A few observations:
A set of two unbelievably rotund man-dykes have moved into my complex.
Honestly, I know I've been throwing a lot of food down my pie hole, but this is ridiculous.
They are terrifying.
They've planted a whole bunch of rainbow coloured flags around their garden, and last night, as I arrived back from dancing, they were lunging on a couch whilst watching, I can only presume, The L Word.
They parked in my parking space and it's cool, I really won't ask them to move. In case I get throat slammed.
Ches and I decided that for next week's John Revolta dancing, we won't have three vodkas beforehand.
Twice now we have arrived slightly on our ear. Only because we're very nervous and I am of the firm belief that vodka helps me grow rhythm. But next week we're only going to have one drink before we start.
Why do I still look like a complete retard when I dance? Ches at least wore Converse and a backwards cap. I need to up my game.
Colin Firth is 50. Mark Darcy is 50. He's so fucking beautiful I could puke.
My grandmother – bless her heart and all – bought me an industrial-sized pack of cotton underpants for my birthday.
I love her for the thoughtless wonder of unaesthetically practical undergarments, however worthy of mention: they are very largely-proportioned.
Grandmere, these won't get my laid. And even if they did, I'd be haunted by the fact that you gave them to me specifically in order for me not to get shagged helpless in them.
I love you, but I'm just saying.
Not that I'm walking around showing anyone my doondies.