“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

FUCK OFF BACK TO NARNIA U MEAN COW I KNOW U DIDNT SAY ANYTHING BUT I FELT UR ICE U ICE QUEEN U HATE SKATING BECAUSE IT REMINDS U OF UR FROZEN HEART

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

Goodbye Jekyll

Our cat died yesterday and it’s been pretty sad for my family, so naturally I’ve been trying to get some material out of it. The situation, I mean, not the carcass of my cat.

I’ve turned to literature to console me through the pain, so I’ve started off with classic children’s horror and traumatisation fest Goodbye Mog. It’s a book designed to give to kids to warn them about pet’s death. It’s a bit like The Fault in Our Stars, but instead of cancer it’s euthanasia, and instead of love-struck teenagers, its Debbie and Nicky; two children who manage to milk the death of their pet into over ten pages of literature. Milking the death, I mean, not their cat.

She was so lovely Mog

This was a bit like what happened to us, except my cat died at the vets under heavy sedatives, and not because he was quite nice. Also we don’t have a basket because he preferred to sleep in my dressing gown, usually after having vigorous, juicy sex with it.

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Here, Judith Kerr is portraying Mog as a spirit hovering above the dead Mog, to further illustrate the inevitability of death looming over each and every one of us. Good one, Judith.

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The book is about Mog’s spirit watching over the family, making sure they can cope without her now that she has gone. When she is satisfied that they will be alright, she then returns to space, like the little furry dead astronaut she always was.

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I’m sure all these thoughts occurred to Jekyll at some point, but probably not before a massive blood clot dislodged itself in his spine and paralysed his back legs.

MOG 6                                                         I have a pre-existing blood clot

We are all gutted, particularly George, who, in a grief-stricken state, hastily consumed a whole sachet of As Good as it Looks before almost immediately vomiting it back up again in Jekyll’s favourite spot on mum’s bed.

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Much like most other cats, George actively chooses not to believe in the concept of an afterlife, as he feels that the idea of heaven is futile if man is predetermined to live their lives a certain way before finding out that way was potentially wrong and thus is forced to spend an eternity in hell.

You were more than just a cat, you were a puma.

A big, snuggly puma.

2008-2015

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