“Why the long face?” SHUT UP YOU HORSE RACIST

As I write this, I am sitting eating a stale muffin in Café Nero. I’m tired, and the woman working behind the counter has ascertained that I’m never going to take back a stale muffin. So I’m punishing my own shortcomings as a human by eating every bite.

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Much like the skeleton that had nobody to go with to the party, I don’t have the guts, and people can smell it on me, like cat pee on my duvet. I can’t even take back a size 20 dress in Primark that was on a size 12 hanger. Do the people who work at Primark actually look at what hangers their clothes are on before them put them on the shelves? I feel like they are too busy getting shoplifted by everybody under 18. Where else can you buy a T-shirt with every emoji on it?* The kids need the T-shirts to express how they feel in a society where language as an inherently human creation barely scratches the surface of human emotive capability

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I’m not even sure if I really like muffins, or if I just like the masochistic 300+ calories nestled in the pouch of my high-waisted skinny jeans, fermenting.

Two girls in the queue in front of me ordered hot chocolates. They are blonde, attractive, and must be about eighteen years old. This is the kind of girl that I am literally petrified of, because once in high school a girl went through my industrial-sized backpack because I carried all my books for the week everywhere and she pulled out my manky pair of emergency tights and a panty liner in case of period deployment** and held it up in front of everybody and some girls laughed and then I went to the nurse and said I didn’t feel very well and got sent home

I stood behind them at the till and one of them definitely gave me a corner of the eye look. One of those looks that appraises your whole body all the way down, then back up. The girl maintains a neutral expression, and when they finish the up-down look, they turn away. It’s a look that, I’m certain, all of us have experienced at least once. For that one look, every girl is reduced to a robot-like state, scanning for potential threat. I can say that because I definitely do it too.

Then she looked back at her friend and sighed and went “I’m supposed to go ice skating up in London tonight” OH U POOR DEAR LITTLE NYMPH IS IT TO CHILLY FOR UR LIL BOOTS


Let me paint an image for you of what I look like right now. I’m scared to brush my hair because it’s falling out because every so often I lose my shit and bleach it. I haven’t changed my pants in a while because I’m a bit sad at the moment. I’ve just had to grope my boob to check if I remembered to wear a bra today. I’ve just leant on my hand to think of another thing, and I can definitely feel some stubble growing there.

I’m out of money too, and I don’t care what anybody says, happiness definitely comes a little bit from money. Okay, a lot. Okay, my happiness hinges on whether I have the money to do anything. So anyway that reached a new low last week, because I tried to sell pictures of my feet online. I can tell you now: nobody wants a picture of my feet. My feet are literally hooves. In fact, I should charge people for not having to see them. It’s just ankles, and then hoof. Mum got me these adorable bunny socks that I love, but when I wear them, my bunion fills out the face of the bunny so it looks like it has a massive tumour growing out of its face. It’s something out of a David Lynch film.

Anyway, so I made a tweet about it and some guy replied saying he would offer ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a picture of my feet. I did that thing where I blinked and the traditional dollar signs appeared in place of my eyeballs. So, I messaged him.

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1 pic, no problem, I can do that. I’ll get on the phone to my neighbourhood blacksmith for a fitting. 5 pics? That might take some storyboarding.  Does he want one singular pic of each toe? Is the baby toe paedophilia? Do I split my toes apart, revealing the inner crotch of each toe?Can I charge extra for the bunion as a sort of meat quid-pro-quo scenario? It was all too much.

Sorry Omar, I’m out. All my toes are seductively crossed for you in all your other romantic endeavours.

If you’re pleased you didn’t have to see a picture of my feet today, then transfer money into my account. I’m going to set up a kick-starter fund with sexy pics of my foot kicking stuff. I may or may not be desperate.

*what’s up with the spectrum of shades of person u get on the emoji sticker packs? I’m so confused this is just like what happened in The Simpsons like they made them yellow so its universal but then made like Apu have a realistic skin tone so then by default it meant everyone else that’s yellow is white its so perplexing

**periods always happen like the thumbs up on Facebook it’s always inappropriate when they happen why is that sort it out Zuck I know u got a kid but this is important***

***also I just had to delete several pics of my dead cat so I could download the elf sticker pack sort it out I need the packs

Squidward is my Spirit Animal

I have the kind of face where people are always asking me what’s wrong. I have a perpetual sadness that is so ingrained into my face what whenever I have to leave a room, people always make an extra effort to say goodbye to me in case that’s the last chance they’ll ever get to say it.

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But then they always seem to be slightly disappointed when I show up again.

I know that look because it’s the same one that I give to my grandma every time she leaves. She wants me to teach her how to use Skype soon, but there’s only so many nice ways of saying that there’s no point, because she’ll probably be dead soon. She asked Lizzie once to help her out with sorting out her clothes, and Lizzie said, “Well, how long were you planning on being around?”

Having depression is kind of like that, because it’s impending. All the lights go out in your brain and you’re left shamelessly groping around in the dark. It feels like everybody is staring at you like you don’t have eyes, they’re just black holes which show that everything through them doesn’t have any light anymore.

It doesn’t get light again until you find the fuse switch, which can take months, depending on how hard you look for it and how much you really want to look for it.

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I did a couple of lines the other week and about half an hour later when it started to kick in, my friend goes “so, how do you feel?” I analyse my body internally and conclude, “Yep, I feel okay”.

She looked at me with sudden pity and goes “wow, you must be really sad”.

It’s ugly. It’s very difficult to describe. The closest feeling I can align it to is guilt, it’s that kind of consuming emotional dread. In my final year, dappling with antidepressants, I got myself down to a size 6, and terrified a boy I was sleeping with when he ran his hand up my thigh and felt the cuts.

That’s what depression is. It’s not changing your underwear for days, to the point where they probably don’t need the elastic to stay on your body anymore. It’s not eating, even though that’s literally your favourite thing to do. It’s waking up, then shutting your eyes tight again so nothing becomes real yet. It’s going into public toilets and standing with your face against the bathroom door, trying to make yourself want to breathe, whilst a demon consumes every internal part of your body.

It’s listening to Damien Rice and thinking he ‘gets’ you. (what the actual fuck?)

I did my first five minutes in a London club last night, and I died. I literally spoke for five minutes to silence. There were 20 acts in the night, they get pulled randomly to perform, and I was 18th. By the time I actually went on stage, I didn’t want to hear myself do comedy.

I was so nervous, and my opening line didn’t go well, so then I got thrown off and half-heartedly tried to carry on to an audience of tipsy men with furrowed eyebrows, who definitely didn’t want to hear about my vagina.

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Everyone’s got to die once in a while though, and as we all know from Batman Begins- notoriously the climactic triumph of the Batman trilogy- we fall to pick ourselves back up again.

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And I will pick myself back up. But first, I need to get into bed, and not get out for a really long time.



The Impending Doom of The Hamster Trade

As long as the pet trade has existed, there has been hamsters. And as long as there has been hamsters, there has been Syria.

Syria- what does it make you think of? No, not their firm family favourite type of curd cheese served with cookies called Ka’ak. Or their traditional sword dance. It’s hamsters, probably.

How it used to be:

You (going into your local pet store): Hello sir, I would like to buy a hamster please.

Pet store owner: Hello nice lady, of course you can. May I recommend a Syrian hamster, or as they are more commonly known, the ‘golden hamster’? Their name in the local Arabic dialect where they were found roughly translates to “mister saddlebags” They are very active with great personalities. Let me show you to the exercise wheels. For the hamster, I mean. You actually look very trim.

How it will be now:

You (going into your local pet store): Hello sir, I would like to buy a hamster please.

Pet store owner: Djungarian or Roborovski?

You (a bit hard of hearing): Ovski?

Pet store owner: No, Roborovski.

You: What about Syrian?

Pet store owner: No chance mate.


Do you see? In the wild, these hamsters are now considered vulnerable.


Why should I care?

1) They are just like humans.

“Hamsters are very territorial and intolerant of each other, with attacks against each other being ubiquitous”

sound familiar?


“the female may attack the male after mating.”

God, don’t they bloody all? Bloody women.


“they may kill and eat healthy young”

And the list goes on.


2) They are used lots in scientific research.

This is a whole different kettle of fish. Which, interestingly, are not usually tested on, nor is their frequent counterpart; the kettle.


The sickening facts:

In 2014, there were 400,000 hamsters as pets across the UK. In 2013, there were half a million. What happened to 100,000 hamsters in that time, did they die? Will more die because of the actions that took place in parliament yesterday? What will happen to the otherwise roaring sawdust trade? I don’t know, but I’m worried, and so should you be.


Obviously, this is written in jest. I’m upset and scared about the decisions made last night. Please give anything you can to help.