"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.

Annie.

<3

P.s. I thought this was rather fitting:

Whip Crack-Away...

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

Annie

<3

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.

Annie.

<3

For Everything Else, There's Momus...

Annie.

<3

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.

Annie.

<3

On a Bandwagon Made for Two...

So, it's New Years Eve and in millions of bedrooms across the world a multitude of hands are busily tapping away at keyboards in a desperate attempt to make sense of what has been a rather perturbing year.

Unfortunately, ever one to latch parasitically onto a fad, that's exactly what this blog will be concerned with alongside a few small exclamations of annoyance regarding 'end of year procedure'.

Let me begin with a note on my often ally (yet occasional foe) food, more precisely the manner in which we are encouraged to engage with it at this pivotal time of the month:

It has been but five days since the diligent advertising campaigns of British television and radio came to fruition and we all gorged ourselves upon whatever organic, locally sourced, holier-than-thou pish they encouraged us to this time - yet, like all great institutions, they've spun on a ha'penny and we're already being told off for being so foolish.

"Horrid little gluttons" cry the emaciated Go-Go dancers from our screens, "eating yourself into a stupor, we wished you only to observe our delicious turkey (hand reared by Lithuanian orphans, fed on gold dust and creme caramel) - now atone for your sins, drop and give me twenty pelvic thrusts clad in a lycra one-piece so you can observe the manner in which that [perfectly natural] excess weight of yours jiggles in the spotlight!"

Have they not noticed; it's still winter? In all tiers of the animal kingdom, preserving that padding is paramount to survival.

I, for one, shall be telling said exercise and diet fascists to go fuck themselves with their own, disgustingly visible shoulder blade...most likely with a mouth full of leftover mince pie.

I suggest anybody with half a brain do the same.

Moving swiftly on.

It is a necessary evil that one must have something to do on New Years Eve and there is, amongst my friends, a certain degree of youthful one-upmanship as to what this engagement should be.

By proxy (and the weight of Scottish tradition) one must also have somebody of significance to undertake this venture with.

With the majority of my boys out and about in city centres, tearing it up at house parties with their girlfriends or getting mashed out of their otherwise sturdy minds in a field in Derbyshire - my choice to go to The Bakers Vaults with my Mother seems rather frumpy and has earned me a great deal of mockery.

[Gentlemen, it is not that I hadn't been given offers that would far outshine yours; from guestlists and free drinks at Edinburgh's best 60's night to a DJ slot at a two house rave in Wales but I would quite like to start my coming year as I mean it to progress...memorably.]

Which brings me to a final point, having looked back at my previous entries it struck me that a great deal of them revolve around the calamitous upshot of my predisposition for drinking far too much.

Never having been one, particularly, to make New Year's resolutions - I have decided to try a reform my 'Withnail & I' ways by giving up (or at least significantly cutting down on) the booze as of tomorrow.

The smoking, however, will remain - much to the chagrin of my family.

I wish everybody a lovely evening, wherever/with whomever that may be, and a Happy New Year.

Annie.

<3

2 Month Long 'Lady Troubles'...?

If we're being pedantic it's actually been a little under two months since my last post and some of you may have noticed I was quite literally entirely 'absent' during that time, having shut down all affiliations with the online world, and not just merely 'neglectful'.

But where have I been and what in god's name could I have been up to that warranted this much time away from the emotional sustenance that is the Internet?

Readers, I was off doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

You see, I woke up shortly after my self-righteously charged blog of November 3rd and realised I couldn't remember a time when I didn't devote 60% or so of my day to wondering if somebody, somewhere were talking about me.

In essence I fell prey to my own objections to social networking as a whole.

When one begins to worry how many people have viewed that status update on your particularly delicious sandwich it's time to stand up and admit: "My name is Annie Phetamine and I have a hypocrisy problem".

So I logged off.

[The first few weeks are the worst but it's something I would endorse to all of you.]

I sat my exams, finished all those essays (postponed in favour of seeing how many times I could click 'Refresh' and have bugger all happen), didn't get that hedgehog, hosted two house parties, attended the odd exhibition, made brief trips down to London, entirely re-did my wardrobe, doffed piercings, dark hair and my eyebrows, gained a new group of friends, went back to Manchester, declined to meet my old classmates, survived Christmas and engaged in one ill fated 'Brief Encounter'-esque love affair with a musician.

In short, I reclaimed my life...silently.

Yet, like all truly fatal addictions, I've crawled back into the public sphere before the turning of the year and reclaimed my place as that well loved local blog whore; loitering upon your virtual doorstep, asking for sympathy and spare change.

But, all moral high-ground may not be lost.

I will most ardently NOT be returning to Facebook, Twitter or any of those other exploitative dens of vice that (during my time in rehab) have updated themselves beyond my comprehension.

In compromise, this solitary outpost only shall remain to allow me to vent creative spleen and avoid becoming a doddering recluse.

There are many stories to tell, rants to be had and personalities to be slandered yet.

Annie.

<3