MUTHAFECKAHS. Next time you petulant brow knitting knuckleheads wish for a White Xmas, don't let it be over 6 inches, the damn stuff sneaks into my Timberlands and festers them from the inside. GRR!
I get angry around snow. I don't throw it, I don't play in it or with it, and I certainly will not make a friend out of it and dress it with MY scarf or a carrot. Scarves are for cold humans and the carrots can go in for a nice winter stew or in my case, a rotten meal for my rabbit.
As a Brit, I occasionally talk of nothing but weather just for a bit of crap banter, but on this breaking point, it bites the toes, literally.
My skin is designed for mostly hot climates, thus why God has coated me with a protective gingernut brown and set me off into this world to change only a tinge different from that colour palette.
For instance, in hot temperatures in Pakistan, I would oddly turn a lighter shade and my skin would oust out the imperfections of spots and blemishes. In colder climates like in bitter winds and rain the rings of my eyes and the joints of my fingers go strangely dark and only ever disappear as I sit still in an extremely boiling tub of water. It always feels cold though...
Snow is the visible enemy that nobody in Britain can seem to defeat. It's everywhere yet, nobody can do anything about it. The freaking Poles here are having a laugh at how we're panicking over by firstly running over to Tescos to whole stock buy in case we get snowed in for Xmas.
Every single news headline is about snow, from the sports to the travel to the traffic and well, well, well, there's no point in mentioning the weather.
But when is it going to finish? We're all very happy for it to come around in the festive season, it all goes to plan with the spirit of Xmas but like an annoying aunty or uncle, it's overstayed it's welcome and it is very difficult to shift off to some other hateful country, like France.
Nobody likes the French anyway. Let's all do the charitable thing this year and all send a shovel of snow to France, yay.
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Assessments Done, Khanistanis Unite For Some Fun!
I can't tell you enough how sleep deprived I have been this whole week and what a totally uncaring jackass I been to a load of people, who of 92% were just begging it. The other 8% were coffee vendors. They can do no wrong in my eyes when they get me my fix. They're pimp me out like a real latte whore and honestly, this time I can tell you I'm not proud. They did unfortunate things to me.
But however the vendors abused me in many unmentionable ways, it didn't stop me from doing a jackass thing like crawling to Uxbridge from Kings Cross via Luton train station thoroux el la Aylesbury to take a pretty poorly birthday girl from her comfortable bed and having her trundle aside me out into the bitter freezing cold for her desired choice of gig of the young night, just to have our ears feast on the dirty pop chirps of Ke$ha.
I am disgusted by her choice in music and would've delightfully thump the feckin' sense into her by throwing of the many batty boy fairies that ran around the venue in tutus and glitter that night, but this subtly shallow but easily yielding tolerant friend must abide to the birthday girl's final wish before she too, must hand in that fun loving teen tag and become one of those depressing member of the Twenty-Somethings club.
The whole day involved me being in several long hours in public transport and inside, I died a little. I doubted for a while whether I liked being a Southerner, a London traveller; so many people were rude and appeared to me as busy people but really, they were ignorant to muscle a smile.
Apparently in Manchester, everybody you passed chirped sweet greetings or stabbed you.
I like the stranger greetings part best.
I had a bad feeling, similar to that of feckin' dog turd turning over in the sun and the foulness of this shit was airing everywhere I went; it was evidently looking to be a dampener on the events ahead.
The birthday girl was vomiting all day. Sheeeit nice.
I scheduled things to perfection from uni to work to home so nothing could possibly go wrong, just so that my ratty brat-in-crime friend would be overly thankful for such an amazing birthday so I could just to get access to her latest update in her high fashionista wardrobe.
But she didn't want to cancel on me because of my amazing heroic effort of getting the tickets at the last minute and appearing as like, thee best friend ever that her flatmate's face (whom I'm a very good friend with, too) was practically warped with a nasty outbreak of riddled envy.
Okies I may have exaggerated about her face, but if you see her - you'd know, betchez. And besides, I'm allowed to blow my own trumpet (and because it's the truth), it's my blog so shat it, you infidel Troggs.
Look I digressed now. I promised myself I wouldn't do this, BETCHEZ!
So um where was I - - Oh, her friends think I'm so cool, just cause I got her tickets to a gig for her birthday. I read so on the Facebook wall, heh. She loves to brag a bone, that girl does.
Pfft, buying them, that wasn't the hard part. Didn't even break a sweat.
ALTHOUGH realising that it was on day I had deadlines on AFTER I bought the tickets then caused a waterfall of sweat to spit and sizzle off my hot forehead.
I had to think magical trippy nature shit up quick for a assignment (coffee, coke, Doritos and a picture of a semi-naked Colin Farrell were faith and encouragement to me at the hardest of times of that night) and rushed through video editing whilst still trying hard to be meticulous to avoid making spelling mistakes, then off I went to *yawn*-i with my pile of crap, submitted but not proof-read, and then yipee-ki-yayed my possibly-dumb-as-feck ass onto the next train to London.
It's a high score for the Khanmeister - if I appear awesome to friend-of-a-friend, I appear awesome everywhere from the sweet splurge called word-of-mouth.
Now the preppy tramp best not ever back chat me about not being a consistent hanging-around-friend as she has done in the past.
She will surely receive a backhand smack if she ever says 'Oh Rosie, you're so fickle, I don't think you'll be around for long, you drop your friends as you go on with life, oh you're so fickle, HAW HAW HAW' - she actually laughs like that.
You can understand why I leave some people behind, jheez.
The Ke$ha gig in Shepherd's Bush was - - I don't actually remember. That means that it was either such a good night that I'm incapable of remembering because I is too old, or I was coming down with something or the fact that the little PomBam bear I had taken with me had hardly glimpsed at the filthy child prostitute writhing around with her poncy fairy gaytarded dancers because she was too busy oogling into the screen of her BlackBerry.
Getting home was a terror within itself. We left as soon as Ke$ha shot glitter from a cannon from between her legs and found that we had to take the night bus back to Uxbridge. We stopped off in some Arab cafe where they'd plastered the massive Halaal sign up, so we went in and didn't do much eating as we did of watch-watching.
It didn't take long to get on one of them, but when you're stranded in Hayes By-Pass in the middle of somewhere that looks vastly deserted for the night and not another moving vehicle in sight, you're allowed to think 'that's it, we're fecking doomed.'
That we will be hit on the head by black (dressed in black counts as black) people and be stabbed for the few pounds and pennies we have left in our adequately expensive purses.
It didn't happen. But if it did, it would've been an interesting night to remember...
But however the vendors abused me in many unmentionable ways, it didn't stop me from doing a jackass thing like crawling to Uxbridge from Kings Cross via Luton train station thoroux el la Aylesbury to take a pretty poorly birthday girl from her comfortable bed and having her trundle aside me out into the bitter freezing cold for her desired choice of gig of the young night, just to have our ears feast on the dirty pop chirps of Ke$ha.
I am disgusted by her choice in music and would've delightfully thump the feckin' sense into her by throwing of the many batty boy fairies that ran around the venue in tutus and glitter that night, but this subtly shallow but easily yielding tolerant friend must abide to the birthday girl's final wish before she too, must hand in that fun loving teen tag and become one of those depressing member of the Twenty-Somethings club.
The whole day involved me being in several long hours in public transport and inside, I died a little. I doubted for a while whether I liked being a Southerner, a London traveller; so many people were rude and appeared to me as busy people but really, they were ignorant to muscle a smile.
Apparently in Manchester, everybody you passed chirped sweet greetings or stabbed you.
I like the stranger greetings part best.
I had a bad feeling, similar to that of feckin' dog turd turning over in the sun and the foulness of this shit was airing everywhere I went; it was evidently looking to be a dampener on the events ahead.
The birthday girl was vomiting all day. Sheeeit nice.
I scheduled things to perfection from uni to work to home so nothing could possibly go wrong, just so that my ratty brat-in-crime friend would be overly thankful for such an amazing birthday so I could just to get access to her latest update in her high fashionista wardrobe.
But she didn't want to cancel on me because of my amazing heroic effort of getting the tickets at the last minute and appearing as like, thee best friend ever that her flatmate's face (whom I'm a very good friend with, too) was practically warped with a nasty outbreak of riddled envy.
Okies I may have exaggerated about her face, but if you see her - you'd know, betchez. And besides, I'm allowed to blow my own trumpet (and because it's the truth), it's my blog so shat it, you infidel Troggs.
Look I digressed now. I promised myself I wouldn't do this, BETCHEZ!
So um where was I - - Oh, her friends think I'm so cool, just cause I got her tickets to a gig for her birthday. I read so on the Facebook wall, heh. She loves to brag a bone, that girl does.
Pfft, buying them, that wasn't the hard part. Didn't even break a sweat.
ALTHOUGH realising that it was on day I had deadlines on AFTER I bought the tickets then caused a waterfall of sweat to spit and sizzle off my hot forehead.
I had to think magical trippy nature shit up quick for a assignment (coffee, coke, Doritos and a picture of a semi-naked Colin Farrell were faith and encouragement to me at the hardest of times of that night) and rushed through video editing whilst still trying hard to be meticulous to avoid making spelling mistakes, then off I went to *yawn*-i with my pile of crap, submitted but not proof-read, and then yipee-ki-yayed my possibly-dumb-as-feck ass onto the next train to London.
It's a high score for the Khanmeister - if I appear awesome to friend-of-a-friend, I appear awesome everywhere from the sweet splurge called word-of-mouth.
Now the preppy tramp best not ever back chat me about not being a consistent hanging-around-friend as she has done in the past.
She will surely receive a backhand smack if she ever says 'Oh Rosie, you're so fickle, I don't think you'll be around for long, you drop your friends as you go on with life, oh you're so fickle, HAW HAW HAW' - she actually laughs like that.
You can understand why I leave some people behind, jheez.
The Ke$ha gig in Shepherd's Bush was - - I don't actually remember. That means that it was either such a good night that I'm incapable of remembering because I is too old, or I was coming down with something or the fact that the little PomBam bear I had taken with me had hardly glimpsed at the filthy child prostitute writhing around with her poncy fairy gaytarded dancers because she was too busy oogling into the screen of her BlackBerry.
Getting home was a terror within itself. We left as soon as Ke$ha shot glitter from a cannon from between her legs and found that we had to take the night bus back to Uxbridge. We stopped off in some Arab cafe where they'd plastered the massive Halaal sign up, so we went in and didn't do much eating as we did of watch-watching.
It didn't take long to get on one of them, but when you're stranded in Hayes By-Pass in the middle of somewhere that looks vastly deserted for the night and not another moving vehicle in sight, you're allowed to think 'that's it, we're fecking doomed.'
That we will be hit on the head by black (dressed in black counts as black) people and be stabbed for the few pounds and pennies we have left in our adequately expensive purses.
It didn't happen. But if it did, it would've been an interesting night to remember...
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Not Too Far Until Xmas, But Deadlines Are A Helluva Lot Closer!
Me? I'm playing tweedle-dums with my toes and thumbs. I got module deadlines to work against, they're literally next week. I got a job to attend to and keep management sweet as hell for a chance in discount heaven. I got no time in plenty of time. And it seems that nothing makes sense here because I can't make sense.
It's a word vomit.
I'm overtired from not sleeping on time, going to work at sporadic hours then bouncing along on the bus to uni, and not eating or drinking anything but cold coffee and Pro Plus and every now and then, the odd soft bite of good ole' Texas Chicken; an all-round cheap and greasy favourite in the heart of Luton town.
I'm starting to feel like an old cog now. Its like I'm rusting, which means I'll eventually lock and seize up and explode through my chipmunk cheeks the over used supplements of caffeine and semi-subscribed pills - what I mean by semi-subscribed is that I may have taken some medicine from my brother-in-law's doctoring cabinet with no idea what they're meant to help with (it's not as rock and roll as it appears, the bloody meds are herbal remedies - he's a homeopathic doctor, heh) but all is well. So I liked to even pretend to believe, but it's not happening.
Reality has bitch-slapped me around too many times to make sure I don't think it's anything else. It hurts everywhere, especially on Mondays...
The Christmas season is upon us. Yip. Pee. ?
I can't stand it, all that merriment makes me glum - how people are so happy to have something that's like a second birthday in a year to them. They have it so much better, and for what? Not committing to the Christian religion but yet, celebrating their holidays. If anything, it's a whoring load of ignorance, but it's the one time of the year where most people look forward to pigging out - getting their cheap watered booze festie on to wind down - then spiral out of their mind - and then a week later, quite sheepishly commit to a New Years resolution to lose weight out of guilt...
Soon, it's not long till it's Easter...
I have a birthday and two Eids, I don't get diddly squit except a layer of grease lining my face and stingy tight pocketed uncles stuffing my samosas down their oesophagus and telling me next year, next year definitely, they'll definitely give me Eidi next year, definitely.
The amount of festering lies that have come from those curry coloured lips...
I have deadlines, so I have no time to bitch and snivel over past times or other people's enjoyment. They are all due next week starting Monday, and I'm having a go on my blog...
I need to prioritise but I keep stumbling over on ruddy Facebook and lose all track of time. Right now I'm meant to be doing some editing of our Documentary Practices 4 minute module. If they ever read this, my legendary pencil pushing do-it-just-do-it attitude they all idolise will dissolve. It's a risk, but I doubt it they ever will, don't think they're literate enough, those brunt-brow huffing chimps...yes, James.
CHIMPS. I'm talking about chimps, I know yes. The digressing, it's horrifyingly annoying to digress, especially at a time like this, feck me...!
Right I'm fecking off now, I cannae be arsed to keep you entertained at this moment in time, not even with a song recommendation - this is me typing beyond a dead body and a bladder full of coffee coloured piss, so off I shoot. PEOW!!
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