Tiredness and weekend rampages, or something.

I am tired.

I say tired, actually I feel like I have been turned into a human sponge, filled with water, wrung out repeatedly and then sentenced to a weeks hard labour in a juvenile sponge camp. And just so you know, that means i'm very very tired.

The reason for this tiredness possibly stems from my ridiculously busy weekend which went something along the lines of this:
get up at seven on Saturday for my waitrose induction day, iron everything and make breakfast, burn breakfast, make toast, do hair, do make up, quickly check waitrose letter to check the exact time I have to be there, realise I don't have to be there til half ten, realise I could have had two hours longer in bed, fling pillow across room in frustration, watch X factor reruns in frustration, go into waitrose for proper time, watch a million ridiculous training dvds and answer multiple choice questions about fire safety, leave waitrose, go to carnival, get monumentally pissed, engage in various stupid activities such as falling off a wall, riding in a drunkenly driven car, ill-advised snogging and tripping off every pavement I was stupid enough to set foot on, go back to friends house, go to bed at around 2, get up at seven, go into work at the bar with a hangover to end all hangovers, work like a sloth on slow pills (I dont think anyone noticed the difference), drive myself home, stall at a roundabout, get home, have some dinner, watch X factor, go to bed.

Now if you felt faint exhaution and/or nausea while reading that, imagine how it felt living it. My inability to go to bed at a sensible time on school nights has not helped this, and for that I blame Family Guy. I could be at a party tonight, and I should be on a school trip, but..... my bed is for once looking surprisingly attractive. At least, it will do once I clear it of uni prospectuses and empty pom-bear packets.

So on that note I bid you all good night. You, my faithful seven followers. For now, i'm going to ignore the fact that one of the seven is me. I'm not actually sure how that happened. But I luff you all. I do.






*nods wisely*

The haunted playground and other tales

Friday night was, as they say in France, a proper larf (or 'un rire approprié', according to babelfish. This translates back as 'a suitable laughter'. But you get the point). My friends BJ and Ewan (see any posts about drunken antics, as I don't know how to do the clever linksies thing) came down to stay, as well as Jems and my friend Cadi from swindon who I havent seen in forever. We all went out on the town, but could not get completely shitfaced because a) I had been on medication all day and apparently this does not mix well with alcohol and b) everyone else was broke. So we all got double vodka and cokes and made them last a few hours under the watchful eye of the pervy head waiter, who gives many underage girls free roses out of the kindness of his heart (read: trousersnake). Of course, this is as long as they give him a kiss in return, as we found out the friday before when we were in the same place for a friends 18th. I assume that a bunch of them would cost at least a blowjob, but although I like roses, I am not willing to find out, so alas I went home roseless..

Anyways, afterwards we all made our merry way off to the kiddies park (because we are too cool for clubs, alright?) where we indulged in some chav-baiting by pushing the swings until they swung jerkily by themselves, spinning the roundabout into a slow, creaking orbit and making the bouncing horse rock spookily on its spring before standing outside the park gates in awestruck/frightened silence (which was ocassionally broken up by some pretendy terrified shivering, stifled giggling or 'videoing' the sight on a mobile phone) until our prey, a single tracksuited chav taking a moonlit stroll ambled along and stood beside us looking confused.
'Look mate. They're all moving by themselves. Thats wired isn't it? Creepy.' promted Ewan. Trackiebums mumbled an incoherent response, probably something along the lines of 'innit', before fleeing to the public loos nearby to snort coke or rock himself to sleep, or whatever it is chavs do these days. Cruel maybe, but it bought us much amusement.

At around midnight we went back to mine, made ourselves a nice little mountain of junk food and watched 'Donkey Punch'. Jems has already adequately covered the utter shitness of this movie in her blog (http://reckoner97.blogspot.com/2009/09/donkey-fudging.html), so I don't feel I need to go into too many details. What I will say however, is if your a quite thick, fake tanned slaggy type, who cannot even shave your armpit without bleeding half to death (see first five minutes of movie), what makes you think you will survive a night on a boat with four creepy posh guys hell-bent on killing you with dodgy sex-acts/ rusty chainsaws they happen to have lying around on their million-quid yacht? That is the moral of the story. Armpits first, single-handedly tackling four killer-perverts later, but not all in the same film because that is bordering on ridiculous. And i'm really not sure weather i'm aiming this at the director, the quite thick slaggy type or you guys, or weather i'm in fact making any sense at all, but listen to me because I am wise.

On a less rambling note, I went to work today and finally handed in my notice, as i'm starting at waitrose next weekend. I'm not really sure weather i'm actually allowed to quit though, because when I told the boss about my plans to run away and never come back I was met with a vaugue respone and something about coming in for a 'staff meeting'. What?! I am a part time waitress. I am not 'staff'. But anyway, they sent me home early because all our customers had mysteriously disappeared for several hours, which was nice. I should probably be disappointed that I lost £12 pay through this and no one had given me lunch, but honestly I couldn't give a flying fuck. I have lost all interest in that job, and I think the only reason I really show up anymore is for the constant supply of free milkshakes and the amusement of pissing around in the pot room with Annie and Roxie. Our mini-waterfights have so far gone unnoticed, I think.

Plus I went and got a better lunch at Waitrose after I left. Waitrose is the future. The End.