You think you own whatever land you land on

Right, before we get started, lets clear something up; I have had a complaint about this blog, along the lines of promoting guns is wrong. First of all, I never said go buy a gun my dear, if anything I deterred you away from gun-age as its bloody difficult to get a hold of one unless you know the right person, which, I do not. Secondly, it was a joke. Pretty much everything you will read on here is a joke, or embellished to make it a joke. I am an embellisher. For example, I could tell you I went to buy a shirt today. I bought two shirts and lovely pair of pin striped pants; I was going for the 1950’s gangster look see. When in reality this is what “really” happened; I walked around the shop, found some shit I wanted to try on and headed to the changing rooms. I saw that one curtain was partially open so I figured it must be empty, it wasn’t. I bounded into the cubical without a care in the world, face first in the back of an old lady’s head. In what appeared to be genuine shock horror, she flung her head back busting my nose and her very tasteful, if not sufficiently secured wig hooked on to my braces and ripped from her head leaving her head spotless, spherical and super shiny, and leaving me looking like a fanny esc version of Noddy Holder on his period; blood seeping through the wig, now merkin, in a way only an unkempt period virgin teenage girl knows how.

Now that, that was a lie, intended purely for your entertainment. I do not have braces, there was no old lady, it was make believe, a figment of your imagination that I conjured up using mere words alone. Ok? Ok.

The other day, my friend, lets call her Anita, after all, that is her name, came over to my house and we baked Brownies. Just normal chocolaty brownies, with a whole lot of drugs in them. I didn’t think they had worked at all until I was walking down the street and I caught a glimpse of myself in a car window and for a split second was convinced I was a werewolf. It’s my hair see, I cut it myself and I really do look like a cross between a werewolf and a hick. What I am getting at is, well, I have a mullet. Some one asked if I had done it myself and when I said of course she winced. WINCED. It is that bad, however, I am growing to love it, well, love is a big word, lets go withhhh…… get used to it. I am getting used to it, which is good because I am going away this weekend, and when I say away I mean, to a friends house down south. I am ever so excited, I have never been to Brighton before, I would like to say it was the closest I will have ever been to the equator, but its not. It will be the closest time I have ever been to the equator, bar three other occasions; I checked on a map. Pretty glamorous, I know.

I have told my friend I plan to be pretty much wankered all the time I am there, and that is true. My mum thinks I am on drugs, she stared me out with judging eyes while she was watching Worlds Strictest parents the other day, and I had to pretend I was asleep at one point this week when I was watching Prozac Nation for tips, those tips mostly being how can I get a fit therapist like Anne Heche to give me lots of drugs. My mum is wrong in thinking I am on drugs, wrong being right of course but out of sight and all.

If you are going to complain about the promotion of drugs here, don’t. I will hunt you down, drug you, and let Floyd fuck you with his lipstick penis.

Don’t think I won’t.