DIY beauty (including epilating and breast pumping) and other bits and pieces

I was supposed to go on holiday last week. Nothing much, just going back home for a long weekend. None the less a holiday, just a few days away from it all, a bit of fresh air, and water that stinks of rotten eggs. To use the nicer description. Anyway. Didn't happen. The embassy of the country that on CIA's website is described as "slightly smaller than Oregon" messed the whole thing up, didn't deliver Spikey's passport when promised and for some reason really really really wanted to print his name wrong, so 15 minutes to closing time, we changed the tickets, and are now going in mid-september. That cost us one hundred pounds. Lovely.
You'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit focused on money these days. Account is empty (and then some), and I just can't seem to be able to go back to a lifestyle where I allowed myself the luxury of having lunch in a café - once a month. Get extremely depressed by the thought of not being able to spend seven pounds on a book, a gift, to a sick friend. Refuse to let go of my morning latte. And my Wednesday ready made Sainsbury's pizza (By the way. Would like to make another complaint to Sainsbury's. Why why why have they moved the ready meal section so far away from the entrance. You used to be able to walk right in, grab your pizza and whoossshh through the "baskets only" tills, and out you were. Perfect. Not any more. I want it back). Anyway. Enough moaning.
I had a haircut the other day. I'm getting a bit creative, so I went to see the Two In The Tower and persuaded the female part to work her magic with the scissors, resulting in a fresh new look and only a slightly uneven fringe. Job done. Tonight I'm doing a DIY haircolouring. Reckon I've saved at least a hundred pounds there.
I just realized something. Next month, Spikey and I will have been togther for HALF A YEAR. Fancy that! Most of the time I think he's absolutely wonderful, apart frome the times when I think he's a right cunt. Guess you can't avoid that completely. Sometimes get the feeling I'm a hormone raging teenage girl. Aaaahh, savour that feeling of youthfulness.
I was chatting to a dear friend of mine on messenger yesterday. She lives in Denmark and just had a baby boy. She was a bit slow on the keyboard, but I forgave her because she was busy pumping her breasts at the same time. She's had some infections in them. Yeah, I don't really want to go into that any further. I was epilating. Aaahh, the bonding effect of self inflicted female torture, all the way across the channel. Yeah, let's not go any further into that, I might reveal my extraordinarily bad geography knowledge. It was lovely to catch up with each other, but I ended our session when I moved onto the bikini line. Yeah, I won't go any further into that.
Hmmm... what else is new... Yeah, Puma and I have a new flatmate. I'll have to find a name for her, but it's a bit difficult since she's invisible. Her shampoos have appeared in the bathroom, so I assume she's living here now. So we've made space in the fridge.
I think that's it for now, hugs and kisses and lotsa luv.

I think my father might be gay...

Is it normal for your dad to tell you that you really need a haircut (not because you're a bloke with long hair, but because you're a girl who's been too skint for the last 6 months to go see a hairdresser)?
And to call you up just to chat (in the middle of a week-day, while you're at work)?
And to gossip about you to your friends?
Who's your daddy?

Trash

This seems to have become a junkyard for emotional outbursts.
My apologies. Will try harder to be interesting. Can't think of anything right now.

...

this is my bad day song, today is a bad day. "a job that slowly kills you, bruises that won't heal" [I feel I've wasted 5 years in uni]
Doing idiotic things, I can hardly hold back the tears when I'm given yet anoter pointless task served with a gluttonous dose of braindead justifications.
Arguments with the boyfriend becoming more frequent, is it all me, am I just pathetic? Are we all right? Why won't he come see me, is he all right? with us? He says he has a headache but I worry, I try not to, does he not want to see me - and my stomach turns into a tight knot and I can't help worrying - should I not?

langavitleysa...

l o n g n o n s e n s e

I've got a friend who likes showering. She showers up to 3 times a day. Sometimes quite undeliberately. Sometimes she even showers in milk and coffee. If we count the times she does that, we're up to 4-5 times a day. I like showering too. Only once a day though. There may be about a billion dysfunctional characters in my (neighbour)hood, but now I've got a very functional bath with a very able shower, I am happy. Which is something that is not true of my baby these days. My baby had a shower. In red wine. My mum, of all people, decided to give it a shower. Well, not so much decided to as just happened to. Serves me right to get her drunk. So my baby drowned. For those of you who don't know, my baby is what connects me to the outside world. My umbilical cord, if you like. My laptop. And sadly, I feel old. Too old to throw a tantrum and demand a new one. So here I am, sitting with a borrowed baby, in my new living room, writing these lines. I had envisaged myself, sitting in my room, the soft light from the screen flattering my complexion, enhancing my cheekbones, casting dramatic shadows on the white washed walls, while I tap away, Carrie Bradshaw style (ahem... CB gone bankrupt and only left with a meager collection of 20 pairs of shoes). Mental note: must go shopping. Ooh, almost forgot. I did go shopping. Sweet Spikey has Little Portia permanently in London now, so we set off from N10 into town, me co-piloting and almost not getting us lost (no wandering into bus lanes this time). After having found a parking spot (iz a long ting), we went into the shop, skinny jeans on the wish list. Found the perfect pair, tried on a size 29. Hmmm... not bad. The shop assistant looks at me, not happy. Hmmm... what size is this? I get nervous, eeehhh 29 I think... Hmmm... wait a second... Comes back with another pair - Here, try this... How embarrassing, I thought they fitted and here he is, with a bigger size... oh... waitaminute... size 28! How am I going to squeeze into that!!! Take a deep breath, go into the fitting room again. I am so gonna do this. Puuuull them up, force them shut, there! I can now officially not breathe. Stagger out, shop assistant goes yes! much better!!! So I buy them. I may be old, but I'm nowhere near grown up, if someone says I can fit a 28, I bloody buy the 28. thankyouverymuch!
I haven't written in a while, but I've been thinking about it a bit. Like, I want to do an experiment. I've read that Britney Spears is the most googled girl in the world, so I thought I'd put her name in here - just to see how many people get lost and end up in here. I wonder who's the most googled man in the world... Any suggestions?
Anyway, this is becoming a long ting, so I'll end it for now. Got to find a flatmate. It's a tricky ting to get people to move to Crack Street...
Oh, by the way... some new links over there to the left... anyone know how to put in new links without everything starting to look so messy?