Hands up who's got their sexy hair on today!

Not you, Becky. You can put your hand down. And go and put your paper bag back on. *rolls eyes*

Tttp ri iting.....?!

To translate the featured image:

"Hmmm.... Type writing harder than initially thought. Balls."

Having a play on my Christmas present. Been home from work since six, and have basically done whatever the fuck I like since I got in. I have:

- shovelled McDonalds down my neck hole
- read second half of Miranda Hart's 'Is It Just Me?', which I started yesterday (so, so good! I am a secret reader of self help literature when I can get away with it, and this book of silly spoke to me way more than any Paul Baldy-Smug McKenna bollocks ever could! READ IT! READ IT NOW!!!)
- half-watched A playing Assassin's Creed, occasionally interjecting with insightful comments such as "You could never survive jumping off a big, tall, pointy thing like that in real life!"

Now A has retired to bed, and I find myself bubbling with childish energy. So, after a half arsed five minute attempt at sleeping, I banished myself from the bed before I started bouncing on it. I'm now sat in a living room that looks like a bomb site, gleefully bashing away at blog spot (at the keyboard...not..bashing away..not like that! I like blogging, but not that much! Filth.).

I'm going to attack the type writer again, perhaps eat some More Haribo...

Perhaps figure out why my legs are bouncing around of their own accord while I'm sat on them...

*twitch*

I LOVE being a Grown Up. No bed time for meeee!!! Ahahahahaaa!!



*faceplants carpet, snoring*

Liiightbuuuulb!

I am a sporadic but embarrassingly enthusiastic diarist. I had a lot of fun being incredibly vain and reading my old diaries during my time with the fambly over Christmas.

So I've had an idea.

I just haven't decided if it's a good one or not...

I may or may not go back to my mum's soon and make a weekly thing of dredging up some undiluted, unedited cringe from my written past for your entertainment and my total humiliation.

Good idea or potentially crippling embarrassment for me?

Hmm. We'll see.

Proper Crimbo

Ooh, I've been itching to blog! On account of some sandal-wearer's birthday, I've had to spend nearly 48 WHOLE hours away from the computer, in the company of a bunch of people I'm related to. 'Mare.


Loljokes, I love my family. Roflcopter.

I'm sure you don't want to hear about every sprout induced gaseous emission and unplanned nap that occurred throughout the day, and I'm sure you've got lots of shiny new things to play with too (see previous post), so I will break down my Crimbo Day to you in a handy highlights package:

* Woken up at 8am (coughsplutterwhatnow?!) by the elder of the household. My mother. Lots of unsubtle loud furniture moving and heater putting-on to rouse us from our (me, 2 sisters, 1 step patriarch) slumbers.

* Received what felt like a zillion bajillion gifts. All of which were incredibly thoughtful and lovely. Some edible. Mmm.

* Ate body weight of large army in turkey, pâté, veg, booze, potatoes etc. Gut hated me. Refused some cheese on the grounds that I might experience multiple simultaneous innard ruptures if eat more food.

* Proceeded to eat shitload of cheese, crackers, chocolate, jam etc. Spleen etc still intact...so far.

* Given waaaay too many cocktails by Grandad, who bought a book especially for the occasion. He did a ruddy good Woo Woo. Sex On The Beach a bit iffy though.

* To own horror, Grandad asked if I'd like to "try some syphillis...it's Chinese!"

Turned out to be a Chinese fruit...phasylis (sp?). Tasted vaguely like sick.

* Played drinking snakes and ladders with sisters.

* Lost drinking snakes and ladders against sisters.

* Missed A.

* Told by my mum that I take after my Nana most. Nana enters right on cue, in some inside out pyjama trousers.

* Pissed, I convince myself that I have a fat face and decide to tell everybody about this for at least twenty minutes. Jury is still out on that one.

* Annual family walk home to parents' house up creepy, pitch black hill. I take this as an opportunity to scare the living shit out of littlest (15 y.o) sis. Repeatedly.

* Pre recorded Eastenders is located by parents on Sky. Christmas officially over for me, I retire to bed.


I hope you had as lovely a Christmas as I did, and were showered with love, gifts, turkey and the inevitable family farts that follow dinner too!

I also hope that you're all back in work tomorrow as well. Because if you aren't, then I'm afraid I'll have to hate you and all you stand for.

Sorry, bro, just the way it is...

Ermagherd! Terpwreteeeerr!!

Look what I got off of Santa!! ....aka my two frickin' GENIUS sisters! I love love LA-HUV it!


Now...can someone tell me where the "blog" button is?

Over Hung

Health Warning: The blog post that you are about to read is devoid of humour, wit or pictures. It is pure self indulgent self analysis. Side affects include nausea, eye rolling, and in extreme cases, temporary night blindness. Read at your own risk.


I got emotional drunk again last night. Seems to be something that's happening more frequently of late. I need to get a grip. I need to stop using the amount of attention I'm getting from my friends as a barometer of how much fun I'll allow myself to think I'm having. And I need to drink less. MUCH less! I can't handle my booze any more and I seem to be missing the bit of the brain that tells you when you've had enough.

Why, when I'm on the dizzy water, do I seek constant approval? What/where does it get me? I don't understand what I'm supposed to do with the "well done, you are a worthy human being. Consider your existence validated, and help yourself to a biscuit" that I seem to crave so badly.

It suddenly strikes me as weird - that I sap so much of my own energy chasing something as totally immaterial as approval. Approval won't change me, my circumstances, my finances, health, or long term well being. So why does everything I do revolve around obtaining it?

Well done, Freud, I think we've had a breakthrough! Help yourself to a biscuit.

Preparation Time!

I'm sloshing with coffee, I can't keep still, and my hair smells like something toxic. Must be the run up to a Black Friday night of fun and festivities! Anyone else braving the crowds and the cocktails that suddenly cost fifty billion pounds tonight as well, I salute you!

.... I call this image "Welcome to the laboratory"

Anybody? No?......Dust!

Whoever got the Little Britain reference, you are my new friend and I love you! Have a biscuit of your choice.

...And on with the blog.


My mum has OCD. Obsessive cleaning disorder. She goes to work (cleaning) and comes back home, every day..to clean. I've never understood it, and I suppose I never will. Maybe it's a generational thing, maybe I simply still possess the mind of an eight year old. Eight year olds aren't concerned with dust, or ironing. They like play time and eating crayons.

I hate cleaning. In theory. Except, I don't, really. Because when I'm cleaning, I quite like cleaning. I get quite into it, cranking up Spotify all the way to eleven and aggressively hoovering my little heart of to the musical stylings of Ke$ha (don't hate).

That's not to say that I'd clap my hands with glee if I was given a brand new, shiny mop for Christmas. Quite the opposite, actually. I'd bludgeon the giver over the head with it until they blacked out. And then ask for the receipt when they come to so that I can buy a hat instead. My point is, when I convince myself that I need to climb out of the pile of clothes and tidy up, I get proper stuck in. There's something weirdly peaceful about a purely task orientated activity like that. I go into a bit of a mindless trance.

But you wouldn't think that I enjoyed it by looking at my house right now. It looks like I just turned up one day, with a sack of my belongings, placed a stick of dynamite in the middle and lit it up. Books, sweet packets and socks everywhere.

Gah! I don't know what I'm getting at with this post. I think I'm trying to understand my like/loathe relationship with any activity that's remotely domestic.

Whenever I'm in the mood to get all Mary Poppins on my own ass, I have this voice in my head that tells me I shouldn't. It tallies up whether I was the last one to do the cleaning (usually yes, but this seems to have got me out of any obligations to cook. If there's anything I find more tedious than the idea of cleaning, it's cooking), and if my tally chart's looking fatter than A's (manfriend and fellow tenant), it decides that I'm letting women down everywhere. Even though I know that my sitting around letting dust mites gather on my head won't help any Cinderellas out there at all. A lady does not fall at the hands of the patriarchy every time I decide to dust. It's neither sex's fault that dust happens... because dust doesn't have an agenda. Because dust's only job is to be dusty.

(.......Dust!)

The voice also tells me that I should be doing something more memorable, like writing that novel I keep threatening to myself that I'm going to do. Because since when has having dust free, right -angled furniture got people into the history books? There's no great recognition to be had for a tidy living room.

But then, the mess! Oh God, the mess!! I know that the logical thing for me to do would be to simply pick up after myself as I go along, but where's that sense of achievement in that?! There's more triumph to be felt in diving head first into that mountain of musty clothing and banishing them to the washing machine until you can finally recall what colour your carpet was, as opposed to just "putting that thingy in the bin" as you go. Bleh.

I guess I'll just have to accept that for as long as I have to play grown up (I.e until I can joyfully piss myself, happy in the knowledge that it's someone else's problem now), I will have to live in homes that resemble the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse for three weeks out of every month.

I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that I might have been adopted....

I'm Not Drunk, I'm a Social Bloody Butterfly!!

Christmas dinner with work last night. Nothing quite like watching your workmates happily chatter amongst one another over a well cooked....

Bah, fuck the saccharine blog talk!

Last night was my third Christmas meal/do with the company I've been swapping time for money with since the day I ran out into the car park, leaping for joy that I'd got my first proper job... In front of my now-manager, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was still stood by the door, probably immediately regretting his decision.

This was the only one I've attended sober. It was bizarre. Good, but bizarre. The food was cowing lush, my workmates were making me do little almost-wees of laughter, and the secret Santa gift I got was so thoughtful it made me squeak.

As I said, I've been nothing short of plastered for the past two such events. Most of us end up being in the same state. Tis the season to run around dance floors with no shoes on with your professional superiors...or something.

It just doesn't feel like Christmas has been done justice if the next day, at least half of the office aren't sweating in front of fans, groaning and wearing sun glasses indoors in the dead of winter. And it's never in vain. The nights out we have are silly, memorable, and nearly always end up in a casino at six in the morning.

But last night was weird. I'm socially awkward at the best of times (a socially inept blogger? Holy crackers, Batman!!), but because I wasn't lubricated in the brainular region this time,I just couldn't bring myself to relax. My posture was so rigid, I looked like I had hot GHDs lodged up my anus for the whole thing. I was hypersensitive, and could feel my brain lighting up like multi coloured fairy lights. At least it kept things seasonal.

I was either talking so quickly that I wasn't forming real words- just sort of chirruping at my colleagues, talking too quietly to be heard, or shouting in mad, overly enthusiastic bursts.

I looked. And sounded. Fucking. Mental.

I'm not sure if it's just a British thing, or If there's a sad truth in my saying that, contrary to my prior belief, I've never got over the fear of big groups of people, no matter how well I know the people in it. I've been more or less convinced that I got over all that shit at sixteen, seventeen....coincidentally, somewhere around the time of my first alco pop (gag).

Hmm. Something fun to think about.

Right after my night out with aforementioned work buddies this Black Friday. Christmas spirit first, over indulgent self an analysis after!

Cheers, all!

Thoughts on Thor (a film review....?!)

Sorry, Marvel fans, I was a bit late to the party! After watching The Avengers last week, I decided to give Thor a peek.

Has anyone else noticed that it mostly seems to be a mish mash of Hercules, The Lion King and Sword in The Stone?

Or has my mind just been shaped to comprehend things solely through the medium of Disney cartoons?!

I Am Charlie Sheen

This morning, I sulked like a toddler. I hid under the quilt until I had to be coaxed out with coffee and food by the live-in boyfriend (we shall call him A. Because it makes me sound all bloggy and him like an exhibit, or a specimen). The reason for my tantrum was that I've convinced myself that no amount to trips to the gym will get me running a mile in under 10mins. I have nubby little legs and lungs apparently borrowed from a 4 year old smoker. I was told to drink my coffee and to stop being so bloody defeatist.

I used to be Sheen-esque in my abilities throughout school. Winning. All the time. I competed in everything that didn't involve too much physical exertion...I may have been a winner, but Wonder Woman I was not. I did shit that I would never have the lady balls to do at the ripe old age of nearly-twenty five. Here's some stuff I won before my confidence was castrated:

* poetry competitions
* art competitions
* story writing competitions
* poetry recitals, in Welsh

The last one is the biggest WTF of the bunch for anyone who knows me now. Bearing in mind that the only way you could get me onstage now is by clonking me on the head with a bat and dragging me on, I used to not only get up on stage, but also stand in front of big groups of grown ups and belt out verse at them IN WELSH! Not even my first language!! And I used to fucking WIN at this!!

And now I'm moping because I don't have the rights to brag about being able to run a mile in under 10 minutes. Something I've not even attempted!

I write pages and pages and pages of fiction, poetry etc and never get round to editing them so I can send them away for publication, just in case some nasty publishers don't like them. Fuck that!

I will bet myself actual money - because, that way, I will always win (winning!), that if I actually get off my fat, many arse and, y'know, TRIED, I'd do alright for myself.

I'm obviously still an insufferable show off, because why else would I blog? And I'm still just as jammy - I just don't try to recognise it anymore:

* I got a 2:1 degree with minimal effort
* I rent a house for peanuts and spend the spare change on myself
* I live with a boy, who, after a year, still doesn't seem to realise just how many annoying habits I have (shh, don't tell him!)
* I work with people I really, really like
* I'm a Caucasian, Western female, who is at least acceptable looking to wider society (I.e people don't run away shrieking "Godzillaaaaaa!!" upon my approach.
I'm already winning at life, so maybe, just maybe, with a little more effort, I could storm this motherfucker!

I'm off to the library to start editing my world-changing novel.








.... I'll think about the gym.

What do gay horses eat?

Haaaaa-aaaay!

To paraphrase the great Kate Nash;

This, dear blogosphere, is my face. You might have followed this blog before (unless you were busy, you know, washing your hair, I get it..) , and are now noticing that since I ran away and cheated on you guys with Tumblr, all my old posts have been taken down from here.

Its mish mash of poetry, nonsense and short story snippets have gone (but can still be found on www.tumblr.com/rebeccawrites), leaving in its wake a lovely, pristine and clutter free blank page.

Phwoar. I love a good blank page. *rubs knees*

But it won't be blank for long! Mwahahaha etc etc. Soon, I will decorate it with a diary-esque puddle of thought vomit in reaction to my daily comings and goings for your entertainment, titilation, revulsion or all of the above!

I hope you enjoy being word vomited on, because it's about to get messy, you bad ass mother hubbards!!



Soon, Blogspot.








Soon.