD I love Irish cardigan man.
(for those that can't be faffed to load that up he literally just says 'roly poly patty patty'. I can't tell you why I find this quite so endearing but I do and it would appear that phrase is enough to push a crush from lust to love with me).

I also discovered this today. Still love him.

* I literally just learned it's spelled marshmallow, not marshmellow. Ladies and gentlemen, I am 26 years old.

Internet thing

I've been on match.com for like, EVER now (one month) and my initial enthusiasm (not enthusiasm) has dwindled to the point of disgust (that one's true). Am I a dick for immediately discarding someone as a potential life partner because they spell it 'careing'? Ooh look at me, I can spell [most] words, I must be so much better than those people that haven't attained the level of literacy that I have. That's a dickish attitude right? I shouldn't judge people on whether or not they spell it 'careing' should I? Can I judge them on the fact that they look like bouncers who would happily kick in someone's head if that person made a joke at their expense? Is that an ok judging system?

I don't get why the guys who look the way they do and have the literacy powers that they have are the only ones contacting me. My profile has been written with the idea of attracting like-minded individuals. This is not occuring. I think the being blond thing has a lot to answer for.

Either way, I haven't located the man of my dreams yet. Well, I have. He's a blogger from New York and looks like this and makes videos like this:



(In actuality I would happily run away to Rio with either of those young gentlemen. They are the perfect representatives of my two ideals, sarcastic/intelligent/skinnyhot and funny/sweet/chubbyhot)

I just need to work out how to get someone that's way out of my league and lives in a different city located in a different country to me to be my boyfriend. Of course, I have supergood luck all the time with the mens so I don't even know why I'm sweating it. This type of thing is real easy for me so I'll just sit back and wait for him to come to me pretty much. Yeah, ON OPPOSITE DAY.

The Tortoise and the Barlow

Gary Barlow is my new obsession.

Not in a 'I want to have sex with him way' (though I do and I would) but because here is an example of someone who has really grown into himself as time has past and that's not something you often get to see. The world often throws examples of youthful prodigies, people who are handsome and talented and successful and I, for the most part, unabashedly hate them. I loathe hearing stories about people who are the same age (or, even worse, YOUNGER) than me and have got their shit together a lot faster. People who have achieved some great feat; had books published, written beautiful, popular songs, attained notoriety in their chosen field of expertise - whether it be in science or comedy or hot dog eating contests.

These people make me sick. 'What the fuck have I been doing the last 26 years when these bastards come along and make me feel bad by achieving stuff. Wankers' I think, not particularly eloquently, to myself. Well, the answer is that they have been doing something whereas I have been doing nothing. When they decided to write a book or a song or climb a mountain they actually went and did it rather than wasting half a day looking at dogs in bee costumes on the internet and then going for a nap.

But then along comes Gary Barlow and he makes me feel about 100 times better about myself.

Not because he didn't do shit all for the first quarter century of his life, because he did. He wrote songs and wore jumpers and toured working men's clubs in Lancaster. That counts as something but even through the early 'appealing-to-the-gay-market' jelly years in Take That he always looked vaguely uncomfortable with himself and who he was. He never quite fit the mold Nigel Martin Smith had decided his merry band of boy toys needed to be. His eyes always shone with the quiet desperation of a man who'd rather be at home with a nice cup of tea rather than someone dressed in gimp wear clutching at himself in his 'special places'. The other four may have been just as unhappy with their lot but willing to put up with it for the fame, drugs, and sex it brought them but they also had the natural ease that comes with being young and good looking. Gary liked to wear jumpers and drink tea and was a bit podgy. I was/am one of this gang and I can tell you one thing for sure: natural ease is not a part of it. Natural ease is China and we are the Shetland Isles. That's how far apart natural ease and the jumper/tea/podgy brigade are away from one another.

Additionally, in my role as amateur psychoanalyst I believe a lot of the tension that arose from Robbie and Gary was that Robbie had just as much self-doubt and self-hatred as Gary but instead of using that as an opportunity to bond Robbie decided to just make Gary feel worse in order to make himself feel better. I also think that maybe Robbie would quite like to put his mouth on Gary Barlow's mouth but that might just be me confusing my sexual fantasies with my analysis of a situation I know nothing about (this happens more often than is probably healthy).

However, whereas Robbie turned his self-loathing outwards, which in turn made it all the more forceful when it eventually got turned inwards (it always does in the end my friends. Trust this). Gary went away, got married, made a shit load of money from royalties, had some adorable children and put some effort into becoming a good dad and husband and became happy with all the things about himself that had made him doubtful when in Take That, which meant that he suddenly got really fucking hot. If you'd have told me ten years ago that Gary Barlow would be the member of Take That I fancy the most I would have openly laughed in your stupid Gary Barlow loving face. I would have told all my friends and family about the weirdo loser who held the mistaken belief that Gary Barlow was going to come through all the taunts, all the tears, all the traumas and end up being a person I would like to marry and have a lot of sex with. When I was sat in a pub and a Take That song came on I would bring up the time some Gary Barlow fan waxed lyrical about how hot Gary Barlow was going to become in subsequent years and ask the assorted people supping alcoholic beverages with me that 'wasn't that the weirdest fucking thing you can ever imagine anyone saying?' 'Yes', they would reply, 'what the fuck were they on to say something as ridiculous as that?' 'I have no idea' I would say, and then carry on miming the words to Relight My Fire.

Well, egg on my face. I just think it's lovely to see someone approaching (in?) middle age and looks like their enjoying life more than they ever did. It gives me hope that the best is yet to come and I haven't squandered my youth after all.

It's just like the story of the tortoise and the hare except with homoerotic undertones, gimp wear and jelly being integral parts of the story. Although I haven't read any Aesop for a while so, as far as I know, all that is actually in the Tortoise and the Hare.

Would Like to Meet

I totally joined match.com.

Stop looking at me like that.

So, you know how I was in love and all googly-eyed and annoying? Well, yeah, my heart has been smashed into a thousand tiny pieces like everyone predicted it would be (though in an infinitely more fucked up way than anyone could have imagined). I mean, there's been no official announcement or conversation to this effect but when the last words you say to someone are 'if you're going to throw up do it in the toilet or the bin but not on the floor' and stalk off to your hetero-life partner's pad to knit and watch movies instead of looking after the person doing the spewing then that means it's over right? And when his last communication with you is 'I may die' via a text message, that's basically the selfish alcoholic version of 'you're dumped btw' right?

Right.

Tip of the day: Do not fall in love with terminal fuck ups, however tempting it may be and however much it may piss off your moms.

So yeah, less than a week later I joined match.com. Too soon? I don't care. I want to be over this debacle quick smart and, ironically, the eternal single gal found out something really rather odd... I like being in a relationship. STOP PRESS! I mean, I didn't like the whiny, self-pitying, selfish aspects of my last partner (apparently that comes with the territory of being an alcoholic-in-recovery-oh-whoops-not-so-much) but I did like the snuggling and the sassing. I did like sharing all my deep dark secrets and the long conversations about nothing. I did feeling like I might burst when I hadn't seen him for a while and then the release when we were together again.

So sue me. I know I'm a total girl.

I want that again and I want it to last.

I have to say the whole internet dating thing (the entire day I have devoted to it thus far) is a little depressing because I just don't think I'm going to find someone I fancy and respect and love and want to be with as much as I did the other guy but I've sent some funny emails and had some in return. That's never a bad thing. I'm doubtful as to whether I'm actually going to meet anyone though. For one thing, my other coping strategy in times of woe is making endless lists and tick boxes for those lists. I have too much stuff to do. Like knitting rectangles (it was supposed to be a scarf but I made it too wide and it's too narrow to be a blanket so... I'm knitting a rectangle). This is important work I have to do here, completing arbitrary tasks for the express purpose of ticking a box. Someone has to do it, might as well be me.

Love hurts

It's fairly well known that I don't have the rosiest view of relationships. I'm constantly being called out on being too harsh or too cynical in matters of the heart. I choose to believe that I am, in actual fact, a realist not a cynic (but I also acknowledge that my presentation of this may be akin to the person who stands on street corners shouting 'YOU'RE ALL GOING TO HELL' who, deep down, just wants you to believe in God and not to come across as a crazy person (but, does indeed, come across as a crazy person). I'm working on it at any rate).

Having said all that there are some things I thought I could believe in and, to that end, I'm genuinely a bit distressed that the BT couple have split up.

I didn't even know I gave a shit and then, all of a sudden, they're trying to sell me cable tv packages by having a recently dumped man sitting in his batchelor pad considering PAYING to see Bee Movie. Is there anything more gut-wrenchingly melancholic than a man, on his own, thinking about spending money to watch Bee Movie? Plus, there were kids involved! He was learning how to be a good step-dad through all the different telecomms and internet deals that BT offer! He was booking holidays for his missus! And now he sits in the sort of chair that only single men ever own, filling up the lonely days with sub-par films like Bee Movie.

I, for one, am gutted.

Someone once said to me that they found the whole thing fascinating because 'he looks like he only gets to see the bits of their relationship that we do whilst she's living out the whole thing' which may be why he's so nonchalant about them splitting (and did she really dump him because his laptop lost it's internet connection when they were having an argument over instant messaging? Seems extreme). And wasn't he always the one who was getting all the BT packages? So why did he go for a different company in that instance? It's not his M.O. I want my fake commercial couples to BE CONSISTENT if nothing else. And who has important relationship discussions over instant messaging in the first place? How do you convey utter dismay with a emoticon?
Like this I suppose - :/
What about unending disappointment at someone else's actions?
Maybe... like this - :S
Ok, I think I'm getting it.

But what about a sarcastic or ironic tone? Think of all the times you've typed something glib whilst involved in an MSN chat and then had to spend 10 minutes clearing up any confusion about whether or not you are sexually attracted to Sting. Or when you've thought someone was joking and responded in kind but it turns out their cat really did die last night. Aaawkward.

I just don't know how BT expect to shift more shit by making us all depressed. It doesn't seem the smartest marketing tool ever deployed. I can only hope this is all going to be resolved in the (please god) inevitable reunion where they find themselves brought back together through a mutual love of cheap minutes on the telephone after 6pm.

(Please note: It does worry me somewhat that I'm more invested in this than I ever have been with anyone I've dated personally. You don't need to mention it. I'm already aware.)

How we know Love still exists

It takes a LOT for me to feel like I've hit rock bottom but sitting through the advert breaks on 'A Shot At Love 2 with Tila Tequila' because I didn't want to miss any of the show is possibly the lowest moment I have ever found myself in from a life that offers a vast array of debased delights.

See, I somehow, accidently, found myself watching the first season finale whilst just idly flicking through the 'music' channels (most of which show about as much music in an hour as my mum has CDs: i.e. hardly any) one evening and happened to catch the last episode of the ORIGINAL 'Shot at Love'. Watching a lesbian and a fairly buff (yet surprisingly effete) man rapping about their (so-called) love for Ms Tequila was enough to actually make me pause the channel-hop adventure I'd been on up till that point (and let's face it, it is a crazy wicked adventure to embark upon - reality shows, infomercials, and low-grade soft porn are all just a button click away and jostling to retain your interest if you hit that particular Sky-based adventure at just the right time) and become transfixed with the tragi-comedy that was playing out before my eyes. The concept is not Nobel-prize worthy. Model-slash-professional-bisexual-slash-Myspace-whore Tila looks for 'love' amongst a bunch of lesbians and straight dudes. Only one can ever obtain the keys to her heart and entry into the inner sanctum that only a handful (*cough*) of people have ever been allowed in to: the sacred Kingdom guarded between Tila's tiny bird-like thighs. It's a beautiful thing. It makes me believe in love again. (Or, you know, doesn't).

HOWEVER, intrigued I was to see lesbian battle straightey for the 'prize' of Tila. They both genuinely seemed to be, if not in love, then at least in awe of Tila. Or were sufficiently capable of faking it to make me think that they were. (When it comes to reality TV shows who really cares either way? If it's on TV then it's true. That's the way the world works right?) Anyway, in the end the dude won. Big shock. This may be a touch controversial but I get the impression that Tila's one of those bisexuals that makes out with girls cause she knows guys think it's hot, or it makes her 'kooky' in some way (you ever meet those people that just do slightly outrageous things because they think that's a good enough substitute for actually having a personality? Yeeeah.) I'm not saying that all bisexuals are like this but enough of them are for me not to want to define myself as bisexual even though I'm attracted to guys and girls because most people that DO say they 'swing both ways' or whatever are (and not too over-generalise or nuthin), complete dicks. Anyway, the point is, Love prevailed. Love won through. Love was given a chance to shine.

Up until the point that the next season was commissioned so Tila could get paid to go through it all again.

Obviously I couldn't miss a second of this. How many people get a second 'shot' at finding true love? Not many. Even fewer get to do so on a low-rent MTV show. This is history in the making, I feel it is my duty to observe and judge what must be a further sign of the impending apocalypse.

Firstly, it becomes even more clear this time around just how much of a complete dick Tila actually is. I can't work out if she's utterly deluded, slightly retarded, or an evil genius but don't try and sell me the fact that you were heartbroken about it not working out with thingymabob from the first season. Either rename the show 'A shot at getting to fuck Tila Tequila for a bit' or don't do a second season. These are your choices, you do not get to pretend that you're still in this for love and not for money and exposure. None of you do. That means you Brian and Gary and Billy-Bob and Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel and V and Tiffney and Sparkle and Bitch-face (two of those are actually the names of the contestants. Which ones those are may surprise you). In fact, let's just be done with it and rename the show 'A shot for money-grabbing fame-whores at getting to fuck the money-grabbing fame-whore Tila Tequila (for a bit) in a mutually agreed (but not specifically talked about) bit of money-grabbing and fame-whoring'. Although, that title may be a bit unwieldy when coming to make it fit in the TV guides so I'm guessing that this (AND ONLY THIS) is the reason they didn't go with it.

Secondly, Tila may be a dick but she is positively Mother fuckin Teresa (although, that bitch was a bit of a judgmental cow being Catholic and all who felt that suffering was good because it 'brings people closer to Jesus' and wasn't actually that concerned with 'helping' the poor as much as 'helping the poor get indoctrinated into the Catholicism'. Riiiiight. Nice philosophy. Who needs medical attention when you have eternal salvation? So, ok, maybe not the big MT. Maybe... Fonzy) ... she is positively Fonzy when compared to the contestants. All of whom seem to have been chosen to specifically to illustrate the very worst that humanity has to offer. I don't really want to say this but Tila can do better. Out of all of those people, not ONE is good enough for her (although I did fancy one of the girls but she was kicked off on the last show I watched for reasons that were unclear - maybe not being utter pond scum doesn't turn Tila on, in which case; Tila - you gots to work on your self-esteem honey, this type of behaviour really will not do. Or, and more likely, the girl was approaching nice and normal which is not what reality TV producers want out of their ridiculously preening, arrogant, imbecilic contestants). All of these 'people' (I use the term loosely) split into teams of boys v girls and agreed to downing as many 'shots' (SEE? SEE WHAT THEY DID THERE?!?!?!!!!1!!!one!) of various disgusting condiments to 'prove' their 'love' for 'Tila' (oh no wait, Tila is actually her name, no need for sarcasi-quotations on that. Or is she? Her name can't actually be Tila Tequila can it? AND OH MY GOD!!! I JUST REALISED WHY IT'S CALLED 'SHOT' AT LOVE! TEQUILA! SHOT! (!!!. !!!!!!!. !!!!!!!!!!!!) Fuck me, I'm dumb) anyway, the 'winning' (I'll stop with the quotes now. Just assume everything from now on is said with a raised eyebrow) team then got to battle it out between each other to see who could eat a pig's vagina the fastest with the prize of spending time with Tila alone.

Let me just say that again:

The WINNING team then got to see who could EAT A PIG'S VAGINA THE FASTEST.

A PIG'S VAGINA. EAT. EAT A PIG'S VAGINA.

I don't care who you are. Robert Downey Jr, Dylan Moran, Karen O, I am NOT eating a pig's vagina to prove my love. That is not how love is proven. I will rub your feet if you're tired. I will listen to you bitch about your day. I will paint you a picture, make you a mixtape, write you a story, anything but eat a pig's vagina to show you how I feel. If you are insisting I eat a pig's vagina to spend alone-time with you then I chose to not spend ANY time with you. You are insane and must be stopped immediately.

To add insult to injury, Tila was not impressed with how many of the girls couldn't handle the challenge OF EATING A PIG'S VAGINA.

'It just seems like, if they really cared, they totally would have like, tried harder' TO EAT A PIG'S VAGINA! TILA! What kind of sadistic bitch are you? It's a PIG'S VAGINA! CUT THEM SOME SLACK. But that's not how Tila rolls, Tila, who obviously grew up starved of affection and attention and thus has some kind of weird Freudian shit where EATING PIG VAGINAS = LOVE, does not believe in slack.

I cannot WAIT to see what other, frankly disturbing on heretofore unrecognised levels of insanity, tasks Tila sets to find her one true love (the err... second one true love in as many years might I add). This shit is golden. And is also sucking my soul out right before my eyes. But do you know what? I say suck away Tila, suck the fuck away.

Being bad is wicked cool

I love my car. The love I possess for my car is more than is probably natural between man and machine. I don't care though, because my love is pure and endless. Just like a Lionel Ritchie song.

Unfortunately, as with most (all) relationships - one partner has to be adoring (me) whilst the other (El Duderino) settles for being adored. This has the tendency where the adored partner tends to just do whatever the fuck they like, safe in the knowledge that the adoring partner will always be there waiting for them when they're ready to stop playing silly buggers and start behaving themselves. Which they never do. Why should they? Being bad is wicked cool.

However, it took El Duderino a while to work out that her capacity for mischievous high-jinks and tomfoolery were boundless. Right up until winter reared it's wintery head El Duderino was as good as gold, nary a jink or tomfool to be had. But now it is winter and El Duderino is playing up something chronic. When I drive to work it's just me, El Duderino, a mixtape or seven on general rotation, and the road. And maybe a tractor going at 5 miles an hour (where I live, the ride goes a little something like this: home, suburb, suburb, suburb, FIELD! FIELD! FIELD! tourist 'beauty' spot, field, suburb, suburb, work). El Duderino does NOT enjoy being restricted in her speed, especially when she's just powering up like a little Mario snuffling out mushrooms for sustenance. But I can cope with her little 'exhaust making worrying noises' rebellion. We know each other well enough by now to know it's all bluster and she wouldn't do anything silly like... just stop working. However, her minor 'quirks' and delightful eccentricities have been increasing steadily in number. One evening when I was driving along I suddenly felt a drip on my left shin. My left shin that was safely ensconced under the dashboard resting merrily near the break and the clutch as it should. Now, it was raining at the time and at first I just assumed that my mind was playing tricks on me. See the rain outside: get phantom rain drops on your shin. It's a well know psychological phenomenon. But then it happened again. And then again. I ran over the logistics of such a happening in my mind and it didn't quite add up - the set up of my car means the rain drops would have to pass through the engine panel, the engine itself, and then the dashboard. Unless mice have been drilling for oil on my bonnet it seemed unlikely this would occur.

The outcome is that I still don't know why it does that.

But the rain is what really seems to send El Duderino into an apoplectic toddler tantrum rage. Because every now and then, for no reason, the windscreen wipers stop working. Sometimes for days at a time. I've now established a complex system of nudging and cajoling that seems to get things in shape again. But I live in fear of them stopping in the middle of a thunderstorm. Not that they do any good in the first place. They more just move the rain around instead of wiping it away. They're like lazy teenagers who have been informed they must perform a particular task if they don't want to get their sorry ass grounded, and reluctantly agree to do said task - but in the most lackadaisical, half-cocked way that you suspect they're hoping you'll never ask them to do it again. But that's assuming I can see out of my windscreen in the first place. Because, if you DID assume that - you're wrong. I have so-called 'heaters' in my car but they less heat and more just exist looking like they could heat stuff up. And yet don't. They're like how Britney Spears *looks* like a functional human being but quite obviously is not. The upshot is that the only way to de-fog my windows is to keep the driver window wound down. The rightside of my head doesn't enjoy this one bit. Miserable right side of head.

Despite these, what some may see as, flaws - I still love my car. Unconditionally now and for always. Now I've tasted the sweet joy of owning a beaten up retro classic I'm not sure I could go back to reliability and clear vision whilst driving in rain. It just wouldn't be the same.

Final question of the day: Does anyone else always have to say 'thesaurus' to the tune of 'Ki-ora'?