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...
