Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Dear Internet,

I haven't felt that shitty for ages.

Shitty level? Mood dropped to ankle level. Sadness so heavy that it is giving me mood cankles.
Metaphor level? Used, ripped condom. On the plus side, the condom is side XXL.

 

Fuck everything and fuck everyone. Fuck this week and fuck this life. Yep, fuck all of this - with my fist cos I don't have a penis. 

Did I mention I practice taekwondo?

Romance Is Brain Dead

Before I go through updating this blog retrospectively like crazy with my February shenanigans (which involve Christmas steak, corporate whoredom and Berlin awesomeness), I couldn't help but share this snippet of my love life as of 07/02/2016.

Because you know, 'cherish the moments' and all that shit.

May this also serve as a warning to any potential douchebag who is tempted to gain access to my Celebration Cave without even bothering with the Journey. I am sick of these things who walk around with a frontal accordeon which is permanently disconnected from the cortex and constantly needs tuning up.

Yes, I did just describe a penis as a frontal untuned accordeon. Apparently the owners are supposed to make us howl sweet music with it, but as far as I am concerned, it is all symphony of destruction from the moment their chat up line involves buccal matters.

My Temple of Doom is worth the trip lazy fuckers!

When Shit Hits The Fan, It Kinda Smells

I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.

Especially when they are flatulent. Holy Mother Fucking Pinocchio Schnozzle, today my pristine face nearly turned into this motherfucker's:

 

Between the clients' verbal diarrhea and their physical anal cabal, my non-religious arse had to ask Jesus to resuscitate as a can of Febreze and spread the Holy Gospel in a perimeter of 3 kilometers.

The worse is that as a professional con artist consultant I am legally obliged to keep a Terminator face, when in reality all I want to do is burst into a rendition of 'I want to break free' by Queen, complete with a vaccuum cleaner that I would stuck onto the smelly offender's obscene orifice, before legging it to the nearest pub.

Note to self : get the office administrator to include a gas mask to her next office stationery Amazon order for my next client visits.

 

Oink Oink.

You Can Take My Roots, But You Cant Take My Freedom

Today I decided to pop to the hairdresser to get some Blue Black Gothness back on (damn you brown Chipmunk roots). In the process, I think I might have offended a hairdresser by rebuking the silly 'women magazines' he was trying to offer me with the outrageous words 'No, Thanks'. Yes, that is right, dude looked like I twerked naked to Black Sabbath when I declined.

Umpf. People.

Anyway...in the pile of papery hygienic towels called 'womens magazine', I managed to dig out a GQ magazine... And I stumbled upon this Conor McGregor gem :

What can I say?This is freaking awesome. I have had the chance of experiencing this feeling of total freedom a few times, and it is absolutely glorious. Reading this reminded me to practice detachment furthermore and get back to this righteous feeling of freedom. And I am not talking about dancing naked to AC/DC's Back in Black.

PS: The hair in the pic is NOT pubic hair. The hair in the pic is NOT pubic hair. The hair in the pic is NOT pubic hair. The hair in the pic is NOT pubic hair. The hair in the pic is NOOOOOOOT pubic hair.

Well I bloody hope so. Lol.

The Ace of Shade : Fast and Loose

Tonight, I am feeling more Lemming than Lemmy.

As a matter of fact, if I had to rate my current mood on the wannabe gansta trousers scale, I'd say that it is currently set on the 'Justin Bieber Butt Struggle' level. 

Lately, I have come to the realisation that quite a few people actually see me as the equivalent of a fucking human post box: damn useful to dump information into - and have it processed within 1 to 2 working days (with recorded delivery of soothing words),  but with absolutely no right to transmit anything back to the sender.

In the recent occasions where I have opened my daft heart to obtain some sort of empathy, ears have fallen as deaf as Kanye West's humility, and enquiries on my life have been as prominent as Nickelback's talent (ie non existent for those who don't know).

The worst is probably the fact that in most instances, I have had to drive out entire conversations single handledy, perenially enquiring about the state of the alleged respondent - and obviously obtaining grandiose responses -without a fucking enquiry about my sad, depressed sexy arse.

Yeah well, fuck that shit.

 

Y'all gonna learn this year.

Chastity Belle(nd) Failure

Enough said.

What happened on Sunday 10th January will remain in the muscle memory of My lady cave and removed from the memory of My lady brain.

Damnit! Why can't I get to share embarrassing body slapping moments with a nice guy instead?

Meh.

I hereby promise to Myself and My knickers that we will rise high ...higher than Simon Cowell's trousers and Chuck Norris' mullet.

New Year Resolutions : 2016 Bad Bitch Edition

1. Continue to be a Bad Bitch
2. Discard obnoxious dong owners and do not give them the time of the day because of rule number 1
3. Eat healthily ... and that does includes chicken pad thai
4. Get my taekwondo Black Belt, and in general, practice more - and it doesnt matter if it involves breaking bitches instead of boards
5. Do more travel, and that does mean in a perimeter outside the Kingdom of London
6. Be proud of my black wardrobe and use more of my metal bling (not in people's face, for that see point 4)
7. Keep a circle of friends made of people who matter, not facebook critters
8. Stop playing Lady Save-A-Hoe , unless I get paid for it
9. Cook more from scratch, and that does also include chicken pad thai
10. Marry Christian Bale and party in our kinky dungeon

Oh yeah baby!