I Come Bearing Gift....

Hello, Blogspot.

I have something for you. But first, I want to talk about me. Me, me, me! Bear with.

I am one of life's impossible stress-heads. Though I'm prone to bouts of childlike regression and silliness, I take pretty much everything I do WAY too seriously. Life-or-death seriously. I give too many fucks in most given situations, which has a super-fun side effect of sucking the joy out of everything I do.

I've been battling with my innate lazy creature all month, trying to get it to go to the gym, trying to get it to strive toward forging some sort of career in writing (anything, lord, help meeee!!). Trying to just make it try. I feel under immense pressure (by myself, of course. No one else would be mean enough to constantly berate me like this) to be better at everything I do.

My relationship with the gym is probably the easiest example to demonstrate this. I am not a natural fan of exercise. Once, at primary school, I even "accidentally" poked myself in the eye to get out of playing netball (I don't know either, but somehow it worked!). So, since I realised a couple of years back that I didn't want to be immobile and wheezy by my middle age, I decided I'd better keep up some kind of routine. Ever since, it's been a continual cycle of;

*lolloping around neighbourhood in trainers*

"Yeah!! I didn't die that time!! Soon, I'll be running like Flash if I keep running lots! Nothing can stop me this time!! I won't be anywhere near as bad as last time I took this up. I actually like it now! Hahahahaha!!

Ow. Stitch."



"Wow, I'm still REALLY fucking slow. Why aren't I good yet? How is that pensioner overtaking me??"



"I know, I just need a little break, take the pressure off. If I stop making such a big deal of this, I'll remember how to run for enjoyment...yeah...just a few days..."



"I'm such a fucking fatty! Why can't I stop eating?! I could go to the gym, but the idea just makes me want to eat more cake and cry...I'll go tomorrow. I'll go tomorrow."

*picks some old cheese flakes out of clothing and eats*



"I DON'T WANNA GO TO THE STUPID GYM!!!!"



"Hey remember I used to run a lot? That was fun. Might take it up again..."


See? I'm a fairly regular exerciser, but my bursts of activity come in an infinite loop of hope, optimism, disappointment, attempted self-bullshitting and then crushing self loathing. Not a fun trail to jog, skip then crawl, bleeding and weeping down. I've tried trying really hard(ish). I've tried not caring. And neither method has worked.

So, Blogspot. You've been patient so far, so I'll give you your present now. It's our new new life motto.



.....Half arsed is better than not arsed


(replace arse with ass if American).


Write it on your arms and face, tattoo it on your body, put it on post-it notes and stick them on your mum. This, my friends, is what a genius sounds like! We live in a world whose positive, sugary "you-can-do-it-follow-your-dreams" sentiments work for some, but not all. The idea of everyone always being their best person and trying REALLY hard and doing REALLY well at everything just terrifies me. If I fail at anything I give even the tiniest of shits about, I beat myself into such a pulp over it I'm that barely recognisable for a few days. Too much free time overwhelms me because I think I should constantly being doing something, anything, that will make me a better person at any given moment (i.e not a lazy, cake dribbling sloven). For this reason, I don't know how to relax. I'm incapable. And, to top it off, society tells me I have to be happy and fulfilled, or my life is worth nothing. After all, we could die tomorrow.

What is this horse shit?? Gunning after happier, better, fitter, wiser, prettier, richer, more sociable, more successful all at once just freezes me like a rabbit in the headlights. I care so much about having it all at once that I can't physically move. And I'm fairly confident that there are droves of equally stuck people out there too.

To you, my fellow rabbits, I say be happy being the sometimes-conversationalist who, instead of being the life and soul, interjects with the odd funny comment when they can. If you don't feel like you're making progress on the treadmills, just ponce about on the bikes for a bit. If you aren't a gourmet chef yet, eat a packet of cous cous with lumps of cheese for dinner. Hell, at least you had to boil the kettle to do it! Boiling is cooking, right?

What I'm saying is, don't berate yourself when sometimes you just want to do the bare minimum. Let yourself. I'm not saying don't give a shit. Just do enough to unstick yourself a little. Who knows, you might even end up actually excelling in and enjoying doing those things you avoided doing because they just seemed to immense when the pressure was on. And if you don't? Who gives a fuck? I'm not going to tell you off. I doubt your friends and loved ones will. You can't fail at life, because the only one making you feel so crappy about not hitting every single target is you, stupid.

Half-arsed is better than not arsed.

Amen.

Hangin' Over with Becky Attenborough

Well, I promised you a post on hang overs, so that's what yer gett'n!

I turned twenty five this weekend (yes, you may shower me with praise and gifts even though it was yesterday), and while I can't say that age has brought me much more wisdom than "try to avoid cutting your own fringe where possible", it has introduced me to a glittering new array of hang-overs to enjoy. Long gone are the days where I could pickle my liver and still get up at seven a.m the following day for a twelve hour shift. Instead, I get my ass kicked by my own body for at least twenty four hours (generally, mine are two-dayers; initial hangover followed by a day of total lethargy and low level to moderate depression).

I have compiled a list of the most common hang overs I experience after a night on the dizzy water (vom juice/ fall-over tonic, whatever) and, like the legendary Sir David Attenborough, I will .....

Woah! Hang on...the iPad recognised I was typing Attenborough before I even finished!! How cool is that?! Being a big enough deal to be pre-programmed into Apple's dictionary, that...wow. That blew my tiny mind! I salute you, David Attenborough!

Where was I? Right. So. Like David Attenborough (I only had to type in the first 5 letters... It could have picked "attention" or "attend", but no...), I will describe a few breeds within the hangover species so that you may recognise them better in future. Please be aware that this species often form muttish hybrids and so can come as delightful cobi-hang-overs on occasion. Pain shared is...pain halved? That's a saying, right?

Right??


1. Hangover 1: The Munch Seeker

This particular breed of hang over wakes you up by telling your brain it needs food IMMEDIATELY. And lots of it. But it doesn't just want any food. It will have a very specific combination of food in mind, and will have you devouring anything in your path until you figure out what it is. I had this this weekend. It took me a full day of eating cake, pickles, chips, bread dipped in various condiments, face licking etc, until I realised what I really wanted was a Greggs corned beef pasty dipped in mustard. Duh.

2. Hangover 2: The Weeper

You will wake up feeling fine. Until the realisation hits you that everything is like, just, so fucking SAD!! And so, so unfair! Life is horrible and everyone hates you, and you can't even eat your sorrows away because you're a fat, disgusting alcoholic that no one does or ever will love. Waaaah! Etc. etc.

Then you will have a bacon sandwich and two or three naps, and everything will be fine.

3. Hangover 3: The immobiliser

Don't open eyes. Will hurt. Don't eat anything. Will spew. Don't.... Just don't do anything if you suspect you have one of these. How will you know if you do? Move your eyeballs around under your closed eyelids. Hurty? If so, anything more that you do will hurt ten bazillion times more. Best just lie there and accept your fate until it passes or you die from it. Either way, no more hurts! Win/win.

4. Hangover 4: I'm Fiiiiine!

No, dear, you're far from fine. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but you, naive soul, are still drunk. Or Pre-twenties (in which case *death glare*... Soon, Fool. Soon). Either way, enjoy the numbness while you can. Because you're in for a world of pain.




So...yep. Those are what I inflict upon myself these days every time i decide to indulge in a little casual binge drinking. So far, I have found no better cure than incessant and self-pitying wailing and eating, so I can't offer you too much advice on that front... I could go on and add more colourful characters to the hang over spectrum but frankly, I'm a bit sleepy and feel a nap coming on. Old age, see.

Lost an entire weekend to post birthday night out lethargy. I solemnly promise to write SOMETHING today.... I'll be honest, it'll probably be about hang overs. After a two dayer, I feel like a bit of an expert right now. Oof!

Adverse Weather Pigeon

I adore snow. My fascination with the white stuff (oo-err, missus!) hasn't waned with age in the slightest. I'm still the first one with her nose pressed to the window, and the first to tarnish the virgin white blanket in the garden with footprints. And I love the utter chaos this weather causes in Britain. It's like the whole country gets brain freeze and temporarily can't remember how to function. I very nearly wet myself when the weather lady claimed that this week, there would be a red weather warning issued. Red warning? Sounds dangerous and a little bit saucy...

And this year - tonight, in fact, I've discovered a new favourite thing about surprise snow: the Adverse Weather Pigeon. I came across several of these normally shy specimen on a walk to the corner shop with A.

The Adverse Weather Pigeon is typically male and only ever makes an appearance when sudden and infrequent weather conditions strike. In this case, a sudden, thick snow fall over Swansea.

The thicker the snow, the more of these critters I was able to witness first hand. As others duck into their warm and soup-filled homes for protection against the downpour, the AWPs strut out onto the street "to have a look at what's going on." Once stationed in front of their homes, the AWPs bob their heads out onto the road, looking for small crashes and tumbles to feed their need to pass judgement and coo it at offending members of the public that didn't have to good sense to remain in their safe doorways like they did. One seasoned (trans: old) male stopped us, ruffling his feathers and alerting us to the "pretend four wheel-drive" struggling pitifully to make its way up the hill behind the real 4x4s. Word of warning: pretend to coo back in agreement. And always. Keep. Moving. AWPs do have a tendency to follow, especially when encouraged.

Hills. This is the preferred habitat for AWPs. Happily nested on a hill, they can fuel their need for mild drama and judgement by disguising themselves as Helpful People when the need arises. At the slightest screech of a tyre, they will dart en masse to the source of the noise, not unlike the common city pigeon at the sound of a bag of bread being opened. Once at the scene, joining the inevitable flock of other AWPs that will already be at there, the AWP will circle the struggling vehicle that is trying and failing to make it up the icy incline, shouting helpful suggestions such as "come on!","if you pump the clutch..." and, my personal favourite "ooh, you shouldn't be driving in this,love...tut tut etc" if it's a woman at the wheel. All the while, despite the chest puffing and strutting, no physical help will be offered.

As A and I walked up the hill home, I had a good inward chuckle about the gaggle of people at the bottom, attacking the poor lady in her car like a leftover lump of Hovis. I would have offered to help her myself, but there were just too many of them. She's probably still out there now...

5 Reasons I'm Not Going To The Gym Tonight

Because the gym police can't get you if you have reasons...

1. I thought so much about going to sleep last night that I forgot to fall asleep.

2. My car decided of its own accord to steer abruptly away from the gym, veering off in the direction of home instead. Weird, right? I think Butch (my powder blue Citroen C1 - I loves me an ironic name) might be distantly related to Herbie.

3. Hungry trumps need for exercise. Always. Except if you're one of those people that go on Channel 4 documentaries because they have to be air lifted off their sofas. Maybe then exercise should win sometimes...

4. I spent an entire afternoon looking through pages and pages of website for small, infuriating typos (for work, not fun). The last thing my brain needs now is to watch my moon white legs pumping away in the reflection of the gym's window for 30-60 minutes.

5. I just don't wannaaaaaa, okay??



Phew. Thanks for being so understanding, you guys. For letting me off the hook, I think I'll let you share some of my ice cream.

Heh...

I come across this pic on Tumblr. I mean no offence by it, and don't own the rights to it (not sure who does tbh) but it made me do a snort-laugh and I feel it is my duty to spread the snort-laughs wherever possible....

Screen Junkie - A Diary Entry

Behold my diary entry for the evening:

Myeh. Trying and failing to conjure up a topic for a blog post, but annoyingly drawing a blank. Been spinning about in the snow with A all day, after he decided to show me where he'd seen the heaviest snowfall on his travels for work. I fricking love snow. Especially when it sits in trees, looking all picturesque-like.

Ended up seeing what felt like half of Wales because the shortcuts through the mountains were still blocked off. We were in the car for hours, but I did learn one exciting thing from the experience - I am surprisingly local to Tonypandy... All this time living where I live, and I could've popped over to have a drink with Fireman Sam!! Legend.

The spin was a much needed one. I got home and felt all relaxed from not having used my brain very much at all for hours. I was a mindless passenger, oohing and ahhing at the pretty, white trees. And then it dawned on me. I hadn't looked at a single screen for about 3 hours. Not even my mobile phone's!

I spend most of my waking hours with my eyes fixed to a screen, and in the long run, that's a lot of hours! I work at a computer for at least 8hours a day. When I'm on my lunch break, I'm furiously texting on my phone, and any free time I get at home is generally spent on the iPad, phone, standalone PC (retro chic, I know!), or in front of the TV. And, last night, I suggested that we go to the cinema... To go look at the biggest screen I can think of. Y'know, for a change!

Technology seems to be reaching a point where it all pretty much does the same stuff. Everything is "smart." Smart phones, smart TV... And my lovely iPad is definitely smart. Clever little thing, I love it so...

It's quite overwhelming, I think, that we're spending all of our leisure time moving from screen to different-sized screen for hours on end every day. And then we sleep. And then we wake up and start all over again. I'm one of those hopeless addicts who go to bed, intending to sleep but then waste up to 30mins checking Twitter on my phone before I feel up to date enough to nod off. It's a worrying, but common (or so I'm told... By people on Tumblr and Twitter. Perhaps not a reliable source) habit.

I find that after a few hours spent on the iPad, I feel like I've had fun, but there's always this residual, low-level stress that follows - some anxiety that the time I've killed playing Hanging With Friends and scrolling through miles of Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook feeds wasn't time well spent. But what else can I do? I can't leave the house, because, as all fellow poor people know, the outside world is an expensive place. And there's nothing else to do at home bar attend to the cleaning the boy and I have neglected for weeks in favour of the iPad and Xbox. The world outside of the Internet is just plain bleak!

Maybe the next time I've got an afternoon slash day to myself, I'll put aside some time to living a screen-free existence, like a peaceful, enlightened modern day hippy. See if it makes me feel different at all. I'm just going to nip onto the iPad for a sec. This has the potential to be a blog post...

Born Again Gamer?

So. Lil sis and not-so-lil sis are getting me Skyrim for my birthday... I'm not a gamer, but I'm very, very good at getting hopelessly addicted to things. Watch this space.

Snow Day Snow Day Snow Daaaay!

Just received text from boss:

"Hey everyone...Been checking the weather reports, and it looks like the snow's going to be bad tomorrow. No one be a hero if the roads are too icy to drive in the morning."

Yeeees!!! Snow day, snow day, snow day!! I can play in the snow, build a snowman, drink hot chocolate in my jammies, watch Top Model, eat sweets, have a bath, read a book, write stuff, watch You Tube, play on Tumblr, make a fort around the sofa..I could do anything I want to, anything! My house will be my playground!!!

"If you have trouble getting in, just come in later, or I will try and pick you up."

Bollocks.

*All dreams of a whole day off of frolicking and fancy-freeness instantly melt away*


On a positive note, my birthday night out wig arrived. Im aware that it looks naff as fuck and makes me look like a drag queen... But a classy drag queen, no?


...No?

Pant Soiling, Many Fucks and a BUGGERFUCK (aka A Day At The Office)

Welp.  I very nearly had a mental breakdown this morning.  Admin manager texted me at 7.30am to see if I'd picked up office keys as I was rota'd to do. The other girl, we'll call her S, also rota'd to collect some had forgotten hers. S and I had something in common.

"Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!!" Cue much flapping and blind panic.  I'd inadvertently helped lock the entire early shift out of work.  Now, an understandably pee'd off admin manager was en route to let us in, even though she wasn't due to be in til later, and lived too far away to let us in for 8a.m, our opening time.  In her shoes, I'd be wanting blood.  Pasty, caffeinated office drone blood.

Flapping and swearing kills a surprising amount of time. So, now, fifteen minutes before I'm meant to be at an unlocked and buzzing (busy,not smelly) office, I'm still in my living room, twenty minutes' drive away, doing my best impression of an alarmed chicken.

So, i grabbed my bag, bellowed an "Agh, fuck!!" at A, in lieu of a goodbye, ran out of the door, Bambi skidded my way to the car.  Naturally, car was encased in a solid block of ice.  Wobbled back to house, grabbed kettle, splashed warm water on car, car cube melted, back to house, deposited kettle, back to car.

Car is cube again.

"BUGGERFUCK!!!"

Mad dash around car, spraying messy patches of de-icer on windows. Peeping through the patches, I race down the road, probably mowing down cats and schoolchildren I can't see.  I run a red light, and nearly kill myself skidding on some ice at a busy roundabout. 

But I make it to work on time. Ish.  One measly minute late. Admin manager hasn't arrived yet anyway, but S is there to greet me, also soiling herself over the bollocking to come.  Now, S, funny and chatty as she is, isn't exactly the office optimist.  She believes that things happen for a reason (reason being to make us suffer horrily), and by the time the admin manager turns up, our preicted punishment has escalated from stern words to immediate firing and possible death by stoning.

Admin M turns up and let us in, being too polite to eff and blind at us.  Instead, she takes the British route of talking very little and looking knackered enough to make us feel awful for dragging her from her slumber.  Fair one.  

We start work half an hour late, S and I waiting with trepidation, pooing our knickers in readiness for the Big M's (in hindsight, Big M not the best choice of label for the main office manager. Makes him sound like our pimp... Oh, well, I've used it now) arrival, which we've been informed will be at about midday. 

He's going to murder us, I think.  He's going to murder us dead.  

Stressed, I start to work with my head bowed apologetically, despite my co workers being sweetly breezy about having been made to stand out in the cold, unpaid for half an hour while the sun wasn't even properly up yet.

I am a hopeless people pleaser, and I hate hate hate being told off, especially when I know I'm at fault.  The worst thing someone can do to me is make me feel like I've let them down in some way.  I dread my bollocking, and feel like a five year old about to be told off in front of the entire school.  Exaggerating? I wish.

So, I work. And I work, and I work, and I work some more.  I'm like a machine, getting a whole day's worth of stuff done in a single morning, just to avoid dwelling and building up a humdrum chain of events into something of cataclysmic proportions. Holy shit, I think, I didn't know I had it in me to get this much done!

Big M rocks up.  I avoid eye contact for as long as humanly possible.  But it has to happen eventually.  And here it is...

"So."  He places his palms on his desk, forcing us to look down the row of computers and acknowledge his presence. "Girls.  You both managed to forget to take keys home last night..."

"Forgottolook mumblemumblemumble..."

"Sorry mumblemumblemumble wonthappenagainmyfault..."

"Okay. So, who's doing what today?"

What. 

That was IT?  After all that stress, all the palpitations and clammy fear, we don't even get a patronising finger waggle?  A clip round the head? Five Hail Marys? I feel numb.  Even a little cheated.  I'd invested a whole morning of sweaty panic over "okay"?!!  Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!

So.  What I've learned today:

1. Things are never as bad as you imagine they'll be.

2. Terror is an excellent motivator. I mean, it just gets shit done!

3. I might have a slight...just slight...tendency to overreact to trivial things.  Slight.

Just about to finish this entry, but I've had a text off S, which I feel I have to share with you guys. I'm sure she won't mind:

"You still in work?  I can't find my house keys xxx"

Lolz.

Moods And Foods

My first thought upon waking today was "woe betide meee!" I mean, after the initial wordless horror of realising that I was no longer asleep.*

Someone's crept into my room overnight, replaced my brain and bunged up my nose with a delightful mucousy substance. I only have today off this weekend because of stupid work (boo!), and I have agreed to spend most of it at the boyfriend's parents' house. FML, I would have thought if I sometimes thought in text speak.**

I've now breakfasted on coffee and LLama Bites. If you've never heard of these... Investigate! I have included in this post a handy pictorial example to make spotting them in supermarkets easier for you. They're fucking ace! I recommend the barbecue flavour. Probably not recommendable as a breakfast snack though...

Since "breakfast", my snot leaking brain has done a full, screeching U-turn. I've got a whole day at my disposal. It's cold, but so gloriously sunny that I briefly forgot that I live in Wales - a place that's usually Dull-As-Fuck Grey (check the Dulux colour chart - it's a real colour, honest!), even in the summer months.

I joke. Everyone knows summer's a myth.

I only have a cold. Man Flu at worst, so I'm hardly bed ridden. And, I get to spend it in decent company, eating free food.

Free food. Food that's free!! Today isn't a social obligation. It's a perfectly valid reason to sit on my arse, chatting and eating. What's not to like about that scenario?! Ungrateful prick.

Seriously, it worries me how much my mood depends on how long it's been since I've last eaten. I will spend entire afternoons wondering if I'm clinically depressed, only to have a sandwich and realise that I am Queen Of The Fucking Universe when it comes to life. Even my family have cottoned onto My spiking and plummeting mood levels and their correlation with munching. My sisters bring sweets on shopping trips so that they have something to medicate with when they see the storm cloud passing over my eyes.

If that's not a good reason to eat my way through a day I don't know what is.










*Note: not suicidal melodrama. I just suck at waking up.
** Which I do TBH. Lol. BRB.

RIP

Alice's Bucket List - http://alicepyne.blogspot.co.uk/?m=1

RIP Alice Pyne and condolences to your family. You were inspirational.

SMARTIES!!!

Whose stupid, idiotic and just downright INSANE idea was it to go to the gym this morning?! Getting up TWO HOURS earlier than needed before work. Who in their RIGHT MIND would actively choose perspiring and panting on a treadmill like a sweaty hamster over sleep?

Oh yeah! Me. Knob End.

Before today, I've been gymming it for the last three nights pretty successfully (for me). I'd even venture as far as saying I've been enjoying it. Gasp!

I've enjoyed being anonymous in a big organism made of whirring machines and human movement, disappearing into my own little world (even more so than normal).

But who was I to kid myself that I'd enjoy doing that in the MORNING?!

Mornings are for hugging, foraging clumsily for food and muttering demonically into mugs of coffee. Sometimes watching reruns of early Batman episodes if you can muster up the energy to watch Adam West run around in Lycra. But that's it.

My body refused to put in any effort this morning. Despite my brain screaming at it to stop glaring angrily at my reluctantly shuffling feet, it insisted on behaving like a tantrumming toddler being dragged round the shops.

"Come on, we're going out."

"No. Don't want to."

"Well, we're here now, just a little bit further..."

"NO! Want Smarties!"

"It's eight in the m-"

"SMARTIIIEEEEEES!!!"

And you know what? I don't blame you one bit, you poor, hungry, confused, sleepy body. I truly don't. People who go to the gym in the morning are either freaks who don't sleep so they don't have to deal with the horrors of waking up, or they're robots. Robots designed by the gym to make us flabby little muggles feel terrible about our burning desires to lie in and mash left over pizza into our faces at 7a.m.

Well, I refuse to be sucked in! From this day forth, I shall only exercise when I've built up a nice, big mound of anxiety related stress, accumulated by spending a whole day pretending I'm nicer than I am to people I've never even met on the phone (my job - not something I do with the Yellow Pages and too much free time) before I even make eye contact with a treadmill. I will only move a muscle when I'm feeling suitably killy. That way, I will be getting healthful benefits and protecting wider society from my stabbiness.

Now, then, body. Let's go find us some breakfast.

*hopeful squeak* "Smarties?"

Fuck it, why not? Smarties.

Uh oh. I've discovered audio books. Currently listening to Before I Go To Sleep by S J Watson... It's like...reading, but you can, like...do other stuff at the same time!

Mind.

Blown.

Happy Sunday, y'all!!

Decided to clean my windows this morning, before bothering to make myself appear human to the untrained eye.

Probably not a great idea in retrospect, because this is what the neighbours must be seeing (see pic below, as I am not clever enough to work pictures into a body of text)...

Also, I'm not cleaning the windows so much as standing in the window with unkempt hair and a bottle of Flash, staring gormlessly at the Friends box set I've put on to play on my pc.

Pee Mmm Tea

Woke up with the intention to exercise. Ended up feeling like I needed to be exorcised.

I am a great, big bag of crazy with extra "fuck are you looking at?! Go away!! I love you! Bring me food or I will kill again!! HUG MEEEE!" today.

Some of my fellow lady babes may recognise this colourful combination of emotions as PMT, PMS...or, as it is scientifically recognised, Pre Menstrual Shut-The-Fuck-Up-And-Don't-Look-Me-Directly-In-The-Eye.

I get it bad. Most women can experience symptoms of this fluctuation in hormones and appear to be carrying on as normal, but I swear I'm getting worse with age. I'm fine for a few months, and then out of nowhere, I go full Exorcist. I should have realised that it had crept up on me this month the other day in work when I binned an important order I had taken, and then proceeded to fling coffee all over the bits of paper with the super important bank details on.

"Oops, sorreee..."

And last night, when I went to the gym and stormed home after ten minutes on the treadmill because I was BORED!!! and didn't want to DO this SHIT anymore!!!

Anyway, it sunk in that the hormone fairy had paid me a visit today after my failed attempt at exercising earlier. I woke up in a fab mood, slung on my running kit that makes me look like one of those pink and black liquorice all-sorts, and drove (I know, I know. Shut it,smarty pants!) a few miles to the one place where I fancied a quick jog - the nice, flat, running track down the road. I arrived there to see that a football match was about to start. Fine, I thought, I can run around them.

Then a couple of man-children in football kit made some lewd, pervy gestures at my car. A storm cloud passed over my eyes, and I screeched round full circle and went the fuck home, swearing loudly to no one about football twats ruining my day.

Now home, I paced the house, frantic because it's a mess, and I didn't want to clean, because it's BORING! And then I wanted to leave the house, but didn't know where to go. Then I started cleaning. Then I stopped. Then I wanted to cry. Then I danced around the house a bit. Then I smacked my head on the staircase, which made me want to beat the staircase up.

Then I had some soup.

Then I was fine.

I know I'm not doing much for the stereotype of "bitches be crazy", so I'd like to add that despite the possessed qualities I've displayed today, I know for a fact that I can snap out of it and still make decisions and get by if I need to. Life doesn't stop when I feel like this. It's just a Saturday, I've been left to my own devices... And apparently my own devices would like to eat, cry on, shout at and screw everything around them today.

I feel like a circus in a wig today.

*weeps*

*giggles*

*gives you the eye whilst cramming choccie biccy into face*

;)

Amer-I-Can!!!

It's with a certain amount of glee that since starting this blog, I realise that most of my lookers (I chose lookers over readers because of how damn fiiiiine you probably are! *sassy finger snap*), are of the American persuasion.

Or I have one solitary American tuning in several times a day to see if I've done anything else worth pointing and laughing at yet. In which case, give me a minute, I've only just woken up... But I am about to go jogging, so that could be fruitful.

Whichever reason it is that I'm getting views from across the pond, I want to show my feels and appreciation to you. BY FLASHING YOU MY TITS!!!


No, not really.

I'm not especially great at being tactile (I.e if I go to hug you, someone will take a finger to the eye), so instead of offering a crushing embrace or an eyeful of pasty boob, I shall shout some American things at you, to bridge the gap between our cultures...ahem...

Sidewalk!

Parking lot!

Alooooooominum!!!!

That was good for me. Honestly, was it good for you? Don't lie to me America!!!

Oh, and fellow Brits:

*offers stern handshake*

*stiff upper lip quivers slightly*

I...um...tea?!

Becky's Guide To Life: Employment Enjoyment

Part 1: How To Suck All Potential Fun Out Of Your Work Day

1. Look at the clock every twelve seconds and complain about how it seems to be moving backwards.

2. Think and talk incessantly about food from the second bum is planted on seat.

3. Over think everything you say to your colleagues. They obviously all think you're a massive tool.

4. Complain about being bored whilst staring wistfully into space. Pick at nails.

5. Sigh.

6. Bury every bit of criticism management give you in brain for use during future meltdowns and "oh fuck, I'm getting fired!!!" Crises.

7. Avoid conversation with colleagues where possible.

8. Look at the clock some more.

9. Decide you hate any and all customers before you speak with them.

10. Fantasise about other, better jobs you could be doing right now because you're, like, so under appreciated in this one....pick nails and look at clock.




Part 2: Holy Beeps, Bruce, This Is Fun!! AKA How To Enjoy Your Job (even if you're not a cake tester or super hero.... Yet)

1. Take full advantage of spinny chairs. Wheeeeee!!

2. Doodle whenever the opportunity arises.

3. Laugh along at all the brilliant, ridiculous things your peers tell you. Feel inwardly chuffed when they laugh with (*cough*at*cough*) you.

4. Get stuck the fuck in. Whatever you're doing. Enthusiasm = faster hours (not too much enthusiasm, though. I once smacked myself in the face with a phone before I could bellow any "hello"s down it).

5. Smile. But only if you feel like it.

6. Build something out of paperclips/stationary... E.g binder clip robot

7. Make effort to recall weird customers, and later regale others with tales of their screwiness for mid afternoon giggles. Unless you're a psychiatrist. Confidentiality and that...

8. If someone brings in cake, love them forever, eat the cake, and spend the following week reminding everyone how good the cake was, so that people feel obliged to bring in more cake.

.......CAAAAAKE!!!

9. Drink so much coffee that you leave the office in spirit and enter a new dimension where everything takes on a buzzy, cartoonish quality (when in reality, you're freaking your co workers out by giggling and shivering at them).

10. Realise that, despite the ghoulish mass moaning about the pay, the hours, the boredom etc etc, you probably never would have had the luck to meet any of the people you get to spend at least 8hours a day with, faffing,laughing and eating, five days a week if you hadn't worked there. And you know for a fact, that wherever your life takes you next, you know you'll remember the good WAY more than the bad, and part of you might even miss it a little.


Aww.


Retch.

2013: You Can Do Eet!!

Happy slightly-belated-because-I-was-hung-over-yesterday New Year!!!

If your New Year's Eve celebration was anything like mine, you spent it in a friend's house, talking way too loudly and enthusiastically in your loved ones' faces and waiting for the moment you were allowed to set the poppers off. The things that go "bang!", not the...y'know...poppers... It wasn't that kind of a party.

...Mine had a round of The Big Bang Theory board game in it, so it was better than yours. Obvs. Or sadder. Depends on which way you look at it. Whatever, my team won! Give me a big, posh "hooray!"

I have great, big, sexy feelings about 2013. Yesterday, I had nauseous, hungry and sleepy feelings, but a dangerous nap in the bath in the middle of the day (because I like to live dangerously) followed by an early bedtime has left me feeling pretty optimistic today!

One of my favourite things about the new year is making resolutions I almost never...no, wait, never keep. And up until now, (and I think that this is what most people do too) they have mostly been based around making myself a bit less shit. Here are some familiar ones that might overlap some, if not all fellow resolut...ers' (?!) January to-do lists:

* stop biting nails
* be less wobbly/rotund/jiggly/skinny-impaired than previous years
* get off arse and exercise til lady-beefcake style buff
* be less socially inept
* kill less often

Sound familiar? ... The last one was a joke, by the way.

*hastily nudges hatchet behind sofa with foot*

In recent months, I've had the odd epiphany that has brought me to my temporary sanity, and looking at these old, pretty pointless and ultimately stress inducing goals, I've realised that if I were to choose a resolution from such a list this year, I'll do what I always do. And this means sitting on the sofa, wailing and fretting about not achieving my new "goals" for a while, and then biting my nails, stuffing myself with chocolate and sleeping because it's February and I'm not Wonder Woman yet.

This year I'm doing something different. I have allowed myself two achievements that I want bragging rights to by 2014, and neither of them involve changing myself too drastically. And I know that failing to achieve them won't leave me sobbing in my jammies about what a lardy, lazy she-klutz I am. And this lack of pressure makes them feel much more achievable. By the end of the year, I want to:

*run at least a 10k race
* get paid for at least one piece of writing. Any writing.

Easy peasy! And to make me feel even better about this decision, the fates have handed me a bit of luck already! My manager overheard me talking about wanting to write anything at all for money, and instead of firing me on the spot, he's arranged for me to meet a freelancer friend for advice and lunch on Friday. I love advice! I love lunch!!

Mmm. Lunch.

But, seriously, handful of mostly anonymous readers... My soppy bit of advice (you listening, self?!), stop trying to change yourself and just get on with just doing stuff. Less worrying, more scurrying!

2013.... The Year of Doing!

*nods self importantly, gets up with purpose, heads to fridge*

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.