Monday, 26 January 2015

Last dance with OKC

I may well be killing off my OKC self any day now.

I seem to have, well, met someone. I mean, I think. I mean, I've definitely met him. We're onto date five. It appears to be going well. He's very nice and kind and normal.

So, I've done a wee roundup.

Something's changed though. Instead of derision and howling with laughter, I found some of them sad. Like this little dude. He's having a conversation with himself: I don't know how one 'keeps in contact' with someone who has never contacted them back. I mean, that's not really keeping in contact is it? It's just messaging someone.


And then, just as I'm feeling a bit sad for the lonely, this happens. Wait, I'm STILL a cunt? When did I start being a cunt? What did I do to offend this little peachette of a manchild? Who knows? Who cares? I know right? But honestly. I bet he kisses his mama with that mouth. 


This guy just sent a hello but his profile is so mint I had to share. Look at the quality of that photoshop. I've never seen such a convincing chest. And his user name. Makes me damper than an otter's chuff that does. He's only wants a 'slim' woman. Probably because of all the time he spends in the gym to get that physique, rite? Oh, and she has to be under 35 because he's 47 so, er, he can only, um, go out with women a lot younger than him because REASONS. Which means, sob, that I'm way out of his age range. Waaah. 



This one actually properly m'ladied me. Glorious.


This truth-teller.


This random questioner. lol. It's just a random question. lol. It just happens to be sex based. lol. I don't know how that keeps happening. lol. =] lol lol =]


"I have respect so I only drop the word cunnilingus into my profile really subtly. Cos I'm so full of respect. lol."



So, even in this morass of weirdness, shifty loners and scumfucks, it seems that internet dating does work. If you're willing to put a lot of time into it...


#narcissimfornarcissim

If only there was a way - some way - that awareness could be raised without using a dickless annoying hashtag that seems to have one aim only - to encourage more selfies. 

#Smearforsmear is fucking stupid. And no, that does't mean I think cervical cancer is awesome. Obviously I don't. And I never have. That's why I started having smears when I was 19. Because that's when they sent me a letter offering me a free service to check whether I have cancer. 

I was a horrible teenager (I know, right?) hard to believe eh? But I could see the logic of taking advantage of the extraordinary offer of a free cancer screening every couple of years. You don't even have to remember. As long as you take responsibility for your own health, they'll send you a letter telling you exactly when you need the next one. They then follow up with a letter telling you you're OK or not as the case may be. It's THAT fucking easy. 

It's really weird that 'raising awareness' by social media always has the same result. There's a selfie involved. Or a video of yourself doing something wacky and hilaire. Or some kind of narcissim dressed up as caring. Most people who actually do stuff for charities and so on do it quietly, every day, behind the scenes. I'm not sure that a few hundred women with their carefully filtered photos splashing yet more pictures of their face on Instagram really constitutes 'making a difference' myself. 

It makes me sad that we live in a society where apparently the level of education has dipped so low and the level of taking responsibility for our own health has become so lost that it's seen to be necessary to 'raise awareness' of a service that has been available to women in the UK for over 20 years. 

Also, what does Smear for smear even MEAN? It's almost like some social media grad suggested to a charity that the best way to get the word out there was to tap into the undiluted lake of fucking narcissim that women indulge in and they'll lap it up and jump right on that bandwagon. NOT MY WORDS. I'm not saying all women are narcissitic. Quite the opposite in fact. I'm saying that, as a woman who is a target for this campaign, that it is patronising and infantile. 

It's not awareness that needs to be raised, it's levels of education. One in three women between 25 and 29 fail to go to their smear test. This isn't because they are unaware. They are perfectly aware because they received the fucking invitation. It means they choose not to. And you can't legislate for stupidity. 

If you can't accept advice, listen to reason and go along to the appointment that somebody else set up for you to test you for cancer of the cervix then no amount of stupid fucking selfies can help you. 

And, to be clear, I like a selfie. I do. But I know why I take them. Because they make me look nicer than I do normally. They allow me to pose my face so my best bits show. They show me at my best and that is what a selfie is for. It is a request for validation and a sort of mutual backslapping phenomenon of these social media times (You're so prettyyyyy, no you areeeee etc etc). It's become a thing we (and not everyone, I know, but some of us) do. For different, probably in some cases (ie. mine) rather pathetic reasons. But at least I don't pretend I'm saving the world with my selfies. 

But I do, and always have gone to my smear tests. Because, duh, I don't want cervical cancer. And if I am going to be unlucky and get it I want to know as soon as possible so I can take responsibility for my own treatment. 

How about a campaign that says: USE YOUR COMMON SENSE AND TAKE ADVANTAGE OF A SERVICE YOU ARE SO LUCKY TO HAVE ACCESS TO. #TWAT



Sunday, 11 January 2015

HAPPY GOTCHA DAY SUSHI

My dog is the best dog in the world.

I haven't been shy about this fact and, although I know I have many friends who have gorgeous and awesome dogs (shout out in particular to little alien Eva, Alfie pug, Willow and Harveyboy), I'm afraid Sushi is officially the Best Dog In The World.

I first saw her online in this picture.


Something about her eyes. Something about her ears. Something about the fact that, shortly afterwards, this happened and she lost her leg. Just something about this small, obscure, middle aged pooch half way across Europe jumped into my heart cavity and wouldn't leave. 




So, twelve months ago today my friend and I drove across to a random service station in the arse end of nowhere to meet an unmarked white van. Here we picked up a small bundle of fur, grime, excrement and confusion.

She promptly sprayed nervous diarrhea across her blanket and then gave up the ghost entirely and decided to go to sleep.



She had spent two long days in a van full of dogs travelling out of Romania, across Europe and finally into the UK.

And then she had to suffer the indignity of going on another ferry to the Isle of Wight.

By this time I knew that my life had changed irrevocably. This little peach was now mine to love, honour and obey. Oh wait, no. That's not right. But you know what I mean.

After she'd had the filth rinsed off her in her first bath (and oh she was so good, so eager to please, so patient through all the confusion) we set to work falling deeply in love with each other.

It took about 24 hours.



Confusion reigned for a while as she tried to understand what the hell was going on now. She was afraid of a lot of things and shares my deep ambivalence towards motorcyclists and children. It was a perfect match. 

I spent ridiculous amounts of cash on a harness that would keep her safe (best buy EVER), I took her to the beach, which I was confident she would love. It took her approximately 60 seconds to detest everything about it, including sand, pebbles and sea. 

She started to trust me. 


She even lay on the beach for a while, just because she knew I wanted her to. 


She learned what it's like to always, always have soft things to sleep on...


And piles of cushions to rest on...


She decided she loved rocks and skipped around like a mountain goat. 


She learned to sleep with both eyes closed, completely content, relaxed and comfortable. These are the moments where I could cry with my love for her. 


We kept trying the beach...


We found she's happiest in fields and forests. She hunts like a champ (I don't let her get anything, obviously) and when she gets the scent of freedom her face lights up. 


She obviously misses the freedom she had - on good days it must have been wonderful to run with a pack of dogs and never have to do anything a human being said. But on the whole, I think she's happiest at home on the sofa with her grandma and me. 

She loves being cuddled, she sleeps on grandma's bed every night, wedged up under the covers should she so choose. 

She even let me do this to her: 


But she just cannot handle the concept of selfies...



This was her an hour ago, patiently waiting to see whether I would suddenly become the kind of person who would give her some of the leftover Chinese food I was eating (no). 


She is in the best of health, her fur has all grown back, she's silky soft to the touch, bright eyed, bushy tailed and so so so good. 

I am so thankful I met you Sushi and that I have the honour of looking after you for the rest of your days. You are a special dog and I adore you with every fibre of my being. 

Happy rebirthday you beautiful soul. 


Monday, 5 January 2015

A holiday goody bag

Couldn't even formulate a smart ass response to this one. I was too busy in the shower with the bleach. 

Shudder. 


I dunno if he was recruiting for something but he caught me on a morning where I'd had four messages within half an hour from what can only be described as children. Not literally NSA, but as far as I'm concerned. Read my motherfucking profile you little scrotebags. 


He's just figgering it out. And fingering his nipples. 


The average age of a soldier in the Vietnam war. N-n-n-nineteen. Also young enough to be my son. Gross. 'A little younger' he says. 'A little'. But it doesn't matter because he thinks I seem great so he's happy to chat with me anyway. Isn't that niiiiiiiiiiiiiice. 


I... uh...

Lol. But why. Lol. 


Um. Can I have 2014 back please? 2015 is broken.

I try. People, I really try. I forthwent into this new year, loins girded, armour glistening, ready to fight the good fight. I had a rather marvellously unorthodox Christmas which involved being proposed to by an 83 year old man. I got through an entire Christmas Day with just the one single argument with my mother. I put myself to gainful employment come New Year's Eve, rather than sit around like a sad sack of sadness.

I even went on a date. Yes. Actually went on it. A date with a man. And it was a nice date. And a nice man.

I began idly looking for places to live. Not with the date man. Don't be mental. Just looking, because it's time to move out of my poor long suffering mother's home. And I found one. It's perfect. It looks like a small Addams Family house. Or maybe a teeny version of Thornfield Hall. It overlooks a nunnery. Yes. An actual nunnery. With actual nuns. And the sea. Yes. It's in the attic. I will be the mad woman in the attic tower of this house that pleases me.

So I go to sleep on Friday night with my mind whirring with positive plans. Second date on the morrow I thought. My thought was interrupted by a cough. Funny, I further thought. I don't cough. Ever. Perhaps I breathed in Fatty hair. What a lovely start to 2015 this all is.

And then.

My body and brain collapse in on themselves as some evil flu monster invades my lungs. I spend Saturday not on date 2 with Mr Nice but in bed having the oddest dreams. They involved legs mostly. Here are two.

The first one was a woman who elected to have two of her legs removed. It was OK though because she had two more. Even though they were actually horse legs.

The other woman elected to spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair because standing up and sitting down again was 'boring'. Which I remember thinking was quite a good point.

I'm assuming they were leg based because the nymphs of Hades were invading my muscles with tiny pitchforks of pain. Jabbing them into my not exactly tiny buttocks they were. Flailing around in sweat soaked sheets my body couldn't decide whether it was burning up or freezing cold so eventually settled for a really uncomfortably foul midway point between the two.

I spend Sunday dog sitting for my boss, prostrate hacking and coughing. I have so much to do I make a TO DO list for Monday. Today. Today is Monday. NONE BITS of my to do list got done. Instead I stumbled to work, became very ill on site, stumbled back and fell into bed.

I cough until I make the weidest ralphing noise all over the place.

I got it together to apply for my dream flat and the site is down.

I phone the estate agent and they 'haven't got round to phoning the landlord yet'.

This, people, is what happens when you make plans. When you think positively. When you think, ooooh, I'll do all this stuff.

Much better to go back to bed, crawl under the duvet and don't even bother.

Wake me up in 2016. I hear that's going to be fucking marvellous.