I like it when WordPress says ‘Howdy’ to me. I feel slightly less bad about not posting for ages. HOWDY WordPress. I’ll kick up my skirt and jump on a horse and clip clop into the sunset. Or I’ll sit and worry about everything in the whole world and be very cold all the time. The second one sounds more likely. I AM ALWAYS COLD. IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. It was sunny last weekend. I was cold. I blame all the Slush Puppies I ingested as a child. They’ve slowly been turning my blood into ice, and now I am doomed. That’s the only logical explaination.
Anyway. Hello. I’m fine. Are you fine? We are all fine. I still don’t have a job. I have watched The Human Centipede. I keep calling it The Human Caterpillar by accident. Oh. I’ve had an idea. The director of Centipede should rewrite The Hungry Caterpillar. Just a thought. Mmm. I don’t really have anything to say. Just thought I’d let bits of my brain fall out on the Internet.
I LIKE CHIPS.
Motherfucker. I’ve not said anything on here since December. That was ages ago. Yet, I still have my Christmas decorations up. They make me feel less alone. Santa is for life. So anyway. I still have no job. You probably already know that, because, as we all know, the only person who reads my blog is my mum. Not having a job sucks on many levels. iPlayer gets FUCKING BORING after six months. And I’ve nearly bled 4OD dry. Let’s not talk about ITV Player. That’s for losers who like Britain’s Got Talent. (Losers like me).
I’d quite like to get up and have something to do during the day. That I get paid for. But instead, I wander round the house talking to myself like a loon then putting it on Twitter. Then I’ll apply for ridiculous jobs that will never accept my kind. Then I’ll put makeup on and pretend to be a princess for an hour. I only really do that to scare the neighbours. Does that make me mental? I think that makes me a bit mental.
I mean, I could tell you what the third word Ian Hislop said on the last episode of HIGNFY was, but if you asked me about trigonometry (which I was quite good at. When I was sixteen.) I’d have no fucking clue. I’d probably just quote a tweet from Stephen Fry and hope it sounded suitably clever. I like it when he talks about cricket. It helps me learn.
It’s got to the stage that I’m talking to strangers in the Jobcentre about Wife Swap and Jonathan Ross. NOBODY CARES WHAT I THINK. BUT I KEEP NODDING ENTHUSIASTICALLY AND HOPING THAT THEY’LL BE MY FRIEND. I really need to start going out. I could make MY OWN TV programme. I’d call it ‘Jessie’s Descent Into Insanity and Stabs’. Aren’t you glad I wrote something thrilling about my high octane lifestyle? Sometimes I only eat half a biscuit. And throw the rest away. Because I’m an utter bastard and I don’t care about the seals. I care about the seals.
Fuckity bye. x
I’ve realised something. Something huge. And very bad.
I look like a pissed off Goth.
Read that a few times. Then cry for my soul.
Every bastard day, I get up, backcomb my hair to hell, apply too much eyeliner, and put on my dungarees. And yet… people make assumptions about the way I live my life. I had a brilliant idea yesterday. A truly epic idea full of win and possibilities: I should be a Victorian strumpet and rename myself Bess. But no. I couldn’t carry off the corset chat and I was pretty terrible at prostitution.
So now I’m left with NOTHING. Do I start dressing like A Proper Girl and wear too much makeup and JEANS… or do I keep on keepin’ on with the suspenders and eyeliner?
NOW. Some may say that I’m One Of Them Youth (OOTY as we like to be known), and to those people I say ‘SHAAUP’ and then fire a gun at a random car.
I don’t. But I want to. Just to see the look on their tiny little faces. Instead I stare ahead with misery in my eyes and ask if life is worth living, before looking up, with very convincing tears running down my eyeliner soaked face. That shuts them up. Shuts them up nice.
Help me. Proper Girl or pissed off Goth? GOTH OR GIRL? GIRL OR GOTH? TEA OR COFFEE? PUTIN OR SARKOZY?
Not literally. That’s Calum Best’s job.
See August? It sucks sheep arse. Seriously. You tell me one good thing about August and I’ll shoot it down with FLAIR.
I mean… it’s supposed to be sunny. BUT IT’S NOT. Only in Scottishland does it rain in August. Everywhere else is pleasantly humid, and everyone can go outside and coo at the falling leaves without their limbs being frozen off. But no. In Scottishland we have to sit inside weeping for sun. It never works.
August is also the month for results and… the less said about mine, the better. But I mean… you’ve spent the best part of the year worrying about the exams themselves, and then you do them and it’s like ‘yaaay. Totally done. Let’sgetpissed’. And when you awake from your stupor, oh LOOK. There’s your results. It’s utter bollocks, is what it is, is what it is.
And in a post results haze, I decided to change my hair ‘a bit’. Gone are the long, black waves and in their place is a sort of short, red monstrosity. Sort of like Mick Hucknall, but in the form of hair and fail. Nope. JUST like Mick Hucknall.
So… yeah. All I can say is roll on September. Not much is happening then, but that’s a good thing, right? No horrible results. AH FECK. It’s going to be even colder in September. Ugh. Can I not just rewind back to lovely warm July? Pretty please? No. Fuck you.
Two weeks ago, I went on a bus.
I was on it for ages. And I was bored.
Then, last weekend, I went on a train.
I was on it for ages. And I was bored.
This weekend, I’m going on a train. I’m pretty sure I’ll be bored. What IS it about people and trains? Are you clinically insane with no interest in hygiene? Climb aboard. In fact, have the seat I didn’t reserve. I don’t know how or why, but I always manage to sit beside someone either overfriendly or odd. I mean, I’m all for the oddness, but when there’s a Russian dude sitting a bit on your seat, forcing you to cheek the window, it’s gone too far.
Russians. Every time I’m on a long haul journey, I’m always stuck beside a Russian. I’m not EVEN kidding. If it’s not Overfriendly Russian Man With Starey Child, it’s giggling nymphos. I don’t chose to have ‘Запишите, пожалуйста‘ whispered into my ear at three in the morning.
I hate trains. But buses are worse. The driver’s always cranky and mean. And they try and look up your skirt when ALL YOU WANT TO DO is get off the bus and cry and smoke.
And so, with this thought in mind, I leave you with THIS BIT OF EPIC.
And Hayley rocks.
And Craig looks like a teddy bear when he’s asleep.
I’m ruddy tired. The kiddwinks. They make me get up early. My most innovative way of making them GO AWAY is gently shutting the door with an ever so delicate slam and hiding under the covers until I crawl back into the calming arms of Morpheus. See? I may be tired. But I still know stuff and things and sometimes names.
That’s not the worst way to be woken up. Calm yourselves. NOT THAT KIND OF BLOG. No. No. The worst way is when I turn over at about five in the morning to find Younger Daughter staring at me. Mute. She’s been TOLD how scary this is, yet she contines to do it. In a Damien from the Omen stylee.
Then after whichever cruel way the children have chosen to wake me up… they need feeding. Whoever made food a necessity should be shot. Said the anorexic to Oprah. Have you ever tried to feed toast to a VERY tired four year old? HAVE YOU? It’s fecking difficult. And then, THEN Eldest Daughter needs to get ready for school. Another hassle. ‘Sorry sweetheart, but I don’t know where your jumper is. No NO DON’T HIT ME.’.
Yes. This is my life now. I don’t get sleep. I suppose I should be used to this. Mothering age in Glasgow is roughly 10, so I really should have about six kids by now. And I’m always cold. I don’t know why. Is this normal? Is it normal to sleep in the fridge? I think it’s normal.
I’ll go now. The telly looks good. Not in an attractive way. No. Electronics isn’t my thing. I’m not an eight year old boy. I really have to stop typi….
Guess what? No. No. Never. Not that kind of girl. No. You’re all quite bad at guessing. I’m an aupair now. Yeah. I KNOW.
It’s nothing like I expected it would be. I mean, I no longer lounge around in my underwear pissing myself laughing at This Morning. Well, I could, but I’d probably be fired. Probably. Yeah. Anyway. I’m living in … *cringes* Somerset, which is affectionately known as FLATCAP CENTRAL.
Glasgow. I miss you. You and your friendly way of punching me in the gut the second I pass the ‘Welcome to Glasgow, you won’t leave without mental or physical scars’ sign. I miss the gentle way you batter everything. Miss your lovely way of saying things like ‘Ahhll fuckin kick yer face in’. And I also miss that lingering scent of shame outside your pubsandclubs.
Aside from all this lovely grass and sheep rearing ground surrounding me, there’s not much else to do. So I tweet. LIKE A LITTLE BITCH. The mornings are the best, when I’m left with the youngest while Mumma takes eldest to school. I’ve been introduced to the wondrous joy of Cbeebies. Now, I’m not the most tolerant of people, and instead of shouting abuse at the telly in front of angelic child, I scream it on Twitter. I’m a good aupair. Just look at me shine in the bidniss of being rubbish.
I’ve become rather experienced in the use of ‘generic happy phrases that do not contain sweariewords’. Phrases like ‘DID YOU?’ ‘YES’ and ‘NO YOU CAN’T EAT THE LAPTOP. IT’LL TASTE OF BINARY’. In addition to bringing out the UTTER MORON in me, the darling children also make me be mean. I swear it’s them and not just some repressed feelings of anger and frustration at my own personal demons and that. I swear. I’ll deliberately go on my laptop, and say ‘NO IT’S MINE’ whenever they shuffle towards me. I’m so good at my job.
So… err. I’m available for sterilisation whenever you need me.
They do so make me laugh. THIS MUCH. A lovely angelfriend sent me the link to what I think may be the best thing evereverever to exist and be seen by eyes. I hope you’re ready. Have a wee sit down first.
I hope that didn’t hurt your face. HOW funny is that? It’s so brilliant. Like socks. Oh… well. Now I need to put a picture of some socks. Oooh I nearly misspelled that with a ‘c’. It’s not THAT kind of blog. Maybe you should stay sat down. I mean, socks? Too much for you to handle in your condition.
Yes. Those were some socks. What more could you want past midnight? Anyway. Back to the hipsters. I could be considered a bit of a … twat…. can I say that? Ah well. I just did. Anyway I’m a bit of a twat because ALL I wear is dresses. Dresses, dresses, dresses. For no other reason than they’re prettyful. And they’re … just… nice and that.
But I would NEVER be like the supercoolkidswithhaircuts that hang about the train station. Not the ones with more eyeliner than body fat. Not the ones with crispy hairspray hair. Not like them. No. No. They’re like a better version of 13 year old me. But they’re the ones with their skinny little jeans and their FACES. They always have a look of twisty lip about them. Like someone’s just slapped them and the wind caught them – YES I BELIEVE THAT. The hipsters amuse me so muchmuch because in trying to look so coooool and individual… they end up looking EXACTLY like everyone else with their white hair and lip rings.
Anyway, all I’ll say is that I quite enjoy waiting for people in the train station so I can see what the hipsters have picked out from Urban Hellfire NeverTopshop Outfitters this week. I might join them to see what they talk about. I imagine that they pick at each other like monkeys. ‘Ooooh is my neon face okay?’ ‘Oooh can you see my knee clearly enough in my spray on nonjeans?’. One day I’ll be proved right. ONE DAY.
LOOK AT THIS FUCKING HIPSTER.
I knew it. I just knew it.
I said that I wouldn’t watch it. But now I know all of their names – EVEN the ones who had to change them by deed poll. It happens every year. ‘No, no. It’s silly. I won’t watch it. It’s just a bunch of talentless morons’. Then I start getting obsessed. Like looking on the website for clips obsessed. I start buying Heat again, just for the EXCLUSIVES.
Total OMG. Dogface is a slag. NO WAY. NO ACTUAL WAY. And she’s a man. NO! I’m going to text Auntie Shirley. She NEEDS to know this.
So, again, I’m avidly watching. And hating myself for it. I seem to switch off when 10 o’ clock rolls round on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. Don’t even TRY and book me on Fridays. The eviction excitement is an all day thing. Even now, while I’m pondering about Halfwit and Chairon, I’m slightly euphoric that more are being chucked out… which can only mean that I’ve got but a couple more months of hermit – ness. A couple more months and I’m free again.
Proof of how sadly obsessed I am: I’m going to get Mumma to text me who gets evicted on the Friday that I’m at T in the Park. I can only apologise. I don’t like it either.
However much of a debated and ‘controversial’ show BB is, it has to be said that it’s helped me out of a few awkward silences. When discussing the theories of Neitzsche – not really – an awkward silence arose… which I resolved with the one sentence known to fix EVERYTHING: ‘So… did you watch Big Brother last night?’ That bought me ten minutes of quality chat. Seriously. It was amazing. We BOTH hate Sree. Ew. Love.
ANYWAY. BB has also forced me to lie, to cover up my increasing addiction to it. All of my ex-school friends – henceforth known as The Poshos – look down on my beloved show, which means I HAVE to tell them I don’t watch it. In my posh voice. ‘Yah. Yah. It’s pathaaahhtic. Yah. Doooohhhn’t tell mah you waaahhhtch aaaht. Oooh you pooor, thiiing’.
Big Brother is my heroin. Thank you please. That is all. Go in peace. Hare Krishna and that.
‘WHY?’ you cry. WHY are you feeling so ugh, Jessie? I’ll bleedin tell ya.
WELL. I left schooly-school a mere few weeks ago, and recently everyone went back for much Sixth Year – hey, let’s do absolutely nothing for a year and see what happens – fun. Now, I won’t lie. I miss the routine and schedule of Nazi-esque alarm clock screaming ‘GET UP. GET UP. GET UP NOW’ at six, then rolling over onto the floor, perhaps lacerating face on a cup from yesterday, going on twitter. Getting no response, then making self up and tootling off to school with an adolescent smile (glare) on my wee face.
Yep. That was what I did for twelve years of my life. Now what do I do? Wake up at about midday and pander about the house until Mummy comes home from work, then I’ll probably sit staring into space thinking of something amusing to shout at her – it’s usually ‘NIPPLES!’. Then at about one in the morning, I’ll drift off to The One Show on iPlayer.
That, ladies and gentlefolk, is my present existance. HOWEVER. I seem to have been saved from this monotonous rut by employment. Yes. Yes. Someone’s been silly astute enough to see my great potential as an au pair. Now. I’m obviously vair happy about this, but I’m not proclaiming it from the rooftops – for the sole reason that rooftops in Glasgow are storage spaces for used hypodermics. Oh, no. There’s another reason. In being away from everyone that I’ve spent a huge amount of time with, I’ve had mucho time to think about WHY I was friends with these people in the first place. There are a few exceptions – but I hate the lot of them now! Absence is supposed to make the heart grow fonder… it’s made mine even MORE bitter. If that was at all possible.So, I’m not rushing to tell them
I’m not saying I’m perfect – Lord no. But I do know that I’ve changed a lot without such a rigid routine. I’ve learned not to immediately accept people as bestiepals, just because they’re… y’know… there. That’s the thing about school. You just love EVERYBODY, because you have to. But there’s all this seething hate bubbling up inside you when you smile at THAT girl. Maybe that’s how people join the BNP… who knows?
Anyway, all this ruddy thinking made me think of a song lyric: ‘whatever doesn’t kill you, is gonna leave a scar’ can we just have some claps for the clever doode who wrote that? How true?! No matter what happens, good or bad, it’ll have an impact on you, and could very probably contribute to the person you are. So, in hating everyone, I’ve become a bitter Scot with a God complex. I bid you good afternoon. x