SHIT I HATE:
Mondays. Especially when the entire day is dedicated to dealing with a media fire, from pretty much the moment I work up. Until five seconds ago.
Telephones. I've been on one all day.
The bitch who waxed the area above my eyebrows.
Dude. I get my eyebrows groomed like most self-respecting females. I bargain for one line of wax, in the correct area, and a bit of plucking. I didn't bargain for the pash rash that's exploded above my eyebrows. Jesus on a Jew on Germany - it's not like I had hair in this region. I'm not some sort of hair-addled troll, ok.
So when I woke up to find her spooning on hot, thick goo onto my head to be stripped off, I emitted a yelp bigger than the DRC.
And now have hives. All over my forehead.
Dicks. The guy who took my seat on the train, the chick behind the counter who made me fill in a form for no reason at all, everyone.
Sounding hormonal and people assuming you are hormonal because you're having a bad day, when you're actually really not hormonal at all. You're all a bunch of rods.
SHIT I LOVE
Ice cream pink jeans
You can't tell, but these bad boys are actually plastic coated. Which means if I spill my scotch on the leg,* I can literallah just wipe it away?
*Did spill scotch on my leg. I'm trying my hand at drinking a new drink. Gin and tonics are literally 70% of my fluid intake, but I am feeling for a little Scotch nowadays.
My ice cream crotch
Was going to post this to Facebook and then thought: I'm 31. I have a boyfriend. Will my crotch go down well with the Facebooking fraternitah? Probably not. My mates are putting pictures up of their spawn; I'm putting pictures up of my jeaned vagina.
So to conclude this tired rhetoric - Will put my ice cream crotch on a better medium; a medium in which people rarely see my face: the wide open, unwalled Internet.
This is a Mulberry handbag
Two of my work friends and I hit the shops on Friday evening, I bought a Mulberry handbag - they held my hand, while I smelt the sweet sweet leather and fondled it; cradled it in my arms - and here we are.
This wasn't an impulse purchase. I have been mentally gravitating towards Mulberry for some time now.
Well I gravitated into the shop, found the Chanel-type chainy thing irresistible, and now have a new toy. What time is it? It's lash-o-clock. And I'm bringing my handbag.
People who use trays to carry food that doesn't need a tray. I've decided that this is a very British thing. I know a guy who carries his tea and Twix on a tray, everyday.
Tea and a Twix. On a tray. Everyday. It pleases me how ritualistic and routined the Brits are. Not in a Germanic "listen to Hitler" way, but in a gentile pleasant way that one only sees on this side of the Channel.
Latviah. Estoniah. Moldovah. Romaniah. Still obsessed with Eastern bloc lifestyles and socialist modernist architecture. Still think about this Every. Single. Day. Fuck I'm odd. Still weird, and still the only person who craves the cold grey brutalism of these places.
Minus the socialists. Obvs.
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