Apathy

 This is one of two copies of a letter I wrote and stuck up in a bathroom and the student association room , because I was disgusted by the state of the soap dispensers in a particular bathroom. And they say kids these days are apathetic and don't care about crap and junk and stuff! Pssh!

Apologies for my handwriting, it isn't the easiest to decipher. 

Click to enlarge to its original size for easier reading.

Doodles.

 I do languages, so I figured since I'm so loving, 

I would make my   love accessible in 

different languages.

 I figured that since I write a lot in my blogs and have been skimping slightly on the images of late that I would quench your thirst with some doodles and notes taken from my college notebooks and bits of scrap paper from free periods and lesson time.

This is a nice message from Dana Umlaut, it clearly has something more to it ;)

  

 Spreading the love even more, here is a note that an unmentioned character, Red left in my spanish book. 

Notice how artfully it is edited so you can't see my real name. GASP!

English (C)Literature.

 Free periods in college can either be the best thing ever or the worst thing ever. In the first week of college I spent a free period with the corridor crowd reading Vogue. In the next free period I got out my scissors and glue and made something nice for my English teacher, since he had proclaimed rather enthusiastically his love for Scarlett Johannson and I was fucking bored and had nothing better to do.

 I cut out letters and pasted a "Hello, [name]!" in ransom letter style. Because nothing says "You're a cool teacher" than a style of lettering associated with kidnappers. At the bottom you will notice a car of sorts with random people drawn in; in case Scarlett didn't fufil his midlife crisis fantasy, I included a sports car to keep him happy.

I of course signed the random card as Scarlett herself, otherwise it would be a bit creepy, since making a card for your English teacher completely isn't. You will see that her head is stuck on a body covered by this season's must have; military style coat.

 However, as we all know, Scarlett has an amazing body and is a bit of a whore, so I made sure she could show off her new pink bikini by creating an opening coat!

 I have no idea why this was written in the corner of one of my margins, I think my English teacher might have been singing "Foxy" or something.

 We are currently studying "Antony and Cleopatra" original, no? Here's my take on the quote above.

 It was the last lesson on a Friday, and we were watching Ant+Cleo on video, how can you expect me to focus and NOT doodle?

 Next page is less interesting..

 A random quote that made me smirk, especially when my teacher started to sing this phrase over and over again.

Doodling helps me concentrate, so my teachers will notice that my notes are littered with random biro circles and stars.

German

  

You might remember "Overheard in SFC" and how I mentioned groping Dana Umlaut's arse. These were the notes I was taking before I took this action to emphasise the conjugation of the verb "essen" to "assen".

This image is from the same lesson, a note I took when Dana kept elbowing me, as revenge for the arse groping.

I often doodle in German lessons, not only to amuse myself, but to amuse The Gent and Dana Umlaut. These efforts are appreciated, as demonstrated by Dana's lovely message in a speech bubble above a really demented looking dragon on crack. In case her handwriting is hard to decipher, it says "I want hot lesbian sex by Dana Umlaut".

 Another doodle, however I decided I didn't like how girly and nice it was, so I changed it up a bit....

"You're a pretty flower...."

...I don't think Dana was impressed with the ending.

"...you will eventually die + rot."

 Random crap I drew. The crown on the left is a VERY rough version of a tattoo design. I will probably upload a nicer neater version of it in another post, since I really do not want to upload any more pictures on this one in case the picture fairy comes and slaps me.

 Ten minutes before a German lesson, I realised I hadn't learnt the thirty odd long german phrases I was supposed to for the vocabulary test, hell I hadn't even looked at the list. I crammed quickly turning the english and german translations into memorable little song versions of themselves. Dana and The Gent had religiously learnt the vocabulary list for a few days or a week. When the marks came back Dana and I had both gotten top marks, with The Gent lagging behind with 19.5. (I have no idea where the 0.5 came from either, but The Gent is so kind, I wouldn't question his suspicious 19.5 of a score.)

Needless to say, Dana was slightly put out that I had put in almost 0% effort in learning my vocabulary and yet had reaped 100% of the award; pride. Suck on that 20/20 bitch!

Having word counts is a necessary evil of college life. I usually have a page full of scrawls of numbers and crossings-out from where I have counted how many words I have written and how many more I need to write. This is left over from a German love letter I had to write.

                                           "Goodbye Lenin" ?              HELLO, Daniel Brühl! 

All the girls in the class agreed that he was really cute, so here's a nice little black and white from a print out that you can enjoy.

 Spanish

The image above  pretty much sums up what my Spanish teacher thinks of me. Everyone else got really nice happy face doodles with hair and sunglasses and huge wide grins. Me? I got two dots, a dissatisfied oval head and a line which hardly constitutes a smile. Obviously everyone received a target, so I'm not especially shit at spanish that I need a special idiot target, but my teacher is clearly not a fan of me.

"The answer to cuestion cinco? uhh yo escrito ..el...el....well see, I just drew a cat on a window sill." ( I hate listening to extracts on the computer and answering questions! This pic is from today.)

Some pattern I started drawing before I got interrupted by a film of child molestation, AIDS, murder, ghosts and lots of Penelope Cruz's cleavage, otherwise known as "Volver" by my favourite director Pedro Almodóvar. Most of his films, hell most spanish films include those themes actually. I don't think I've watched a spanish film that didn't have some smut in it. I love it!

This was written on a chair in language department and after two years of seeing it I decided to tipex and biro it onto the back of my spanish notebook to give myself a giggle now and then. I have no idea where "peck....peck....pecking.....at my melons" comes from and I'm not sure I want to. It might ruin the legacy of the quote in college.

 General Crap.

This is yet to be stuck up in the corridor crew's famous corner, which we all scramble to sit in, once the previous sitter has moved. Lacking a plaque, I decided this was the next best thing.

I hand these out to people who are hot. Enough said.

Basically the kind of things I write about in my free periods for this blog, with a nice biro splodge in the middle; artist licence.

 

 I was having a shit day and so I went to see the college nurse for a cup of coffee and a natter. She gave me some spongebob colouring-in sheets to help me de-stress and so later I drew the yellow fella on my friend's accountancy folder. Isn't he a babe? 

I obviously don't possess my friend's folder so I didn't take a photo of it with a camera but with my phone. So I just took a photo of the photo on my phone. How pants.

Well that was the final image, I hope you now have more insight into my life at SFC and what big girl school is like for a blogger. More photos and doodles will be uploaded as I see fit.

Have a Happy Monday!

Pulling a slutever II

My title actually sounds vaguely dirty; I like it. Karley, come have a hot transatlantic lesbian orgy with me? No? Well I guess I'll just lustfully continue writing then.

I realised there are a few things I left out from my original post, and rather than add to it, I thought I'd shove them into a shiny new one for you to unwrap and devour with your eyes.

Things I'm into:

• Innocence- Be it real, as in virginity, or superficial as in appearance.I want a goody two shoes, a blusher. I get shivers when I make someone blush; it is the equivalent of making someone orgasm for me, because they have no control over whether they blush or not. It is purely down to my words or actions and they are helpless.

• Rock 'n' roll "bad" - Think eyeliner, volumous hair, leather jacket, general vibe of rockstar and maybe a cigarette, but simply for the aesthetic "bad" appeal not the actual smoking, since the smell of cigarettes reminds me of my grandma, so they are not a turn on. This may completely contradict my previous point, to which I say Deal With It. 

Oh, what's that?

You want me to justify my feelings? 

Oh alright, here is how I explain how I can want an innocent, virginial motorbiking guitar-playing leatherjacket-wearing sex God or Goddess without being a walking contradition.

Say hello to my lovely assistant, Amanda Seyfried. She is known for soppy chick flicks such as "Letters to Juliet" [cringe] and "Dear John," [grits teeth]. However, she was first known as Karen, the slut from "Mean Girls" [love].

One day whilst talking to G-Unit of the Corridor Crew via facebook chat,  we began talking about who would be in our top three and what sort of "look" or person we liked. I replied "Kat Moennig, Amanda Seyfried and Frank Iero." 

After a while of scouring google images, I found one of my favourite pictures of Miss Seyfried. Let's break the first half down.

 Blonde hair, blue eyes and pouty lips scream PURITY and CORRUPT ME. The loose waves in her hair soften her face and her pale skin shows she is delicate and feminine. Overall, I want to show her how things are done in Cazzle-town and introduce her to the non-wrestling version of "throw down". Splendid.

Now to deconstruct the second half of the image.

 First off you see black, which has connotations of the stereotypical "bad" rock chick. The leather reinforces this opinion and emphasises her motorboat-worthy boobs. The positioning of her hands scream COME HITHER and I'VE BEEN A BAD, BAD GIRL. The thigh high stockings are a staple feminine accessory, yes, but how often do you see them underneath a girl's clothes? Only when you're undressing her or when she is redressing herself, so although they may be a rather feminine fashion item, they cannot escape sexual connotations or imagery.(Especially when they are being worn by Amanda Seyfried!)

So, let's get back to the point I was originally trying to make. It is possible to be both attracted to innocence and bad boys/girls. How?

Here is how:

 I swear on any other woman, this outfit would look overtly sexual without an ounce of innocence. But Amanda just has that good girl look, even in black leather. It makes the photo all the more lusted after, because she brings depth to this image with her blonde hair.Can blonde hair add more meaning to a photo? Absolutely! It's all about what she is portraying here. This photo seems to take on a whole other meaning than the previous two cropped ones; in this one she seems to be saying to the camera or the voyeur "I WANT LOVE", but at the same time "I AM AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN AND I HAVE SEX". And can you have both of those, dear readers? Yes. And if anything, the two should go hand in hand.

People are human. They want things they can't have; rockstars and supermodels. They want a one night stand or sex without strings, but at the same time they want to love and be loved in return.

Is this stupid? 

Yes

Is it a contradiction?

Probably.

Can you help who or what you are attracted to?

No fucking way!

To which I say, legalise gay marriage EVERYWHERE!

 Hah!

you thought this was a superficial post where I only discuss what I am turned on by, didn't you?

Ah, my bad it totez was, the gay marriage thing just fell into it.

Verbal Vomit #2

 This week I have entered several rather deep conversations. Some were about love and lust, others were about fears and failure. We may be young, but we do have our own opinions. Here is an online conversation I had with a member of The Corridor Crew; Cinderella.

9.54pm

Cinderella.

I'm pretty sceptical about relationships.

I'd love to find someone who i'm happy to spend the rest of my life with but i dont know if that's even possible.#

haha, look at me talking about a life long relationship, i just turned 18!

10:02pm

C.J.

I know! lol

its ok im exactly the same/was exactly the same at 18

i mean it's only a years difference anyway

but i dont know if i believe in marriage or love.

i dont even know if i believe this thing will work out. But i reckon if you get on really well with someone and they make you laugh and happy then its worth a shot :)

i mean there will be good times and bad times. But if they make your life a bit less shit each day, then theyre doing something good :)

10.05pm

Cinderella.

Very true!

Ain't that the truth?

Love is making someone's day a little bit less shit, no?

God I'm so romantic! Well that's your deep analytical discussion for today, lovely readers. 

Sexy Ticket

Does this seems like a good idea to promote my blog?

It compliments people, puts me in a position of authority, might include a uniform of sorts and it also makes people happy because they will visit my blog and feel very sane.

I might start handing these out at college or at the Lady Gaga concert I am attending with Germanotti in December in London.

If you're going, make sure you get one of these.

UPDATE: New email is lady.rage@hotmail.co.uk

Also, I never got to go to the Gaga concert, because I was too poor and didn't get paid in time.

You like me, you really like me!

I had a nice little surprise on the 20th; my 19th birthday. I had 1,200 hits in one day! 

It made me feel immensely good about all the work I'm putting into this blog. I get a lot out of it and I love all the emails I get and the few comments that pop up sometimes. Checking my stats has become a slight obsession, because I'm constantly thinking of what it's like in each country that visits my page; a mental holiday almost.

I had to print screen and show you the countries that like me best and where I get the most views. It's quite interesting and I'm definitely a proud mama of my little blog.

It started off as a way to publish my writing so I could show a few of my nerdy writer friends, or the people who liked me enough to read my words. But now, it's become so much more than that.

Friends tell other friends and strangers link me to their blog rolls; I get a real sense of community on blogger which I never got on livejournal, deadjournal or any other sites. 

However, I do admit I miss my mibba.com days! But now I'm older, I cannot converse anymore with teenie boppers who think that Frank Iero is wayyyy HAWT. (Although he is hot and also very cute, I hate people who say "hawt" without a trace of sarcasm.)

 

Hawt? No, he's Q'd. Fuck you.

So here's to you my beautiful and intelligent readers. Here's to six months of Verbal Abuse, thirty something blog posts, and a whole lot of LOVE. 

Getting 1,200 hits in one day was way cooler than the first time I won solitaire.

Clearly a productive past time.

Quicky.

 Things have been a bit tense and serious lately, so to blow off some steam, here's a lighthearted quicky of a post. "Blowing off steam" and "quicky" are sadly euphemisms.

You know your relationship is over when:

• They says things like : "Not even death can stop the way I feel about you" and "You are so still when you sleep. So still..." 
• Even your mother refers to them as the One Inch Wonder.
• They compare your boobs to their sister's.
• You discover they cut a lock of your hair while you slept, "...just in case"
• They call you by the wrong name...their mother's!
• They buy you a Sylvanian family figurine and it's a Squirrelian. 
• Their main form of communication to your friends is farting and then laughing about it.
• Their main form of communication to you is farting and laughing about it and making annoyed grunt sounds similar to a sulking child, when you refuse to (ever) sleep with them.
• He announces he is hungry and proceeds to eat dog food from a bowl on the floor.
• He wakes you up if you fall asleep in class...with his fist.

  You know your friends are sluts when:

• You have to stop playing the "I have never" drinking game in exchange for "I have rarely ever" 
• You have to stop playing "I have rarely ever" and in exchange just get drunk and talk about sexual conquers and fails.
• When drawing up a data chart based on romantic relationships  (much like the one from the L Word) they all link back to two or three people in your friendship circle. And most of your friends are linked to each other in a phenomenon known as Friendship inbreeding...
• They can eat a banana whole..
• You get a text from them asking you "please get me condom. In Sarah's mum's bedroom." at a house party, only to then receive a text a minute later "never mind, too late." 
• They don't own a single pair of white undies that aren't lacy, crotchless or a thong.
• They think nipple tassles and undies count as a Halloween costume.
• When you play "Truth or Dare" they always ask for dare.
• Everything reminds them of a guy they've fucked.
• If their mattresse's could talk, they'd have the voice of Joan Rivers.
• They know that sex can complicate things, so?

 You know you take fancy dress too seriously when:

• You come dressed as a dog, end up shitting in your friend's garden and bark at their neighbours'.
• You come dressed as a french maid and end up cleaning your friend's house whilst drunk.
• You insist in speaking only in catchphrases from your character's show.
• You turn down sex from someone hot, because you sewed yourself into your costume.
• You fool a police officer into thinking you are a police officer, because your costume and your mannerisms are so convincing.
•  You make your significant other dress up as robin, so you can be batman.
• You meet the person you are dressed up as and convince them that you are them, and they are someone else entirely.
• You go as a dog and end up humping a dog because "it's what dogs do"
• You go as a dog and eat dog food. 
•  You go as a dog and piss on someone.
• You go as a dog, eat grass from the garden and then retch.
• You go to the bank and insist that yes you are Hugh Hefner and you would like your bajillion dollars and sexy bikini girls.
• You get someone to dress up as you, and then you make out with them, because everyone wants to make out with their clone.

You know you're gay when:

• You are heterophobic and seeing straight couples kissing disgusts you.

• You can tell a woman you love her shirt, and only her shirt [M]. Or you can tell a man you love his jeans and mean it.[F]
• You know how you can tell a woman her lipstick is on her teeth[M], or a man that his flies are undone without embarrassing them.[F]
• You know how to fake it, but you don't have to. 
• Your pets always have great names.
• You know how to get a waitor's/waitress' attention.
• You're great friends with women other people can't stand.
• You have at least one framed picture of a pet.
• You always pick the nicest greetings cards.
• You say "I'd go straight for..." and then laugh.
• You say "I'm so gay for you" to your significant other instead of "I love you"
• You know the best films for male/female nudity and sexy scenes. 
• Even if you're in Kansas, you're not in Kansas anymore.
• You have 9412 ways to tell someone to get lost. 8136 are non-verbal.

 

You know you're straight when:

• You buy someone a mug for their birthday and don't regret it.
• You get embarrassed during really sexy scenes in films. 
• You get embarrassed when a tampon/always advert comes on TV [M]
• You know what Warrent meant when they sang "she's my cherry pie" and you want a nice hot slice of it.
• You have never referenced Bette Davis in your life and you have no idea who she is.
• You have no idea what you're supposed to buy for a gay couple getting married. (something bold, something flirty, something trashy, something dirty in case you wondered.)
•  You didn't know that Gavid McGayGay was gay.
• You cringe at songs like "My heart will go on" and "stand by your man".
• Your sexuality doesn't have a flag.

You know you're going to hell when:

• You're too busy laughing to call an ambulance.
•  You think children need to be smacked more.
• You accidentally kill your fish and then let your cousin poke its corpse for "science"
• You wish you could sell your soul to the devil.

You know your penis is small when:

• She laughs when you get naked.
• She cries when you get naked.
• She just walks away when you get naked.
• She asks if she can take a picture when you get naked.
• She asks if this is a joke.
• She says you lied.
• Her high heels are taller and she's still able to walk in them.
• She asks "how?"
• She asks "why?"

You know you like someone when:

•  You want to climb into bed with them; fully clothed.
• You know the shade of their eyes.
• You notice all their stupid fucking mannerisms.
• You have cuddle-lust.
• You want to punch them really badly in the face...but you don't.
• You would bang them regardless of their gender.
• You recognise the smell of their wash detergent.

I was in a list writing mood today, so my blog post for today reflects that. I have a nice to-do list drawn up, as well as future blog posts, homework I need to complete, people I need to draw and things that turn me on and off. (I think another "Pulling a slutever" might pop up soon)

Also, expect a nice little surprise this week, lovely readers. Shit's going to go down, and you're going to love it. I hope this gets you all curious and wondering, but please stop sending me emails asking me where my tattoo is and did I have sex with Dana Umlaut. You lovely readers NEVER comment and yet always email me filth instead. Such beautiful filth. 

I might tell you sometime, in a post natch.
Then again I  might not.
Photos and videos might have been taken.
But then again they might not have been.


Keep guessing.

Washing machines die prematurely.

I have witnessed a lot of things in this almost 19 years (as of tomorrow) of my life. I have seen some things and heard some stuff and some of it has been amazing and some has been terrible.

I can honestly say, that the other day, I heard the most disturbing sound in my life. It sounded like a crying baby being violated with a chainsaw. And what's worse - if that scenario isn't bad enough - is that I lost one of my favourite bras in this event.

It all started a month ago when the underwire from the miraculous gravity defying mechanism which held my boobs in place poked through the fabric. I thought nothing of it; it wasn't something a stitch or two couldn't fix. Most girls will be familiar with what I'm talking about, that point in time when a bra has been worn and washed and groped so much that it becomes threadbare and should be thrown out.

I can barely bring myself to look.

But I couldn't. It was my favourite one. I kept on ignoring the irritating underwire poking me in my armpit, hell it even nicked me a few times, but I soldiered on. It is difficult to find that level of support I am accustomed to. I don't get that amount of support from anybody or anything. So I was not about to throw my boulder holder in the trash, just because it has become a slight nuisance.

Wash day came and wash day went. The little beauty of a bra whizzed round and round with detergent and then, the tumble dryer; no problem. And it was warm and fragrant and most importantly, it held my beloved boobs and made them look great. Nay, not great, awesome! 

And then one night, while I was watching CSI:Miami, I heard a noise. I thought for a second I was being robbed, and God I wish it had been that instead. I followed the sound to my laundry room and walked through the underwear and sheets to get to the washing machine.

I stopped it and it shouted at me in pain.

The door opened and I fished everything out; alarmed when I smelt burning. The alarm turned to distress when I had removed everything, except my beloved bra. It was trapped in one of the holes in the machine, so I wrestled with the beast of a cleaning robot and sliced my hand. However, I rescued my bra in the process. The downside was that it was only the fabric, as the metal underwire was twisted into a bitch of a tangle and wouldn't budge from it's new home.

I eventually resorted to pliers and pulled the underwire out. My favourite bra was no more. With only one supported cup I had no hope of gloriously well held boobs, I didn't even have the hope of anything but lopsided boobs wearing that bra. So back up bra it was.

My heart broke and I took a picture to compare the injured wire with the normal one. The photo was taken on my yellow bed sheets, in case you're curious. My bedsheets are usually shades of the rainbow, just to keep future lovers amused, you see.

I remember when I bought my favourite bra from La Senza. It was pink and black and lacey, and I felt outrageous for even dreaming to wear such colourful and slutty underwear. But I dreamt. And dreams were made true in that bra, let me tell you. It was supportive, as well as comfortable and it made me feel like a sexy little whore. I stored phones, notes, phone numbers and once a few cigarettes; it never told anyone my secrets which I kept close to my chest.

We went through a large part of college together, separated only on wash days and anytime I went bare boobed. Replaced now by hideous white T-shirt bra, I can only mourn for my boobalicious lingerie lost.

May we all have a moment's silence now, in memory of my favourite bra.

Amen for La Senza.

 oh, p.s the washing machine also totally died as well.

Nose Ring

Happy No-Manniversary!

I was planning to post sooner; I have written several different posts, but I haven't published them as I was taking stock of my ideas. Often I combine lots of ideas under one title which they relate to. When I visited Liquorice's house this week and helped him not complete an essay (you're welcome), I proceeded to list all the ideas I have made notes on, but not written. There are a lot. But, much like myself, there are some which are awkward and I can't fit into a nice little cosy jumper of a post. This is one of those posts. Bear with me.

I was looking through my facebook profile and discovered some old photos I was tagged in. I had recently added a new friend and the first thought that ran through my head once I clicked accept was "Oh sweet baby Jesus, I should probably do some de-tagging of photos". It's not that I'm afraid to be judged, although I am a bit. I've probably been judged more than most people will be in a lifetime, or at least in my female teenage brain, it feels like it. Every new ten friends adds or so (so, about once in a blue moon) I go through my tagged photos on facebook and detag some. Clean out the closet, you know; so i can hide more skeletons in it. And I discovered the best photograph I could have seen this particularly awful month; one of The Boogeyman. DRUNK. REALLY DRUNK. And he looked like absolute shit.

And, I thought to myself, 

" oh my god, you used to LIKE that mess". 

I am celebrating my one year no-Manniversary and my second year of Himself behaviour. (He knows what I mean) It's pretty damn awesome.

I thought, I've come a long freaking way from two years ago; when I decided that, no, I am the only one who owns my body. And I will pierce what I want, with or without the permission of a man. Nay, a mere boy.

I've come a long way from one year ago; roughly when I finally realised that I deserve respect; I deserve to be looked at when I'm spoken to.

The thing is, dear readers, that nobody tells you what to do when bad things happen. They don't prepare you for failure, or heartbreak. They don't tell you what to do if someone beats you up, other than "to walk away" - (it's kind of hard to walk away when someone is beating the living snot out of you, let me just say.)

You are taught how to count from one to ten and how to sing the alphabet when you are a child, but young girls are not taught to respect themselves and young boys are not taught to respect their mothers, their sisters and their future wives. And those young people grow up; it's as inevitable as death and taxes, and they practice what they are taught. 

But it is what they are not taught which is the problem. Sex education in England is insane; you are told how to make a crotch spawn, and yet not what to do with it.

We wonder why there are girls stumbling out of  clubs with their undies around their ankles - if they're even wearing any - who piss and vomit on pavements in the view of leering or sickened men. We are puzzled as to why any man would beat a woman, rape her, and then say it's all her fault. There are no excuses. Somebody needs to take some responsibility, be it parents, guardians, educators or whoever.

I am angry and I have rage for all the mistreated straight girls, gay boys , inbetweens and outbetweens. However, most of all I'm angry with myself. I rather arrogantly thought I was different from all the other stupid girls who put up with being treated like crap; I wasn't.

I wish I had had someone to feed me wisdom in the form of chocolate mousse, but I didn't. I made plenty of mistakes before, during and after a period of hell; my last relationship. This isn't going to be some girly rant about how I'm a woman wronged, because frankly, I can't stand that bullshit. In this post I want to supply a checklist. If you're in a relationship, particularly if you are a girl, you need to make sure you're not going down a destructive path, led by the hand of an arsehole. I have seen it happen to so many of my friends, and yet I never saw it coming when I was in the position myself. 

Too often I see girls with guys (or other girls) who make them unhappy, and they complain about them constantly, yet they continue to stay with the bastard/bitch. (delete as appropriate.) Take a look at the following, my lovely readers. If you've been there, you will recognise the warning signs. If you haven't, keep a look out for the future. If people aren't going to learn to rear their children, the rest of us will simply have to learn to avoid the feckless adults they become and perhaps teach them that us pleasant folk do not take shit, yo.

Checklist:
If you experience any of these symptoms, I suggest amputation. Amputation of your significant other and/or their genitalia.

• You start feeling like you have to lie to them about where you are and who you're with, because they feel they have to go everywhere with you, so if you want time alone with friends.

 Phrase associated: "Oh. I'm going to the gynecologist's you're welcome to come with, but they have a lot of explicit pictures on the walls there..."

• You wake up to find them staring at you like a piece of meat whilst not blinking. His/her face is inches away from yours.

Phrase associated: "But you're so still when you sleep...so still...you could only be stiller if you were....dead..."

•  You wake up to find your significant other enjoying a meal; your face. [i.e kissing you whilst asleep. And not a cute little lip peck, a full on nomming of your mouth. This IS face rape.

  Phrase associated:

"It's so nice of you to serve me breakfast in bed. Tongue sandwich with extra drool..nice"

•  You are forced to placate them by woodenly expressing "I love you xxx" after every text, email,msn conversation, phone conversation, or real life conversation. If the phrase was muttered, said sarcastically, a single x was missing, or your significant other simply didn't feel you meant it ,repetition is usually required. When you finally get it "right" you feel like showing them how much you "love them" by getting XXX with a sledge hammer and their face.

  Phrase associated:

" I missed a kiss? Better than you missing a kidney, yes? I thought so. Shut the fuck up."

• You accept their fucking up big time, because they made you feel guilty for being angry with them.

Phrase associated:

"I can see how my shouting 'what the fuck is wrong with you?' when you stuck your finger in my cat's anus made you feel upset, and so I fully apologise for talking in such a tone to you."

• You say "perhaps let's hang tomorrow sometime." The result is them texting, and then ten minutes later calling you at eight in the morning on your mobile. You ignore it every five times they ring your number, because it is EIGHT in the damn morning and your face will not detach from your pillow until nine at the very least. Your house phone then rings and somebody answers it. They are on the other line demanding you be woken up. When this fails, they either call four more times or just turn up at your front door wanting to know why you haven't responded to their messages, even though the time lapsed from their very first text to them turning up was less than half an hour.

 If you experience all, most or even one of these symptoms, I suggest you tell your significant other to go fuck themself with a pineapple. And maybe pepper this conversation with a few finger snaps and head wiggles to show your inner non-bullshit-taking womanity.

This? It's a purity nose ring.

And in case they tell you what to do, here is an anecdote from my experiences with dealing with an ignoramus.

"I'm thinking of getting a nose ring..."

"No you're not."

"Excuse me?"

"You're not getting a nose ring. You will look ugly and I won't like you anymore."

"Oh."

(At this point he smiles and thinks he has won. I let him think this for now.)

A few weeks later we go shopping and I decide "I want to get another set of ear piercings"; my seconds. I enter a tattoo parlour and he follows. He decides he must come inside with me and the piercing guy, after he sees how hot said piercing guy was. He smiles when I choose what jewellery I want. The smile drops when the piercing guy shoves the metal through my nose.

"Oh yeah, so I decided to get a nose ring, after all."

"But I told you not to!"

The piercing guy then interrupts to say "I think it looks awesome"

Victory is mine. Funny that the nose ring lasted longer than the relationship did, no?

You have WHAT?... WHERE?

So the next time someone tells you not to do something. Do it. In front of them.

The biggest fuck you to anyone was that sleek silver hunk of metal hanging from my right nostril, it's a shame it fell out and healed up; it had such a great story behind it.

Then again, so does my hidden tattoo, but that is a story for another time, dear readers.

p.s Don't tell my parents ;)