Friday, 8 April 2011

Indefinite Hiatus...

Annie Phetamine, for better or worse, exists now only as a hollow persona which may be utilised in future should I return to poetry...if Alan Gillis is to be believed this should occur around the 10th of Never.

Me and my little sea monkey are off to start our new life together, away from Edinburgh, away possibly even from Manchester and caring little for the bridges I was unable to rebuild before my departure.

I thank the friends who, even in my prolonged moments of silence, have still supported me and assure you all (though a return to social networking is likely never to happen) I will be in contact with you all in time.

To those who find themselves unable to be happy for me, view me only with scorn or still believe the bullshit I fed them in the depths of my despair -- take heart, you never knew me and therefore need not feel obliged to even note my passing from your life.

Still, we will meet again. You have dues to pay.

This blog has run its course, that is not to say another may not appear in its place, but this cyber stronghold is no longer populated.



Monday, 7 March 2011

Changing My Ideals (And Dress Size)...

Three days ago I realised the entirety of my wardrobe (spare two pairs of hipster jeans and the band tee's I've managed to acquire through people getting naked at gigs) no longer fits me.

Admittedly, seeing as most of it was begged, borrowed or stolen and I've since run out of money with which to buy new attire - I'm a little fucked off.

However, it's proof the little sea monkey in my tummy is putting his ever-forming noggin into this growing lark at full pelt.

*Terribly proud.*

Plus, two failed attempts later it's been made expressly clear I'm not going to be needing my glad rags any time soon...I actually fell asleep, fully clothed, about ten minutes before I was due to depart each time.

[Club opening hours bother me, is there some requirement that it must be almost the morning after your 'night out' before you're even allowed in? It's the result, less of a prudish view of alcohol consumption - being that you can go to the pub as of 10am - and more an outdated, secret fundamentalist's view to music and dance, I reckon.]

So much has happened since I last blogged that it would be utterly redundant to attempt to describe it in any detail so I'm just going to leave it at this; the father knows and he is not a happy little munchkin.

Baby news aside, I woke up with a bit of a bug up my arse this morning.

As a woman who has (except in her few moments of weakness) been positively thrilled to be both shapely and actively shitting on the doorstep of mainstream fashion, it offends me that I'm so riled up when men trade me in for, well, a model.

[All 100lb of meticulously styled, half-dead, vacantly staring, internally barren, soul sucking bad juju that they are.]

Ladies, I do not buy your bullshit - that is not your 'natural state of being'.

I take your gastric band, computer enhanced reality and I substitute my own - the true feminine ideal; bearing a child.

Twist your noodle round that one.

As for everything else - give me jeans, a tee, some home-made knitwear, clippers, as many colours of Directions dye as the nearest shop stocks and a soundtrack of real punk rock.

You bailed at the first click and point.



Sunday, 20 February 2011

Belated Baby Stuff...

OK, so I owe somebody a thank you.

If you hadn't been such a massive tit I'd still be haplessly chasing after you, getting absolutely nowhere and would never have fallen pregnant.

This little bundle of cells has brought me more happiness in five weeks than you could probably have mustered up in a lifetime.

[Admittedly it's got me just as paranoid but that's a compromise I'm willing to make.]

So, for those checking my blog on a daily basis (and noticing that two entries have been condemned to the recesses of 'I totally never wrote that') - Annie Phetamine is five weeks pregnant and all being well, intends to begin her collection of Pokem...I mean 'family'...late October.

On that note, I've written something new

To I, our one bedroom,

One bathroom home,

You first made yourself known.

Didn't hesitate to stipulate

Ground rule designation

For our cohabitation;

When, one week late, I awoke

To discover the smell of smoke

Which I could locate from

Across to road, knocked me sick.

I couldn't look twice at a drink.

In four weeks you've kicked

Every habit I'd picked up

In twenty years without an us.

I'm eating my five a day

Snacking on delectable

Health-food-store selections

Whose names I can't even say.

Popping vitamins as though

Radio 4 had just announced a

Terrorist warning had been taken out

On every Holland & Barrett

Avoid dried meats,

Soft cheese

And caffeine.

'Keep calm and drink tea'

No longer applies, you see,

Because I am perpetually fucking stressed.

Each twinge has me running to the Internet

Where other mums-to-be amidst

'Three miscarriages and one ectopic pregnancy'

From Tennessee, do their best

To both reassure and put the fear of God up me.

Currently, you're the size of a sesame seed,

But in two more weeks

You'll have an audible heartbeat.

© Annie Phetamine

Much love.



Saturday, 12 February 2011

Epic Win!

My mother made me a sock monkey.

The sheer joy of its existence brought about the reappearance of my infamous *vacant face*.

If anybody would like one, they're made to order, fully customisable and only £10.

They're also spectacularly cute.

I'm off to spend money I don't have, out in the Derbyshire countryside.



Thursday, 10 February 2011

Clandestine Blogging and General Mischief...

I'm currently loitering at the back of a lecture hall in the School of Divinity.

I'm supposed to be diligently arguing against the contradictions in Origen's theology (for those not in the know: very self-righteous Christian founding father - eventually condemned as a heretic) but being that I read half his work, skimmed the Wiki and am on countdown until I can get the train back to civilisation...this studying bollocks is just not happening.

Thus far I've managed to waste time browsing tattoos on BME and DeviantArt, reading the recent updates on the few blogs/Tumblr's that I follow, playing with Stumble Upon and have eventually resorted to reading through old emails and evaluating my life.

[The former is far more interesting and if you're only reading this for the mildly embarrassing, shamelessly candid entries I suggest scrolling to the end.]

For those still with me, I had a bit of an epiphany the other night.

I'm not the product of my upbringing, I'm the product of what I said my upbringing was.

Given, it's been eventful, but genuinely if I had to throw it into summary format it would probably run thus:

Grim beginning, but technically a lucky escape because my father was (from what I've heard) an utter dick. Very loved by the rest of my family - probably bordering on spoilt. Bit of an oddball in school, understood fairly early that pretending to be fictional characters wasn't the best way to win friends - did it anyway. Over-achiever, stint of super sporting prowess. Harshly treated but I remember NONE of it. Led to scholarship at tiny (spectacularly weird) all girls school. Six typically mouthy, growing-up-trauma-filled but epic years. College, still unfeasibly academic, but a bit of a drunken rebel. Dated a teacher. Regretted it. 'Angry young woman' phase lost me Cambridge. Really wasn't bothered. Moved to Edinburgh. Continued to have shite taste in men. Took up smoking. Two and a half years of craziness and one near-death experience later, quit smoking, picked up poetry, cut down drinking, still look like a fictional character, not quite as academic but generally peachy keen.

Boring, non?

You see, usually when I tell that story the focus rests entirely on justifying why I act like an absolute knob but really, when contextualised and minus the over-emphasis (creative license), the only explanation for my eight year crazies is that I decided that was the way I 'ought' to act.

Upshot, I'm bored.

So I'll talk myself out of it the same way I went in.


Much better.

Now, ahoy to everybody that skipped the pseudo-psychological bollocks...

Rupert Wanderlust, sorry mate, but you're not out the firing line just yet - I've been looking back into the recesses of my 'Replies' folder and I thought I'd bring some of your killer flirtation /bullshit tactics into the public forum.

Take a gander at these gems:

Re: The Formative Emails "Without being too specific, I'm hoping to draw inspiration from your delicate sensibilities. ;)"

Considering the fact you spend a majority of your time ranting about prostitutes, am I supposed to be flattered?

Re: My Poetry "I want you to read this stuff to me in the way it was intended whilst choking me with a crudely cut length of velvet. Is it wrong for me to find this stuff mildly erotic?"

Yes. It is.

Re: The First 'Date' "you are stunningly beautiful. Every pose reminded me of our time together the other night and how fucking lucky I was to be so close to you. I'm unimaginably aroused right now."

That line only works in Black Lace novels and would-be-classy British pornography - not real life.

Also, I was 16 in those photos...

Re: False Promises "Remember that metaphorical book of yours? I'd like to thing [sic] we could pen ourselves a new one. I'm ranting (alcohol fuelled maybe?) - my point is simply this, I want *you* + emotional baggage."

Get yourself a bigger luggage rack for future affairs then, genius.

Re: The End "it's time to get on with our lives. (I think I win on the 'sounding like a twat' front)"

Well, it would just be plain rude to disagree.

[I said I was sane, not a fucking saint...*giggles*]



Tuesday, 8 February 2011

Spurious Update and a Note to The Recently Deceased Rupert Wanderlust...

First off - an open question - who the fuck decided to stalk my blog to borderline compulsive levels this afternoon?

My stats counter went utterly insane between 3 and 5pm and, being that I haven't had Internet access for most of the day (between trips to the dry cleaners, sewing on a multitude of missing buttons and buying 'it's OK you're practically a spinster' cake from The Manna House), it can't have been me...

Not that I purposefully bump my hits anyway.


Swiftly changing the subject, I'm actually feeling a damn sight more cheerful than I've been for a few weeks.

After being called to retrieve my flatmate yesterday evening (who had been drinking for going on sixteen hours), apologising to the bar staff and dealing with his distinctly not manly, possibly more candid than intended emotional breakdown, I eventually realised that this not drinking lark is doing me the world of good.

Alcohol makes me a twat.

I'm also, slowly, regaining my full lung capacity - should the weather improve I may even be tempted to re-establish my position within the ranks of joggers trailing round Holyrood Park at absurd times of the day.

[God knows I could do to lose a little winter weight.]

Urgh, this whole thing has taken on a rather rambling tone but I guess I'm just avoiding getting into anything too heavy after the past few weeks of being thoroughly morose.

Before I round up with something vaguely meaningful - a lovely little note of congratulations goes out to Pixel Dot. my wonderful (albeit absentee) flatmate who made his first television appearance this evening.

I'm a very proud mother hen.

Now for the good bit...

Hello stranger,

I know you're not talking to me.

I'm also fully aware I started it.

Though, at the time, I was happy to give you the last word and be done with it...I've reconsidered my position.

In response to our last correspondence, with a little elaboration:

We're not opposites.

I'm what you wish you could be but are too scared to realise.

I'm also not mad; that's part affectation, a dash of habit and a whole lot of (reconsidered) lifestyle choice.

My lascivious nature and questionable morality is just a symptom of being significantly younger than you and, I'd like to point out, far less emotionally stunted.

Your life isn't chaotic - you might be disgustingly musically talented and a wee bit of a smouldering, foxy front man but you've taken the entirely non rock and roll option of basically dating your mum (except without the incestuous intrigue).

[God, it feels good to say that.]

The small part of me that doesn't want to undo your trousers with my teeth, sort of pities you for not letting me - I still remember the insanely satisfying spike of arousal when your hands first snuck under my jumper in the Fab Cafe.

I bet you do too.

I might be a fan of your band but my lyrics will always shit all over yours...sorry.

I miss your chat.

Given half the chance, I'd still fuck you senseless and we're both fully aware that as a side-of-stage girlfriend I'd be bloody marvellous.

Unfortunately it's recently come to my attention that I'm far too cool for you.




Friday, 28 January 2011

3:45am, January 29th 2011

Today, I started to believe.

Sat in front of the parliament buildings, three sheets to the wind and staring at the few stars visible amidst the neon glow of humanities fear of the dark I felt a tug in some long dormant part of my mind.

There is a God.

You see - a world truly left to it's own devices, free from the interference of some all-knowing, ever-powerful child (driven half mad with millenia of narcissism) could never be as cruel.

If you set a car in motion and exit via a convenient window, it simply stutters on for a short while then stops.

It doesn't run itself thirty miles down the road into the nearest orphanage and explode.

Such intolerable fucking torment, as is every morning I awake to discover I haven't conveniently suffocated in my sleep, takes planning.

And intent.

So I reiterate: There is a God and he is punishing me for merely continuing to draw breath and yet, by proxy, ensuring that I do.