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.




Thursday, 27 January 2011

To A One Night Stand...

"You're so unbelievably beautiful" you said, as you affectionately petted the hair you'd attempted to rend from my skull a mere twenty minutes previous.

[I got the distinct impression you were referring only to your workmanship - this quasi-conscious young woman, beaten about the face until she saw white bleed into the corners of her vision.]

Not so attractive any more, all swollen lips and bruised fingerprints, was I.

Was I?

"Now, come sleep with me", American intonation creeping across my aching body like a malignant melanoma.

Even through the concussion I wanted to scream; "You're as much a notch on my bedpost as I am on yours, moron!"

[But in the end it's all just a bit of fun.]

6am, I caught you sneaking out like a true guilt-riddled Jewish boy.

Four hours later I woke up and patted down the bed only to discover the cheeky, Colonial cunt hadn't even left me a tip.

Well, fuck.



Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Sometimes, My Life Is Utterly Fucked Up...

Annie Phetamine.

You've been a bad, bad girl.


Sunday, 23 January 2011

I Think I'm Due a Doctors Appointment...

You'll never read this.

So I, behind that fondly described

Too-wide smile where

Gritted teeth disguise the

Rise of cyanide tainted bile,

Will write you a broken heart.

A novel of three parts in

Indelible, invisible ink.

I'll learn to cite my soul

In Chicago format and

Make pain a perfectly



Copyright page after page as

The product of a mind you wagered;

"Shouldn't be known to those from stable homes".

Publish my prose under

'Notes', 'quotes', 'anecdotes' or

'The trouble with blokes who think they're rock stars'.

For clarity:

Promises, made in basement bars occupied

A ha'penny stride from 'one too many',

I'll italicise:

It's me and you, babe, fuck the consequence.

Then underline the lies.

I love you.

© Annie Phetamine



Friday, 21 January 2011

Words, Like Cake, Taste Better Stolen...

If you're going serenade me with a song - make it this one:



Tuesday, 18 January 2011

A Rose by Any Other Name, Still Makes You a Prick...

I often get asked why, when my birth name really isn't that repulsive, I choose to go by nom de plume even within my everyday life.

The reasons are many but probably distinctly less interesting than you might imagine:

It is not pretension.

Nor a sinister endeavour to obtain internet celebrity by being kitsch or avant-garde.

I have no desire to escape my genetic history, utterly fucked up as it may be.

And I most certainly didn't create Annie to pick up men, if anything she's actually an utterly intimidating (and mildly repugnant) young lady.

First and foremost, as today's rage-inspiring message from my creative writing instructor Alan Gillis proved, despite a more than sufficient grasp of the English language you'd be surprised to hear quite how many people have issues with spelling (or pronouncing at a glance) the name Elise.

From even my earliest visits to the hospital I have bitter memories of being called in as Elsie, which has always held disturbing connotations for me with fragile old ladies.

[It was a name shared by an elderly neighbour who died (and wasn't found for a considerable amount of time) whilst I was growing up.]

One could understand if my moniker was particularly exotic or contained more than two bloody syllables but as it stands the bastardisation of something so simple remains a source of almost constant irritation to me.

A second point, and one much more applicable to the life of a candid Internet blogger, my full title leaves a rather noticeable trail when run through a search engine; often dredging up photographs and articles I would much rather be condemned to the bowels of digital history than be ever present as I age.

[I believe I also discussed the compulsive catalyst behind my constant altering of pseudonym in an earlier blog so rather than flogging a dead horse I suggest you go back and read my posts from October if you wish to explore that particular potentiality.]

Finally, and likely the most brutally honest response I can give is as follows: I don't like a large number of people.

The adoption of a false persona is much akin to handing out your phone number having switched the final three makes you an easily forgettable enigma or, in some instances, unforgettable but unquestionably unattainable.

Those with inquisitive minds need know only this, if you meet Annie it's probably because you're asking utterly redundant questions.



Sunday, 16 January 2011

Post-Modern Pubes...

We all have personal preferences concerning body hair and often we're not opposed to vocalising and/or entirely altering these opinions in relation to a new partner, circumstance or simply due to the natural progression of ageing.

For example:

Recently I've found myself with a preference for men that keep their hair cropped and also reassessing my stance on facial hair that looks as though it required the aid of a protractor. Equally so I remain unchanged in regards to excessive underarm hair but with a growing fondness for a little chest fluff...although I pointedly leave the room when confronted with anything that progresses beyond ones shoulders.

Despite our comfortable and relatively laid back attitude concerning head, torso or thigh the sticking point often comes when we venture below the panty line; I am yet to meet a majority, within those willing to discuss it at all, who are also open to changing their preconceptions about pubic hair.

Luckily, Amanda Palmer has thrust this debate into the public forum over the past few days with her new video for 'Map of Tasmania':

Not only is this a fucking phenomenal piece of visual art but it promotes an incredibly valuable message of comfort and creativity with ones own body.

Which leads me to the point of this blog - where do my readers and peers stand on hair vs. bare?

Admittedly, thanks to formative years spent in high-cut lycra, I've always been hairless and fancy free but I'm rapidly starting to agree with Ms. Palmer's observations regarding stubble and a lack of pubic topiary looking disturbingly prepubescent.

I know, from forced discussion, that most of my previous sexual partners have been bought off by the hygiene pseudo-science or beaten around the face by the commonly accepted, modern notions of female beauty but it really isn't a that distant past when a bit of bush was erotic vogue.

Now, I can fully understand the desire to keep your lady garden in check but when you begin to give it a little thought there's really no end to the imaginative fun one can have whilst doing it.

Further to this, the choice to "grow that shit like a jungle" needn't be a call to abandon other female grooming habits nor does it require adopting any affectations of militant feminism - the point is only this; ladies, you have a choice.

The world will likely not end should you go wild for a few weeks and if your partner takes issue, you could do worse than asking them to justify it - I wager they'll either rapidly change the topic of conversation or will find themselves inclined (with a little prompting) to rediscover a now exotic landscape.



Saturday, 15 January 2011

Shit Creek, Seeking Paddle...

There's actually a blog of academic merit set to be published sometime later today but currently I'm burning the midnight oil again...and by 'oil' we mean 'semi-illegal substances'.

Based purely upon that I need to do a little 'head clearance' if I'm going to get anything bordering on a passable sleep, without the requirement of fashioning my multiple duvets into a makeshift womb as a means to stave off paranoia.

I've been mulling over my questionable actions the other night (admittedly whilst listening to music that's really only going to exacerbate the situation) and discussing my dilemma with a few close friends.

The overruling opinions are as follows:

1) The man sounds like an absolute cunt. Leave well alone, young Annie.
2) You just want him because he's ignoring you and we'll happily do that pro bono.
3) 'Fangirling' is not love, it's a restraining order waiting to happen...the Alan Rickman incident taught you that.
4) You're getting worked up over him? *Uncontrollable laughter*.

As much as these contributions from my nearest and dearest have been undeniably insightful, behind the feigned acquiescence, I'm still no closer to ridding myself of an utterly redundant infatuation than I was anything from 48 hours to two months ago.

To knock about a phrase that has seen more use in recent years than a particularly fetching, 12 year old, Taiwanese hooker: "Fuck my life".

Possibly the biggest punt in my metaphorical clunge (dubious Moosen aside): I've put so many respectable young chaps on the back burner in the hope he'd eventually come round that I've subsequently not been laid in a very long time.

[Deftly done there, genius.]

Obviously, making allusions such as those (that no bitter woman worth her salt would have missed) in the paragraph before last, isn't going to help my cause in the slightest but being clandestinely bitchy does seem to have soul healing properties comparable to a Big Mac.

[Being that it's raining, I'm wearing socks and a blanket and I have no money - I'm going to take the free, warm, non-punishable-by-imprisonment option.]

Honestly, on a Saturday night in a place where 'drunk and vulnerable' is basically a citizenship requirement, all I can really ask is why am I sat at my computer and not flat on my back in a gutter?



Friday, 14 January 2011

"I Google You"...

Before I begin let me assure all concerned parties that the recent bout of literary silence was of a 'run off my feet' rather than 'has clocked out of reality and become a reclusive mentalist again' variety.

Being thrust hungover and screaming back into academia is a trauma that cannot ever be fully expressed within the confines of language but, unfortunately, there's no way in hell I'm uploading a video of my attempt at realising this frustration through alternative dance.

Needless to say, the past few days have been sleepless - in addition to the sporadic yet anticipated re-discovery 'I'm really not cut out for this study lark', I was also competing in a slam last night so, as ever, had left all preparation to approximately thirty minutes before I was due on stage.

Despite this (and the absolutely mind-blowing standard of upcoming talent) I managed to achieve an admirable second place and a few welcome opportunities have arisen from the exposure.

Plus, I have plenty of new potential stalkees.

Staying on a poetical theme, this week I also began my Creative Writing class. Admittedly I was fairly skeptical at first, especially when the word 'workshop' was casually dropped into conversation but I've landed amongst a likely bunch of misanthropes and foresee the beginnings of something rather spectacular...if I can get past the social faux pas of utterly buggering up my first circular email submission to the class.

That is, up until five minutes ago, where the entry for today was due to wind its way to some manner of quirky conclusion but I just committed a sin punishable only by the inevitably depressing outcome.

I went on Facebook.

The transgressions only deepen when I tell you I went on the Facebook of the man I'm rather unquestionably, inappropriately still in love with.

Actually, I do this rather regularly under the guise of keeping up to date with more generalised goings on...regardless.

The crux of the matter is this - he's unbelievably happy and I want him to be. My only resentment arises out of the fact I irrevocably fucked any chance, during a bout of bi-polarity, that it will ever be me making him so in the future.

I was friend-zoned before I'd even managed to wade through the torrent of unfamiliar emotions and verbalise how I genuinely felt about him; choosing instead to act like an impatient, petulant wanker.

Obviously, he's hardly blameless in this situation but today is not the time for taking him down at the knees - despite feeling a little stupid (applicable to multiple circumstances) my life is pottering along at a rather amiable pace.

It's a strange kind of justice though, that I'm fully aware he's going to read this later and judge me accordingly, yet I'm still insistent on publicising the fact I'm evidently some kind of masochistic nutter.

Takes all sorts to make a world, I suppose - the man who molested me with a Highland cow puppet last night stands as shining testament to that.



P.s. I thought this was rather fitting:

Saturday, 8 January 2011

Whip Crack-Away...

Miss Phetamine is Edinburgh bound - lock up your bachelors and nail down the valuables.



Friday, 7 January 2011

I Draw the Line at Nappy Changing...

It's a pet peeve of mine that some men have the highly irritating ability to seem deceptively intelligent.

I'm not talking about the 'can't tie their own shoes but can solve a quadratic equation in under three seconds' sort of anti-genius here, but instead rather average chaps who can at first appear highly engaging, eloquent or (I fucking hate this phrase) 'switched on' but rapidly show themselves to be all talk and no trousers.

It's the intellectual equivalent of 'I'm not a racist, but...'

Unfortunately, shrouded within the fog of their ability to Google, it usually takes me a while to work out these gentlemen are entirely full of shit; being that, as a functional human being I'm initially inclined to expect the best from everybody I encounter.

It's often said that bad luck comes in three's and to add insult to injury the situation is no different post-'revelation of undeniable idiocy'.

It has been my experience that two further discoveries often follow:

1) They have an inability to empathise with anything outside of their games console, guitar or absurdly repugnant house-pet.

2) Logic: e.g. thinking rationally through the consequences of their actions, somehow manages to utterly escape them.

As is the way of women, should you call them on any of the above you are likely to get a response akin to a toddler who has just been berated for eating the weeks supply of Bonio dog biscuits in one sitting.

In essence, it's entirely not worth the hassle - or the equally childish revenge they will undoubtedly wreak by, for example, sticking chewing gum to the arse of your favourite dress or waiting until you fall asleep and spitting in your ear.

Much as one wishes (whilst popping your LBD into the freezer in the vague hope of salvaging it) to display some impressive chest-beating, Amazonian emancipation by telling said man-boy to go fuck themselves with the Guitar Hero expansion for their Wii remote - as ever, there is often a catch.

We may have 'liked' them when they were the well-spoken Casanova we first met, but now that they've been revealed as almost offensively thoughtless, demanding and yet strikingly vulnerable we begin to fall in love with them.

Twisted, no?

You see, women may not like to admit it but our inbuilt mothering instinct makes us incredibly susceptible to picking up strays - and if said stray has one ear, a broken leg and scabies it's probably going to hold our attention far longer than one which appears perfectly healthy and thus we feel obliged to release back into the wild.

It's a pity.

One can rant about the need for relationships of 'equals' until you're blue in the face but these things work both ways - if you're not willing to seek out something beyond unpaid babysitting then that's what you're going to be stuck with.



Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Saturday, 1 January 2011

Headless Torso, Fanny Now a Hat...

Post-two weekends spent in The Bakers, I'm beginning to wonder if it's possible that a chat-up line (delivered in the style of a semi-erect 70's milkman) can attach itself to a locality as small as a single public house...or perhaps, more likely, a certain breed of hands-on clientele who dwell within it.

Further to this, I'm curious as to how well this particular phrase has served these men in wooing their unsuspecting victims (and I choose my wording specifically here) down whatever guinnel they have elected a fitting setting for their 'passion'.

You see, forgive me for being old fashioned but during a bout of al fresco heavy petting - if a man nuzzles into your neck to whisper huskily "The things I would do to you" - I'm struck with images of my body 'dismembered in several bin bags' far more than 'in the throes of a spectacular orgasm'.

As you may have noticed, having had it used on more than the odd occasion in the past two weeks (and somehow miraculously being immune to it's charm), I have yet to see for myself which of the potential results a quick forray down one of Stockport's many alleyways would bring about.

What I will emphasise is that each of these men, who are otherwise not unattractive, would have fared much better had they simply kept their mouth shut.

That said; last night was, for all intents and purposes, fucking brilliant.

Despite a late arrival to find the venue sold out - a realisation that I knew a fair percentage of those already inside, which led to a calling in of favours long owed, ensured that we we're at the bar (drink in hand) by just past 10:30pm.

[Favourable to the alternative of watching the merriment from The Boars Head across the road, where we were glumly seated next to a man who looked suspiciously like most police artist renditions of a paedophile with his bag of Weetabix and discount biscuits.]

I'm not a particularly superstitious young woman but amidst the variety of favourable incidents, I must admit that four specific things happened last night that have solidified in my mind that 2011 is going to be spectacular:

1) For the first time, ever, I found £10 on the floor at the bar.

2) I was assured, repeatedly, that I cast an incredibly striking figure - to be told you're beautiful, which in itself is an unusual occurrence for me, does set one off on a good footing.

3) I received the first positive comments about this blog from a writer who has been in business since I was but a twinkle in my father's eye.

4) [I don't care how harshly I'm judged for this one] but the first song I heard in 2011 was The Smiths 'How Soon is Now'.

Further to this, having escaped a hangover (but alas not the results of an ill-fated 3am kebab) I'm feeling remarkably optimistic.

With nine days left before I return to Edinburgh, we shall see what productive use I can make of them.