Do You Not Realize I have Twitter? - - - >

Seriously, Blogg Troggs. I'm getting darn annoyed with your insolence. Obey me! Listen to Rosie!
Here. Is. My. Twitter. Account. Details. With. My. Name. And. Face. But. My. Face. Has. No. Eyes. 
Don't worry about the picture or think into it too much. It's meant to mean a metaphor for blind people with feelings and misunderstandings of world leaders' agendas, but most people don't get it or they just ignore it completely.

Well there goes my career as an subliming artist.

Shit.

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Follow and talk to me on Twitter, I love it. You've got to cram everything you want to say in 145 characters, practically like a ice-breaker or nutshell, but just the same as a text. It's good fun but can get really annoying at the same time.

Especially when you start to follow somebody, and they reply to everything and talk you through their life as it's happening. AND I MEAN EVERYTHING.

Ahem, for instance, ManOnTheWall - this guy practically lives on Twitter and begs people to unfollow him. He's not even that popular therefore he's a bit of a cock, but I love him (not cock, I don't know WHO that is, but I heard he looks like a sausage. Strange.)

If I could have a pet, it would be him. I'd stroke ManOnTheWall's baldy head to sleep and then find the telephone cord and wrap his neck up with it so he's nice and warm and dead, all at the same time. . .

But I won't do that to you! . . . Because I won't follow you, hee-hee!

Aw, I'm so mean to you Troggs. Then again, so was Hitler so you shouldn't really complain...not that he has anything to do with this...

Go listen to 'For Your Love' by the Yardbirds  - Amazing track if you wanna act like your off your head, but in reality, you've just had a can of Red Bull and you've turned the heating up.

The Debut. And My Possible Internet Death.

 This is scary. I'm having doubts about letting it be on here now. So. Here it is. The first vlog - and hopefully not the last. Unless you want it to be. Or that I just stop altogether.

I know you're going to come back to this page and now and read it again and think: 'Hang on- is the same person whose writing this AH!-MAH!-ZING! blog... in that video blog? She sucks!'

I know I suck. I rule at suckage when it comes to showing myself in my own cowardly form.

And yeah, I know, how is it that I talk smack on here and it looks cool and over there it looks standardly lame. That's because my strengths are BEHIND the camera, as I've told so many strangers for friends and friends for bee-chezzers.

It turns out its best that I'm behind it anyway, the camera adds on 5 pounds and it looks like I've eaten 4 of them.

But - and this is a massive BUT - hee hee! - But only if you'd like me to make another will I make another. Actually, I'm practically talking to myself on  here. Gosh, I have no idea why I'm trying to please you, because this 'you' is actually only 'me'.
Err..
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RECOMMEND YOUR FRIENDS SO I DON'T FEEL LONELY ON HERE!

Anyway, I digress.
I'm told popularity is in the face of the frame, so gee whizz, I gotta comply to that. I have to make yet another video. *Sigh*

Or I can just make the headlines just as easy, all I gotta do is punch a kitten in the face and kick a dog where it hurts.

 - P.S The Dog can be any dude you like, cause boys ain't boys if they ain't mutha f**kas, for shizzle ma dizzle, my dinky dawgie wawgie?

I am Rosie's Miserable Vlog

It was crazy being a teen. It's harder being an adult. I'm still pulling at the strings of denim that clothed the tatters that was my teenage rebellion, and trying to keep my feisty youth fresh by being a mouthy little shit and just generally, acting out to be a snot that no Kleenex can see to.

This blog was meant to prove my professionalism, it's only gone and exposed me to be a Brit Brat.

Unfortunately, I like being a Brit Brat. If I keep it up, my parents will throw me out and I'll bunk in with strangers I'd call 'buddy associates' and 'bwankers' and sniff glue and wear a leather jacket and give the V-sign to anything and everything that displeases me - doesn't that sound so urban? I am Rosie's Teen Angst.

Anyway, all that above was a flustering vent; a hoot of hot air that needed to be blown through my mind's front door. I was actually going to promote my first Vlog, but I so easily digress...?

Vlog, vlogging, I just vlogged, vlogever. It's so demeaning when I say it sometimes - it reminds of the time back in the 90's, when MTV was cool and put out the hottest music videos and they had video DJs giving us the eye hole view into what made them so symbolic and intriguing. Those were the great days, now MTV hardly exists. It doesn't shout out to the audience anymore. It's like an old dog whose had his moments and like dog years, has expired too quickly. It should shuffle off and die in the woods quietly, but it's still hanging around like a dingy odour. What killed MTV anyway? Oh, the dark lord of novelty singles; Simon Cowell.

Digressing again ... *slap* make me stop, oh God, please.

So my first vlog, it's up on YouTube tonight and I'll post it on here too. I talk a little douche-like, but it's about the Pope so what the hell - that's a gag that you'll get later *nudge nudge wink wink*

Tell me what you think - or if you've seen it before it's up here, follow the instructions. I think I make them very clear. I proper give it the trash talk, the runny lip* just watch me, just watch it good. Replay it for your brutha, your sista, your mama and your papa. Peace out, my lovers.

*(I'm lying, I totally edited it out, because I felt stupid and wanted to appear educated. I do have to get married y'know.)

I'm Lost - - 3 days later - - I'm Found

It's been a tough week. It's the reason why I've not been able to upload another entry up here, but this one's a personal one. Um, just so I don't go into to too much detail in case you get a little weepy (for me cause you love me) and/or confused, I'll simplify it.

Milk was spilt, somebody cried - a LOT, and there was a lot of wetness everywhere in general; earlier some nutjob was throwing water around so everybody who was still in their right mind or claiming so were slipping across the laminate like crazy. And no, we weren't having a water fight, but some kind of a fight and damn people, it got UGLY, dudes.

This week has been damp, man. Seriously my little Blogg troggs, if I didn't have you to confide in I'd probably be in my bed just thinking about how I never got a chance to turn this whole scenario around so that it looks good on me, cause I want to be the Good Samaritan in this play. And gosh that would lead to, enevitably - DEPRESSION.  And probably bed obesity, cause I'd never leave my bed as I weep over unclaimed riches and popularity and those will be compensated by shovelling junk shite in me gob.

I'm not making sense, I'm sorry. Tired, face is like concrete, body is hardly responding as to how I'd like it too. Because his is the confession of a temperamental antagonist. Yep, I started the fight, but no I did not end it. I was not the ugly one at the end of it, fortunately.

But it did make me think hard, and I thunk for a goodin' few days. Am I ready to deal with the world in the shoes of  a journalist? My mind poured out miles of a list in a mental image of my head being a fax machine, feeding out the result - and they were mostly reasons to why I was best to work in a retail shop and do jazz-all other than sleep, drink, eat work, and occasionally go to the loo.

I had to re-enforce myself before I flew right over the cuckoo's nest and end up in the shitpile.
I pucked in a couple of rechargable batteries into the Guitar Hero and strummed out a few hard felt emotions, letting the music ride all over me. I stood 3 feet away from the 52" screen pulled up to a loud volume as I whammied and plucked myself free from the nonsensical mess that appeared as my reality. I shook my hair of insecurities and stocked my neck up to the mouth with TicTacs and cold coffee and I found myself again in the midst of a riff in 'Stillborn' by Black Label Society.

I know what I want to be when I'm big enough to understand 'responsability'. But I'm gonna have to go through a load of counselling if I want to end up seemingly well at the end of this rocky road.

It's terrifying to butt heads with a M9 pistol. Thank god I only do it in COD.

Vlogging – Yay or Nuh-uh-huh hell no?

I’m doing stuff lately, and what I mean by ‘stuff’ is just thinking, err. . .  a lot.

First, I admitted I wanted to try and lend my voice to the radio for your handsome ears at Radio Lab (go to Previous entry if you haven’t read on it yet!), but now I’ve gone and crossed the danger zone, where you’d see me in my wholesome awesome-ness. How about I do some Vlogging?

Now, for those douches who don’t know what a ‘vlogger’ is, I just want to call you a douche again. Now that I’ve done that – keep on reading, DOUCHE.

It’s a blog but in the shape and form of a video. So you can set up your style through editing and camera angles. You could use your mobile camera to make a vlog entry and just upload it onto a network sharing website for your friends to see and let them speak of their debatable opinions of how you look fat in that shirt. And you probably shouldn’t argue back because you probably do look fat; the camera tends to add ten pounds and you’ll look like you’d look like you’d eaten 5 of them.

A great example is right in front of your square eyes, my little douchies. Just look on the homepage of YouTube. It’s got millions of them fecksters, just people who are giving their opinions through their webcams on internet videos they consider funny or disgusting or just atrociously stupid, like 3 times over the minimum retard level.

Sometimes if you search specific keywords, you get the real good sports, like those who have the talent to do something funny on camera instead of talking on it, about it; VLOGGERS.

One of my favourites on YouTube include a guy who goes by the name ‘Peter Chao’. Check him out on his channel ‘Pyrobooby’ (a breast on fire; that’s a level 1 retard level name). He’s Chinese, and most of the time he sounds angry, or is eating Chinese food, and wants to ‘fuk da modaa beechez’ but he can’t pronounce the letter L in any word. He knows how to work a crowd, because he’s got character.

With 2 million worldwide subscribers, Chao from Vancouver has been able to make himself a household name by immature adults and cool kids alike with his ‘Chao outside Muthafucka’ slogan and eccentric hateful behaviour towards his prostitute mother, Mama Chao. He has fans following him on Facebook, Twitter and Flickr, and many other media platforms that have made him an international star and got him a chance at making a film that loyal fans would pay to watch.

See, the thing about that is that it takes guts and a fully functioning brain to rack out a twangin’ good vlog; it could help you make some serious money. Guys like ‘Picnicface’ from Halifax, US are recognised by comic Hollywood talents such as Will Farrell for just acting out some well-written scripts and songs. And ‘Schmoyoho’ is a recent example of who were instantly shot to fame with their auto-tune song of Antoine Dodson’s news interview about beating off his sister’s rapist, appropriately named ‘Bed Intruder Song’ that is now currently at the top 3 in the iTunes chart.

What I’m debating at the moment is that I’d like to do it, but again it’s the time and effort I have to make-to-make just one ass-o-holic video. The editing, the lighting, locations, positions, and most importantly, what topic I’d talk about each time. As a person with certain religious attributes *cough cough – scarf, lady manners*, I have to be careful as I’ll be representin’, ya’know what I’m sayin’?

Aw shucks, comment below to let me know whether you think I should try sticking my face in front of the screen instead of hiding behind a keyboard and saying mean stuff with just word entries. If you pep me up enough, I’ll do it!

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Ohh…uh, no. I just remembered the cons of this game.

Sometimes, you can epically win the viewers over in the most epic failing way. Type in ‘I’M NOT FAT’ in Youtube or Google and a huge fat guy turns up on top of the search saying he’s not fat, when clearly, the camera is blatantly showing us otherwise. He’s currently seeing a psychologist for the virtual online bullying he has received through comments on his vlog. What a downer on having a vlog. Or maybe instead of spending all that money with a skinny shrink, go to gym. Or have the patriotic decency to just lie down in the middle of the road and help the government introduce speed humps.

PLEASE NOTE

If you’re obese, like goddamn disgusting fat AND non-American and you’re reading this, don’t pretend to be offended. You know you ain’t got no sympathy for the Burger-King pucker lips in the United Fatland of America. And they do need speed humps, go and join them; they want you dead anyway, fatsos. Here’s some proof in the keywords that involve America and what they want to do to you: GLOBALIZATION, THE NEW WORLD ORDER, KILLING BABIES, KILLING FAT PEOPLE – oh look, you’re on the list. Wow, jheez, sorry to be the one tell you. *snigger*

BACK TO THE STORY…

If the petition to see my pretty face up all on YouTube gets the green and I end up like that guy mentioned ^

I’m going to bomb you. I’ll bomb you farewell.

P.S Americans, gawsh they’re so annoying on COD, always over the top and screaming down their mics as if we care –

‘I killeds him, I killeds him! Why is I dey’d? WTF man WTF. Aww man, aww dude are you serious? ARE YO FO REEEEL?! OH MA DA-’ *Mute*

Wanna be a DJ, Maybe Baby?

Of late, I’ve been getting jealous of people who don’t deserve as much as me. I know it sounds spiteful, but everyone does it but don’t admit it, and so they bottle it up and swallow it deep down into non-existance. Until one day, they do a verbal vomit and say it all out of bitterness and vow never to speak to that person again until next time – dum dum dum dum dada-dum dum *Eastenders Tune*

I love the university colleagues that I’ve acquainted in my Fresher’s first year at UoB, but I’m most happy when I’m with only those on my course. It’s because each of us that’s on the course list is weird and factual in our own cool way. We can see past appearances and prejudices of others that are like us, and can blaspheme in a reported way about who isn’t us. And it’s mainly those who we interview, hee-hee.

Anyways, I digress. The reason why I’m getting green with envy is that I don’t feel like I achieved as much as I’d liked to have, especially when I talk to fellow classmates Jamie Taylor and Joe Harwood. They both have their own radio shows on the community station in Luton called Radio Lab on 97.1FM. And they’re good with both songs and talk, and I hate that I love them for it.

I worked on radio equipment for a module, but I never felt the confidence or the patience to sit in a soundproof room talking to myself. I’d have to have very low sane levels to chatter through 2 hours of breaks between songs.

But now I’d like to try a go at it, whilst being live on the air, if my lovely friend Jamie lets me jam with him as a guest on his show ‘The Midweeker with Jamie Taylor’. He says his listeners are kind of bonkers, so when I come on I’ll talk about squirrels. Mad people love squirrel stories, and got a nutty lot of them.

Radio Lab is all about experimenting with music and connecting with the people of Bedfordshire of all ages, creed and race. It recently got the commission to go live throughout the day/night so it’s up against the snotty BBC Three Counties radio station that’s across the road from my university, but that’s easy competition. Only old fogies in hospitals listen to that droning crap.

BBC Counties Radio causes 1 in 7 deaths in my hometown hospital, it’s worse than cancer LOL jk it’s because the nurses can’t speak English and they look at the schtanky poo you done on the bedsheets then look at you in a way that’s saying ‘You go nah eat it, make it disappear, don’t worry, it taste like chocolate yah’.

Feck, I’m digressing again! Basically, I want to try working on the radio and if I feel like I had the biding confidence to do some more that just be a guest, I’d very much want my own show during my second year at ‘yewni’ – point: it’s an awesome way to phonetically write ‘uni’ - I so totally feckin’ had to do it.

If all goes to plan, ya’ll be the first to know right here on shite old Blogger. The reason why I’m slagging these schlags off is because each time I’ve tried blogging a real steaming entry on here, they feck up my entries so I end up fuming on Facebook. It’s not good Blogger! Your business is going elsewhere, dudes! Sort it out!

Love you, my little douchies, until next time. Keep safe and spread the word of this Blogg or I’ll bomb you.

FECK - Shorthand. A problem? YESH.

I go back to university officially on October 4th, and there's something the tutors told us to practice during the sweet summer holidays - Shorthand.

Feck, it's major. It's not that I didn't remember to practice, it's because I can't practice. And I can't practice because...?? I'm lazy. I'm slack crap shite at anything that doesn't involves me using my computer or making me a coffee/instant noodles out of a packet.

Oh god dammit, I'm feeble. I'm gonna get on it like a bonnet, so I'll need some Red Bull, I'm gonna have to get me some of those wings. And alleged powdered bull sperm. Nice.

CLICK: Delete - Ok, no-no wait - no, wait! - ENTRIES DELETED = MAJOR FAIL.

It's known to too many men for some bloody reason, that ALL women can multi-task, an old fashioned example is cooking whilst cleaning, breastfeeding children whilst shopping, making a sandwich whilst making love, blah blah.

So be it, if it is true (certainly not in my case), women should be more able to balance 2 or 3 tasks easy by switching over in almost a militaria fashion; quick to the point and efficiently.

Well I'm not implying the model impression from the US or UK army, but leaning toward the Korean Army disciplinary, because we know how long it takes for those troopers to get on with the job (they're still some in Iraq and helluva lot more in Afghanistan, thanks Mr. Obama, you chump).

So I couldn't believe my luck yesterday when I was using Blogger and Facebook at the same time. I was trying to be a hero, saving the internet world for a little more memory space.

It doesn't sound like a big deal, but when you're commenting and writing on both sites, it's a NORMAL thing that both sexes are capable of accomplishing without deleting their necessary entries.

So here I was around the same time yesterday (13:37pm the trusty PC tells me) stalking the news feed unconsciously and typing up my 'Driving is Hard; Dying is Easier' entry, when I suddenly decided I'd like to change a couple of my settings, see what's new in the design box, see what tickles my pretty fancy.

We all know Blogger likes to save all our drafts so that we can come back to them, right? Well I thought I had written too many drafts as I had only 4 blog entries and now there were 6.

I'm a softie cleaner; you should see me sweep the junk-o-spam from my Hotmail account like it was termites. I don't think twice when I rid my email space of the crap, who does? We all know it's unbelievably stanky BS so why keep it lingering in there for you to log in and see you've got 13,567 emails from either Facebook updates (why send me a message about who said who about what? I'm ALWAYS ON THERE Jheez..) or junk mail from really ridiculous claimers like RealFake Brands or WeightWatchers for Men?

I cleaned my Blogger out, and not by purpose. It was a choice, but it was made recklessly. My entries about my adventures at Harry Potter Land (Eggham), the floods in Pakistan, and how it was my first time as a Blogger virgin, it was all gone.

But I always thought the Internet was the safe place to backup your files if your computer decided to do one when it couldn't handle your junkmail abuse any longer and decided to let a trojan horse in, as it were feeling suicidal...

I wasn't wrong, but as someone who always backs up on USB sticks and on external HDDs, I can tell you I was pissed not to do it this one time.

But all the same, it gives me the great misery to post my life's tragedies up here, it's considered 'entertaining' for some sick individuals. It's a fresh start, a bad one at most, but hey, life goes on right? . . .Don't answer that.

Driving is Hard; Dying is Easier

I'm currently learning how to drive and should pass in time for university as it's only 17 miles away; a dream for South Asian parents as they realize there's no need for you to have the 'uni experience' when you can have it at home for nothing. What a downer on my optimism.

Driving is hell for me. I'm better off trudging onto bus 61 every morning and watch the grey miserable faces glance at me with their dead eyes as I walk across the lobby to go the second row from the back and slump into a shit stained seat. I like it if I'm grotesquely honest.

It's grubby and sometimes it downright filthy, but every time I board the deck, I get a sense of relief washing over me; the fact that I don't have to do any harsh breaking, turning into tight corners or give way to 'badman' drivers who blast their music and have their exhausts make deep farting revs that make you want to murder them with their fake gold neck chains makes me immensely happy.

I've no passion to drive, the driving experience is not important for me. As much as I'd love to have the red card license to hush up my parents and sniggering relatives and already sorted-with-a-car friends, I can't help but feel that I'm putting myself in danger's line of sight each time I'm behind the damn wheel.

Right now until I've passed, I'm a disgraceful 19 year old who can't drive, as my mother frequently says. An argument about it would start from nowhere, it's as if she has a wicked knack for picking up the subject when I have company around. As I go redfaced and hear the stifled guffaws of my friends behind me, she always begins like this
" Auntie Saveena's daughter has passed and she takes her mother to Tescos, what can you do?"
"Uncle Javaid's daughter, she's 17 and she's passed! She takes her family to school and work, what are you doing? It's been 2 years since you- - ...blah blah blah"

(Blackout)

(Fade back in)

Having a red license and the right to ANY car, makes you a dutiful taxi driver to family members and friends who are as useless as you were when you just has the crappy green license.

There's so many reasons to drive, but I tend to find reasons not to. Is that normal, or is it laziness? Maybe it's because that I know what duties I have to carry out when I pass. So yeah, I guess it's laziness but with an wise economical decision of cutting down on emissions and congestions on the road. The motoring world is better without me, and the driver agree. A horn there, beeping here, I can't keep up.

So, if you see me driving along in some kinda car - I was promised one after I pass, what joy - just run. It'll be a miracle that I pass, and if it's true just get away from the pavements, it won't be a safe place to walk because there will be a left pair of wheels riding them instead.

Oh, my life is such a tragedy. But I guess tragedy is comedy. I guess that when I'm dead, it would either be with humiliation or that somebody allowed me behind a wheel of a car....