Hello. This is me right now. The down syndromy looking one. Don't be distracted by the pretty eye make up & giant forehead. On the inside I am dying.
I don't drink when I make the music. This is my look of pure sleep deprivation.
The gig last night was so so. My leg didn't get humped by a drunken stranger, nor did I have any bottles thrown at me head. All night, my impending doom of a 5am wake up was stuck in the fore front of my mind. I couldn't enjoy myself. Not even when the Irish guy told me I was beautiful & had glorious mammaries. Not even a smile I gave him. Normally I love Irish.
Just as I'm thinking it's wind down time, about 60 very short smiley people of Asian ethnicity walked in to the bar. And they wanted to party yo. Fuck. SO we sing, & we dance, & we take a shit load of photos, & we wave our hands in the air like we just don't care. For the love of all things holy please let this frigging end now so I can go home & go to bed. Before the humming of the guitar had died down to a meagre ear bleeding shriek (fuck you Grant & your loud guitar x), I had shapeshifted the hell out of that joint.
My alarm went off at 5. I got out of bed & stood at the door for the briefest of moments, watching my sexy currently unemployed husband peacefully sleep. I wanted to kill him.
I spent a good 20 minutes power napping up against the wall in the shower. I made an important decision in the shower about how when I am on my death bed, I want to dance out the dying swan scene from Swan Lake. I don't care how emaciated I am, I want my end to be epic. With fireworks & shit. Please let this be noted for future reference.
It is during these tiresome times of Becky when the realms of reality & my head crazy imagination seem to blur in to one really fucked up bad time. For example, right now I'm sitting at my desk. I am freezing cold & am actually considering wrapping myself in toilet paper in order to retain some warmth. My head is having balance problems on my neck. Like I literally have to push it down so it doesn't fall down. And I can't feel my nose but I'm almost certain their is nasal moisture gathering on my top lip. I can't feel it, therefore it doesn't exist. I am such a freakin' mess.
I am expected to deliver top quality customer service for the next 6 hours, with a voice like Joey's manager Estelle off Friends, all the while fantasising about hurtling ninja throwing stars at the head of anyone that dares to walk through the office doors. Stars or excrement. Either one would be just as awesome.
If one of the taxi drivers walked in with his entrails hanging out his jacksie because some city street hobo jumped his shit, I would just shrug, give him some sellotape & tell him to fix it himself. I am not Macgyver. Fuck off. And unless they're coming in to bring me cake & blanket I'm not interested today.
I want to get inside a cardboard box & sleep forever with some kittens, clouds, & a bucket of kfc chicken. I'm on scrotum watch at the rugby tonight. I must be on form.
So anyway, I apologise sincerely that you have had to be subjected to this willy dribble of a post this morning. I know it's traditionally shit list time but I can't bring it full force this morning. This is all I have. I love you guys.
1: Working. I hate it more than anything else in the universe today. Except for paedophiles & rapists.
2: All the young penis'd ones around that have Bieber hair. Yesterday I asked the young guy at The Warehouse why he wore his hair swept horizontally across his forehead like a douche. This dudes hair was longer than Biebs & hanging over his eyes. He couldn't see at all.
It is an absolute fucking mystery to me why these guys wear their hair like this. He says to me, & I quote, 'It just grows this way'. I told him he needs to vag punch his mother & demand new hair. He laughed & gave me 50% off the xbox remote control charger I was buying for Blake. We bonded over his gay hair. He didn't even charge me for the seal suffocating device (plastic bag).
|Hair does not just GROW THIS WAY. I am older than you boy. I know a thing or two about gravity.|
It's called spending an hour with mum's hairdryer & a fuckload of product.
|Lampchops your mama did some crack!|
** I have never actually done this.
5: Chicken Bacon. I just don't understand this concept? Did a chicken & pig pork & make baby chicken pigs? Do the lengths scientists go to to clone shit these days know no bounds? Well I'll tell you something right now, you can stick your chicken bacon. I will eat your bacon, the pig kind but chicken bacon NO WAY. What next a Polar Bear Lamb roast? Venison Racoon steaks?