The next time I go out, I am going to wear fake tan.
And fake eyelashes. Massive ones.
Maybe some hair extensions, Bright Red Lipstick.
The tightest, shortest Pink dress I can find.
(Possibly one of those ones with some bits cut out here and there…)
Fake nails, REALLY high heels.
Big Earrings, big jewellery everywhere, metallic eyemakeup.
…
And I will laugh the way other girls laugh, at only the things they would laugh at.
And I will say the kinds of things other girls would say, and pretend to be into all the stuff the other girls are into.
Only talk to the kinds of people the other girls would talk to.
Go to the places they’d go to, and look like I’m enjoying being there.
Just to see what it’s like to not be me, for a little while, because the real me never really seems to do so well socially.
(I’m not even sure who the real me is).
Maybe I might even like being covered in fake. Perhaps I’ll realise what I’ve been doing wrong all this time, and never look back.
…
Or,
Perhaps I’m lying my [sexy little] arse off here and I will never, ever ever do these things because if the Real Me isn’t good enough for People then those People aren’t good enough for the Real Me.
Perhaps I am a total freak, but then so is everyone, really. Inevitably some people will be my kind of freak, and others won’t. And that’s cool, y’know?
: )
In other smiles,
I watched my younger brother make a team of skinny midgets and a team of chunky giants (all with highly questionable names) and pit them against each other on FIFA 12, earlier. I haven’t laughed so much in a very long time. :’)
It’s the little things, y’know?
I feel this post is too dull without a photo, so here is my Floyd back when he was young and pretty:
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Happy what’s-left-of-Wednesday, and much love to all the (my kind of) freaks ;)
As they go, today has been a very pleasant Monday so far.
I went to town this morning to buy a birthday card and giant cookie for the birthday friend who doesn’t like cake, (I know, who the hell doesn’t like cake??) and while I was there, two things happened to make me smile.
One was this card I found in Paperchase:
It’s funny ’cause it’s true. :’)
.
The other was the scenario that played out when I stopped off at Starbucks to grab a caramel latte for the road home. It went something like this:
Starbucks Guy: Ok, what name is it please?
Me: Why do you need to know my name? I want a coffee not a friend.
Starbucks Guy: I know, don’t blame me, it’s just this new thing we’re doing…
Me: Yeah, ok, I know. Sorry. *apologetic face*
Starbucks Guy: *one eyebrow raised smile* …So what is your name?
Me: Princess Consuela Bananahammock.
Starbucks Guy: Haha, yeah alright. I’m not writing that…
Me: Aww, what? Fine. It’s Priscilla… Queen of the desert…
Starbucks Guy: *laughs* Alright, alright you win. You can be ‘Tall Caramel Latte’ if you’re gonna be like that…
Me: Tall Caramel Latte will be just fine, thankyou.
*Conversation follows in which he tries to guess my actual name, assuming it’s something really embarrassing/unusual, and I eventually tell him I’m just Steph and he tells me he’s just Luke, and I contemplate asking him for his number (because he’s kinda cute, actually, and looks likely to be a student) but wimp out.*
.
Perhaps I should have stayed brave and just gone for it, but then he might have said no and that would have just ruined the whole thing. Instead, my day has been made. : )
Next time I’m totally being Engelbert Humperdinck. And I’m insisting they write it, and I’m starting a collection of cups with ‘my’ name(s) on.
(I remember that being on a fridge magnet at my ex-boyfriend’s house. I also remember bitterly thinking at the time that it was just another lie. I guess it all depends on who you’re trying to speak to, and whether they’re really listening, and whether they give a damn about what they’re being told),
So I’ll let Pretty Lights show you how I feel, again.
.
Happy Wednesday.
~xx~
p.s. I am also a little bit in love with this photo of me and my sister geeking out.
Two smiles today. One of which my phone camera was too slow to capture, the other of which it just about got.
I will put the photos of the second thing on here tomorrow, and describe the first thing for you.
So I’ve been in the library all afternoon, trying to write an essay. I’m worn out, grumpy and braindead by the time I finally decide to give up. I step outside into the night, and am hit by a wall of cold. This is bad, because I only have my small jacket on me; it was brilliantly sunny when I left the house at midday. Anyway. I brace myself for the (too long, dammit it’s freezing) 20 minute walk home, and stick my earphones in. (‘The Bitter End’ by Placebo. Inappropriate, but never mind. It’ll do). Begin walking. Halfway down the long straight road that the library’s on, I’m just strolling along lost in my own little world as usual, and someone passes me on a bike. Except there’s something wrong about this. I can tell even though I’m staring at the ground straight ahead as I walk. I look up – to discover that what has actually just passed me is this:
A guy on a bike. Looks probably about 22 or 23 years old. Another guy – if anything, a slightly older guy – behind him on a skateboard, holding on to the bike seat and being towed along. Quite fast.
Got me thinking:
1) Do men ever actually grow up? If so, when?
2) Looks like fun. Reminds me of the time when I did the same thing, but on rollerblades. Except I was probably about 11 then.
3) Life would be so much better if we all did daft things more often.
Anyway. Here is a picture of a tiger being snowed on:
… My body needs a hero Come and save me Something tells me you know, how to save me I’ve been feeling weird (oh) Oh, I need you, to come and rescue me…
I am angry because I just read through a whole conversation/raging verbal battle between a vast number of 15 and 16 year-olds, mostly girls, the basic gist of which was that one of them (who I know because she lived down the road from me until just recently and went to my school and all the rest) had posted a status about how disappointed she felt about her life right now, and what looks like half the people she knows had flocked to have a go at her for it. A total of one – one – friend had been supportive of her. While I understand that Facebook is probably not the best place to be negative, I also think that it’s one of the worst places to be shallow and bitchy. She’s 15, life is tough at that age even if you have what looks like the luckiest life ever to the rest of the world (and she doesn’t, either. I won’t go into the details, but knowing what I do about her background I’d be forgiving of a couple of sad faces in a status now and then). She has her reasons for not being just like everyone else; give her a break.
Besides teen drama, the other thing I hate about facey is how most of the time nobody even gives a shit about what anyone else puts on there. I mean, maybe I’m wrong, but I swear I could write a status saying my house burned down and everyone except me died, and nobody would bat an eyelid.
Really annoying when I feel strongly about something, and want to share it with others and get a RESPONSE. Maybe that’s one of the lesser reasons I started this blog. I have found the majority of wordpressers to be much more ‘my kind of people’ than 99.9% of my facebook friends. And these are complete strangers. Maybe I just don’t have very much in common with most of the people I’ve been at school, work and uni with for the past 5 years. (Like I didn’t already know that).
Sometimes, and I am aware of this like you wouldn’t believe, I am the annoying girl with the sad face statuses.
So what is the point in Facebook, for the majority of its users? It seems that few people actually use it to interact with other people, and when they do they only interact with the few people they see in real life most anyway. Other than that, they just use it to see what other people they sort-of-know are doing, and silently pass judgement. And consequently feel either better or worse about themselves as a result, presumably.
Makes me want to be really weird and crazy via statuses and photos and a post every couple of hours, for the simple satisfaction that comes from knowing that people are judging me, terribly. (I do this a fair bit already, I think. Nobody ever likes anything I put on there, or responds. I take this as evidence of the negative judging/not-giving-a-damn taking place).
Perhaps I’m taking it all too seriously. Perhaps facebook was never intended to be used by people who actually think. Perhaps I should fit in with the crowd and start being interested in Kim Kardashian and teacup pomeranians. And develop the perfect ‘I’m a little teapot’ pose and pout combo, and only allow the photos where I’m in that position (and my hair looks good) to be tagged and published, so the world thinks I never look stupid in life. (The world does not think that, by the way. Some of us have seen you with no makeup and uglyhair. Silly girl).
On a side note; I cannot guarantee that if someone presented me with a teacup pomeranian as a gift, I wouldn’t have a go at finding out just how far I could throw the stupid thing.
(Joke, joke. It’s not Mr. Schnugglekins’ fault his existence is ridiculous – people made him that way, after all).
The really sad thing is, I have tried to delete myself from Facebook numerous times. Every time, I come crawling back. Why?
I think at the moment it’s mainly so I can continue to steal the photos of myself and my uni friends that other people put on there. I think once uni’s over and I’ve decided which select few people I’m actually gonna keep in touch with, and acquired various other possible methods of getting in touch with them, I will save all the photos of the crew having reet good times and all that, and then actually delete myself for good. Or will I? ;)
It’s just… the whole concept is just absurd. And I can’t help but think we’re all worse off by its existence. I know I am.
…
Here is a picture of the aforementioned Mr. and Mrs. Ducky from Life Plan Q, who (what did I tell ya???) seem to have had a ‘disagreement’:
…
You’re young, Mrs. Ducky. You don’t need love. Waddle for your life…
Because knowing bad stuff is going to happen does nothing to make any of it any easier when it does.
…
Let me tell you a story about the house I live in.
Not long after we moved in here, the boiler broke. Eventually the landlord sent a guy in to fix it, but we had cold showers for far too long.
A couple of weeks later the handle fell off the downstairs bathroom door. The landlord eventually replaced it.
Shortly after this the dishwasher broke. Yes, I know that as students we’re privileged to live in a house with a dishwasher, but still. The point is that it broke. That one managed to more or less fix itself, fortunately.
Then the front fell off one of the drawers in the kitchen, shortly followed by the kickboard underneath the cupboard beneath the sink. Both were, after a few weeks and a few too many phonecalls/texts, bodged back into place by the landlord.
Not so long after this, the garden fence blew down. The landlord came and took it away, and never replaced it. There is now nothing separating our garden from our (student) neighbours’.
Just before Christmas, my set of shelves fell off my bedroom wall. If I’d been in bed when it happened I probably would have suffered a broken leg, as my bed was (and still is – like I said before, I like to live on the edge) directly below them. Luckily I was at work at the time so only a couple of my things got broken. Landlord eventually put the shelves back on the wall, but I now don’t dare put anything remotely weighty on them, so they’re pretty much useless. There are still big ugly holes in the plaster from the old fixtures.
When I (and yes, I know this is own my stupid fault) knocked a jug full of water onto the bathroom floor whilst cleaning Apple Strudel’s tank, it leaked through one of the kitchen lights, and the kitchen ceiling. The landlord does not know about that one yet.
A few weeks ago, the hoover blew up. Full-on, smoke and everything. Landlord just got us a new one. Identical to the old one, and probably likely to suffer the same fate very shortly.
Currently, we have a rusty and temperamental washing machine, 4 spotlights out in the kitchen, 2 spotlights out in the bathroom, a temperamental spotlight in my room, and the dishwasher has stopped working again. One of the blinds in the front room is broken, as is one in my housemate’s room. (The same housemate whose handle fell off her window when she tried to open it). The drawer that broke in the kitchen before has broken again. My wardrobe door is decidedly dodgy and I fear for my life when I get dressed every morning. Oh, and the thing that holds up the shower head is broken and keeps coming away from the wall.
To top it all off, when I went to hang my washing out on the line the other day and take advantage of the sunshine, almost every peg I tried to use snapped in half.
All of this makes me want to say something along the lines of
House: Listen to me, honey. It will all be ok. One day you will belong to someone who actually gives a damn about you, and everything will be fixed. Properly.
If only this could be my house, I swear I’d be that someone.
It’s not you, House. It’s them. Also, no matter how shitty they make you feel, never forget that you have (functional capabilities notwithstanding) a very pretty kitchen. And your bathroom (Ikea shower [definitely] notwithstanding) is rather nice-looking too.
Narcissistic extended dwelling place based metaphors. Such fun. :’)
Anyway.
Here are a couple of pictures I smiled at today when I rediscovered them – of the Snow Gorilla my younger brother made last year:
Now just you try telling me that’s not awesome. :)
Everything, was everything, but baby it’s the last show.
Everything, could be everything, But it’s time to say goodbye so,
Get your last fix, and your last hit, Grab your old girl with her new tricks,
Honey yeah, it’s no surprise, that I got lost,
In your brown eyes.
(Lady GaGa, Brown Eyes)
~
[I would like to know why it is that there is always someone basically worse, who wins simply because they got there first].
Anyway.
I would love to be writing here about how I jumped out of a plane yesterday and it was AWESOME. Unfortunately it rained all day so we couldn’t skydive. Everyone pray for blue skies on March 18th for me please. ;)
As for smiles…
1) Yesterday my sister Kelly and I were attempting a 3,000 piece puzzle of a forest scene featuring European wildlife. On the back of the box were listed, in every language imaginable, the featured animals and birds. Let’s just say that Kelly can be hilariously daft at times, and a song thrush will forever more be known to me as a ‘Singdrossel’.
2) Here is my favourite of the old family photos that I had a sift through while home:
*Not the 2003 album by Finnish pop-rock band The Rasmus. Although ‘In the Shadows’ will always be a classic and I always wanted to wear feathers in my hair like their lead singer did. I was such a cool kid. *puts on that song and sings along for old times’ sake*
…
Ok so I’m reducing, reusing and recycling, here. I wrote this a fair while ago and put it on DeviantArt, where pretty much nobody has, and nobody will, ever read it. I am seriously considering deleting my account – hence going through all my stuff on there. I have outgrown it. I made that page when I was 15(?) and following in the footsteps of a friend (or two). I’ve kept it this long because there are memories there, I guess… but now I’ve decided it’s going. I’ve also decided that I’m NOT giving you that link. Sorry.
Anyway, the point is that I’ve recently taken to passive-aggressively writing letters to people who have inspired strong feelings in me. Y’know, whenever I’ve been unable for whatever reason to say all the things I’d like to say to them. The following was the easiest, and the most therapeutic.
…
To Jungle Boy,
I would say something like, ‘Why Jungle Boy? You’re 25 years old…’
But you seem so very childish in your outlook, based on everything that you’ve shared so far, that it fits. You are just a boy.
You seem to think you know what you need, and don’t understand why it isn’t all just being dropped at your feet. I think if you could just grow the hell up, everything else might start to fall into place.
You go to great lengths to show how depressed you are. You make that crystal clear in every single word you write. You make it even clearer in the ones you don’t write. You write about how you bought a new jacket today, or went to a gig last night, but it’s always really about the way you say it. About how empty you feel, how little meaning anything that happens in your life holds for you, how nothing ever makes you feel good.
This is mainly because you went to university and are 25 years old and clearly carry with you the leftovers of a high opinion of yourself, yet you work in Morrisons and live with your parents.
I can see how that must grind, except you don’t seem to have tried all that hard to change anything. (Oui, J’accuse).
You’re far from alone in the situation you’re in, but not everyone who’s fallen in the same way refuses so stubbornly to pick themselves up. Most of them are at least prepared to look up. And smile, now and then.
You’re angry with your father for making you apply for, and not simply handing to you, a job at the office where he works. You accuse him of ‘leaving you to drown in a Nile of shit’. Is it his fault that that’s where you feel that you are right now? He probably earned his success. Worked for it, struggled for it, suffered for it. By himself. Just because he may be in a position to hand to you on a plate what he worked hard for, why should he? If you were as worthy as you seem to think you are, you’d get yourself there. Maybe you will, and Good Luck. Although your lack of attention to detail, which I’m inferring from the way that you don’t always spell everything right – in a blog, for god’s sake – leads me to think that you probably won’t try hard enough and all the luck in the world won’t help.
(By the way; Your = belonging to you. You’re = you are. DEFINITELY <– is spelt like that. De-finite-ly).
On a side note: If you stopped wallowing in whatever the snivelling, petulant child equivalent of self-pity is, just for a second, you’d realise that from some people’s point of view you’re fucking lucky.
I don’t know this for a fact, but I suspect that you’re an only child. I’m sure you are. You certainly talk, and seem to act, like the stereotypical spoilt brat. You’re the classic believer in ‘The World Owes Me A Living,’ throwing your toys out of the pram because they’re not the exact ones you wanted. While it’s not your fault that you never had a sibling to share with, I just can’t understand how you can be so utterly incapable of loving anyone, or even caring for anyone, except yourself. The way you talk it’s as though other people – even the ones you call friends – are to be derided, sneered at, used as examples of ‘worse than myself’.
You write without emotion, without feeling, without… anything. I haven’t actually met you so I can’t be sure, but if this is how you are with people in real life then there’s no wonder so few of them want to be around you. I was curious to see if there was a ‘real you’ beneath this incredibly hostile front. You were the same to me behind the scenes – me with my efforts to show an interest in your life, to be empathetic and yet optimistic in the face of your insufferable nihilism, to inspire some sort of reaction from you – as you are to the world at large. Cold, blank, unresponsive. Nothing to offer to anyone and nothing to gain from anyone. Just a guy who works, (and hates it) goes out and buys clothes, (and hates it) goes out and drinks and dances with friends, (and hates it) occasionally gets laid after one such night out (and hates it). A guy who finds a sickening amount of negative things to dwell on in absolutely everything that happens to him, even a holiday abroad with a best friend.
I mean, fair enough you answered my questions – but only barely. You were only being what you thought could be taken as polite. You asked me some questions in return, but it was clear that you didn’t care for the answers.
You objectify women – myself and ‘the Romanian girl’ being the only almost-exceptions. And only, I suspect, because you haven’t met either of us in real life. By the way, why doesn’t the Romanian girl deserve a name? Or if you’re protecting her privacy, at least a better moniker than the one you give her.
But then I suppose you do refer to your ex as ‘The C**t’ (see, I couldn’t even say it, and I’m not even saying anything out loud) and to one of your closer female friends as ‘The Moomin’; Romanian girl seems almost affectionate by comparison.
I’d say something about how broken this shows you up to be, but I think you’d revel in that. You want to be broken because you think it’s what you’re good at. You’re presumably convinced you could never be as good at anything else, so why try. Right?
Whether you need it or not, you don’t want help. If someone throws you a lifeline you either pretend not to see it and wait until it goes away, or you choke them with it. You like drowning in your Nile of shit.
You will probably never see this. I really wish I could say it all to your face, but that was never going to be an option. It would be an interesting conversation to have over unethical, unsatisfying coffee though. Branded non-coffee that I might end up just pouring over your head if you became too infuriating (being as I am one of those lower life forms who are capable of both fury and impulse).
If you really wanted to be saved, I think everything I just said would be good for you to hear. You think you’re better than everyone else because you can see through all the superficial crap that makes them happy. You’re missing the point. Which is that They’re Happy. What the Hell are you?
And if by some bizarre twist of reality you actually just read all of this, feel free to prove me wrong and respond. I’ll be very surprised to find that you’ve been keeping an eye on me here, though. I read your blog and you know I do, but why on earth would you want to read things that I write?
…
So there you go, folks. Don’t ever get to me; I might just write a nasty letter for you not to read once you’re gone.
;)
Eh, that was all a little bit emo. Smiles, smiles…
Hmm. I was at work this morning (the deli counter, with two women my mum’s age…) and for some reason this came into my head:
…
Let’s just say that when this happened I didn’t exactly *not*sing it out loud.
plain(stephy)jane 
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