Cider or Wee? You decide.

G’day maties,

I have risen from the ashes. And by ashes I mean bed, because that’s where I seem to spend the majority of my time.

I have been having serious holiday blues, spending every moment wishing I was back looking up at the pink castle with a cookie in each hand. (Yes, those cookies cost about €10 each, but it’s hard not to be carried away by the magic.

I could talk about Disneyland forever, and I will, because for one of my uni projects I am making a vlog. It will probably be recieved really badly, and I will make an idiot out of myself, but I know if I don’t do it for uni, I never will.

I’m also writing lots about Disney for the other Blog I’m part of. It’s actually got a lot of different content, from my strange shananigans to game reviews to Misgendering, it really is an odd ball of interesting articles. That’s mostly because it’s written by an odd ball of different people.

Check it out here:

https://thejistmmu.wordpress.com

So, apart from being sad that I’m not at Disney, I’ve been up to a few things.

Yesterday I went with Natalie to see Neil Hilborn (with special guests Rudy Fransisco and Sabrina Benaim.)

Who are they? You ask. Well, they are very famous poets who have come to the UK from the US and Canada. They came all the way to Manchester (why Manchester?) to perform their poems about depression, love and… Greggs.

They were amazing, which is no surprise. What was less amazing was that I spent 4.90 on a cider, and the plastic cup had a hole in it.

I had no idea at first, and as I was drinking I was just like: ‘Well, this is embarrassing. I’m missing my mouth more than usual.’

But then it got to half way through Sabrina’s perormance and I picked the cup up again. It had got worse. It was leaking out like a waterfall, to try and stop it I tried to press it against my leg. But instead of solving the problem, it made it worse. It soaked through my edgy ripped jeans and then they started to leak too. So in essence,

It looked, and sounded like I was wetting myself.

The cup was about half empty (or half full?) when I noticed a used, empty cup on the chair next to Natalie. I asked her to grab it, and after getting a strange look from the woman who had used it, she gave it to me and I placed it under the cup. That was the first problem solved.

The other problem was that I was now wet and sticky. During the interval I went to the toilets and was trying to dry my legs with the hand dryer, which raised other dirty looks.

Not only was I the girl who ‘pissed’ herself, but I was also the one that did strange yoga underneath a hand dryer, trying to dry my pants. It worked to an extent, but it didn’t get rid of the smell.

I decided to sit as still as possible, so that no more disasters would occur. Luck was on my side for once, and there were no more Lucie incidents, lucky for Nat.

I don’t want to bore you, so I’ll leave that there. The image of me sat in darkness, the sound of streaming liquid breifly interrupted by my swearing.

Have a good night!

(Just a note: I didn’t take any photo’s yesterday but the picture is the last photo me and Nat had together. It’s bad quality, but then again, so are we.)

I’m going to Disneyland as an adult and let me tell you, I will not ‘Let it Go.’

Before I start, I’d like to do a promo for the other blog I’m writing for, it’s a group project that I’m really excited about! Though this peice will be there, I promise there will be extra content that I won’t be put on here!

Give it a follow at:

https://thejistmmu.wordpress.com

Now, I have very exciting news…

The wise Peter Pan once said: ‘Keep adventuring and stay not a grown up’ and I honestly could not relate to anything more. Because, let’s face it, being an adult sucks.
Yes, I am legally old enough to drive. But do I? No, because I can’t afford to sell my soul away for the insurance.
Sure, I drink alcohol and do cool (sometimes sexy) adult stuff, but do I always regret it the morning after? Yes, yes I do.

As a semi-functioning human who tries her best, Disney has found a hole in my heart and filled it with something day-to-day life seriously lacks: magic.

I wasn’t enthusiastic about Disney as a kid, and when it got to the corny part of the movies where they’re all singing and dancing and I would cringe. Why are they singing? Make them stop. Why does that rat talk?

But now I know. Why shouldn’t the rat talk? And why can’t we all live happily-ever-after singing songs out the blue?

So my Mum bought a getaway to Disneyland for my 22nd birthday. That’s right folks, I’m going to where the literal magic happens and dragging my 13 year old sister with me. Nothing can stop the hype.

The thing I’ve found about planning the trip, is that there’s a lot of it for somewhere that’s meant to be fun. You need to know where you want to eat and what time you want to eat three months in advance.

To be honest, I eat when I want to eat, (which is probably far too much to be healthy.) I can’t even tell you what time my dinner is tonight. Or what time I’ll have lunch tomorrow.

I feel like a panda, sleeping my way through life and occasionally waking up to eat and, once in a blue moon, have sexy time.
Disneyland is trying to tame the wild panda in me, and so far, it’s bit of a rocky start. God knows how parents plan that far in advance, but I salute you.

I did book Inventions though, where you eat with, and meet up to 8 characters. Mickey is almost always there, since he is the most iconic mouse on the planet. I have such high hopes for meeting him, I tend to forget it’s a guy in a suit that was too short to get cast as a Prince.

When Mum first told me about the trip, I was excited. But then I realised the timing ties in with the Halloween festival, which means all the baddies are going to be out and about. Fuck Aurora, I’m meeting Maleficent and channelling my inner witch.

I have organised costumes, which is hard because you’re not allowed to dress as Disney characters, but you are allowed to dress like them (AKA: ’Disneybounding.’) So, I’ve bought Stitch and Angel onesies and I’m Disneybounding as Gaston, and Ruby is going as Jack the Skelington King.

Another thing I didn’t expect was the number of apps I’d have to download. The official Disneyland app, which tells me queue times and has a map of the park. The Photopass app, for all of the photo’s the professionals take. And then there’s Revolut, for emergency money in case I run out of cash. I feel like I’m definitely going to need a portable charger, or my phone is going to melt into my hands within an hour.

We are travelling by coach from Cumbria to Paris, overall it’s a gruelling 16 hour journey. At least there are plenty of alcoholic drinks being on board, it’ll be a miracle if I make it to Disneyland to be honest. We’re taking a blanket, snacks, books and the tablet so we won’t be bored or uncomfortable. I also have a onesie that my mum made for me, because she is a literal saint.

Of course, nothing is going to go to plan but I will update you all with everything I can next week.

Also, here’s a lovely quote to think about in the mean time:

‘I only hope that we never lose sight of one thing — that it was all started by a mouse.’ -Walt Disney

Cheesecake, Mcflurrys and Gimp Suits

Okay, well, this week I seem to have gone from doing nothing but working and watching an ungodly amount of Youtube, to actually doing things successful humans do.

I had my first week of lectures this week, which has both made me panic about the future, (Turns out it’s almost impossible to write professionally. Who’d have thought?) and jump with joy at how productive I’m being.

I also made a huge Beuno Cheesecake. Though I ended up throwing half away because I overestimated how much two people could eat in a week. I did the same thing with Cottage Pie.

My eyes are so much bigger than my belly, and because most of my friends are either vegetarians or intolerant to everything, I can’t even use it as an excuse to have a dinner party.

But I did manage to force Natalie to have some of the cheesecake, even though she doesn’t like chocolate that much. I have introduced Natalie before, haven’t I? I can’t remember.

It’s great because, like me, she has the inability to say no to things. So I knew if I asked her to come over after lecture, she wouldn’t put up much of a fight and I could stuff Cheesecake in her face without any complaints. As much as this makes me seem like a bad friend, I swear, I’d do the same for her if I had to.

Work has been work, nothing exciting. EXCEPT THE RETURN OF THE SMARTIES MCFLURRY. Honestly, one scoop of that delicious ice cream makes the sky crack open and angels descend.

And then the Nacho Cheese Wedges have returned, which causes earthquakes and opens up the gates of hell.

I’m not sure how it’s not false advertising. You think Nacho Cheese Wedges would be, well, nacho cheese on wedges. But no, it is in fact, cheese bites coated in wedges? I don’t understand.

Why not call them Nacho Cheese Bites? Stop trying to be extra and just name them what they are.

Whilst I’m having a bit of a rant, can we talk about American Horror Story? I’m a fan of the show, but what the hell happened? (Spoilers ahead.)

Okay, I was on board with the apocolypse theme. But from what I understand, this is the plot:

A nuclear bomb is about to hit America. A famous ‘influencer’ has paid to find safety in an underground bunker-type-thing. She’s a bit of a bitch and leaves her boyfriend to die and takes her Personal Assistant and Hairdresser with her instead. The hairdressers mum also goes along for the ride, because why not?

Also headed to the bunker is this teenage boy ans girl. Obviously set up to get together. Teenage boy is taken from his family because he and this girl have something in their DNA the government want to preserve.

Turns out the person in charge of the bunker is a bit sadistic and ends up having a man killed, and then fed to the other survivors including his boyfriend. She likes torturing the rich. Demon baby from the first season turns up, except he is now a fully grown demon man and gets to choose people to go the the ultimate safe place.

He? Or another demon? Gets in a gimp suit and has sex with the hairdresser. Turns out the hairdressers mum hates the fact he’s gay and loves leather and wants to sell him off to a dignified man. She catches him having sex with gimpy and reports it.

Oh, and sadistic lady hates it when people have sex. So him and the teenage boy and girl are in big trouble but demon man pardons the teenagers and makes the hairdresser stab his mum to death.

Sadistic ladies best friend is a robot based on demon man’s mum. (You what now?) The influencers Personal Assistant turns out to be a witch. (Again, what? The plot is getting fuzzy now.)

Remember the boyfriend that was left to die? Yeah, he’s alive. He survived the nuclear bomb with nothing but a deformity and a few cancers. He travelled all the way across America to stab the influencer in the face.

The demon man wants witchy woman dead. So he and the robot poison everyone with apples (how original) and the robot shoots sadistic lady.

So everybody is dead. Mr and Mrs important DNA are dead (What was the point in saving them from the wrath of sadistic lady? What about their DNA?) Hairdresser is dead. (What was the point in having a whole episode about him?)

But then some of the witches from Coven turn up and revive the influencer, her personal assistant and some woman who we haven’t seen much of, other than her being grateful to be alive.

I’m not sure what the theme is anymore. I’m not sure what the plot is anymore. I am purely watching it to try and get some answers, only to be left with more questions.

Or maybe it’s trying to symbolise the never ending questions of life? Or not? Who knows? Not me.

Swimming, Assassinations and Ice Cream

So, I’m writing this in the back of Ian’s Dad’s car, which is good news as it means I haven’t pucked and been banned from it forever.

The south was great, and I discovered I’m a bad person because I desperately want Ian to inherite his grandparent’s house.

They have many rooms, a lovely garden (Though I couldn’t help but think ‘Oh god. The maintenence, it must take hours to cut. You can tell you’re an adult when thoughts like that cross your mind. But that’s a crises for another time.) And even their own swimming pool.

Ian has asked me politley not to kill them off, but I can’t call the assassins now, they won’t give me a refund.

I do think if I had my own pool I would be much healthier because I love swimming but hate public pools. It’s the only exercise I enjoy. But my generation is doomed to never buy houses, so I will be a poolless widow forever unless we inherite thiers. Ian won’t ask for it though. He still has a thing called pride, whereas I’m happy to grovel at their feet and tell them all the health benefits it will give me.

Whilst we swam, I asked Ian to take a photo of me on the whale. (Not real, you fools. Inflatable.) He had bought me a Little Mermaid bikini the day before and I have become obssessed with it. I asked him to take a nice, elegant photo of me. But instead he captured this monstrosity:

Thankfully, he had accidentally changed the video setting so it’s only a second long. I thank God for that every day.

Aside from swimming, we went into Brighton where I stuffed my face with sandwiches, ice cream and Shakeaway.
We walked through The Lanes and had a stroll along the beach.
There are only 2 big cities I would ever live in; Edinburgh or Brighton. Though the crowds at Brighton startled me a little bit.

Have you ever tried to eat a meatball sandwich gracefully, with the wind blowing your hair all over the place?

You can’t. It’s impossible.

So many people witnessed a stumpy ginger troll destroying a sandwich, leaving hot sauce on her forhead and chunks of meatball in her hair. Luckily Ian’s family had decided to stay home, and he already knows I’m a monster so it was fine.

Overall, it was a great getaway and even my attempted skin care got complimented.

What I mean by that, is that the day before I left, I mushed a banana up with oats and honey and smothered it on my face before placing cucumbers on my eyes. That was when Ian came home and found me laying on our bed with half of the breakfast aisle dripping from me.

I tried to explain that I’m too poor to buy facemasks but he didn’t understand.

The good news is my skin has been lovely and soft since so I totally reccommend it.

So that’s pretty much all I have to talk about this week. Now, please excuse me. I have assassins to tend to.

Food glorious food

Okay so if the layout of this post is weird it’s because I’m attempting to be tech savvy. I’m writing this on my phone, and you’ll just have to make do while I figure this out.

Whilst staring at the ceiling trying to figure out something to write about, (This has become part of my blogging routine. It’s hard to write when all you do is work and sleep.) I went through lots of topics in my head that I know about, but couldn’t find anything to get my creative juices flowing. (Ew. Don’t worry, I will never use that phrase again.)

And since I don’t want to cause arguments or be political, expressing strong opinions on here is a no go.

But then it hit me. I do have an opinion on something that won’t hurt anybody’s feelings: Food is fricken awesome.

I don’t even know how people diet. Or how people are vegetarians, I mean I know why, and it’s an amazing cause. But it also takes some serious will power. I do not possess that kind of power. I will eat anything that finds it’s way onto a plate.

And then there’s people who ‘forget’ to eat. How?? It’s a human need, do you people forget to breathe too?

I just don’t get it. Ian can’t even get me out of bed unless he is well equipped with chocolate and coffee, and even then he struggles.

My love for food and my easily-influenced personality also mean I spend a lot of money on recipes I see on Facebook. Facebook is like ‘Here’s how to make lasagne but with garlic bread instead of pasta’ and 5 minutes later I’ll be in Aldi, striding down the aisles like I have money to waste, which I don’t.

Aldi is also troublesome. There’s a few aisles that change every few weeks. Most of it is random rubbish that I want but don’t need, and one of the aisles is full of exciting food. I think the last thing I bought was Caramel Popcorn Coffee. Sadly, it was disgusting. But the smell should be in a Yankee candle, and the little chocolate drops in it are cute.

There isn’t much more I can say about my love for food, and to be honest, I’m struggling this week so I think I’ll just keep this short and sweet.

Hopefully I’ll continue next week, but I’m going on a trip to Seaford (Which involves a 7 hour car journey with Ian’s dad. He pretends he’s recovered from the first time I met him and threw up in his car. But I notice him nervously glancing at me in the mirror every so often, not that I blame him. It was an awful first impression.)

My point is, I will write if I have time. If not, it’s going to be a horrifically long fortnight for you all.

Problems with being a curvy girl in a heatwave.

Thanks to Twitter, the whole world knows that the UK is feeling the power of the sun for the first time in forever.

With an average temperature of 25 degrees, us Brits don’t know how to cope. Water companies are struggling, hosepipes have been banned and the constant complaining will continue for the next fortnight if the BBC’s predictions are right.

Let’s face it, the only weather this country is ready for, is rain. If it’s hot, we shut down and if it snows, we shut down.

But I feel like my battle against the sun is justified for two reasons:

  1. I am ginger, which means if I leave the house without layers of sun-cream I will become Darth Mauls adopted cousin. And if I do leave the house with protection, my freckles will decide to flourish and I have way too many of them for that to be a good look.
  2. I am a ‘curvy’ lass.

I’m a size 12-14, which I think is an awesome size to be, unless it’s hot.

Being this size means I have big boobs. Which I mostly appreciate because it means when I wear a low cut top I don’t get ID’d, but it also means they sweat a lot. The underboob seems to be the ultimate sweat hot-spot. And if that’s not gross enough, it means I’m forced to wear low cut tops to try and air them out. Which automatically makes people look at my chest, and leaves me feeling self-conscious.

I also have a big bum, which I actually hate with a passion. And it’s not because it looks bad, because I know people have operations and dream of having a bum like Kim K. I think it looks decent, but it’s so impractical. At work I accidentally knock things off of shelves, when I’m in crowded spaces it feels like I’m pushing into people when I’m trying to move between them and I can not wear short shorts without half of my arse hanging out. In this weather, I have to wear shorts (I’m a Tomboy, no way would I touch a skirt) which means my arse has free reign to the wind. Now, I’ve already talked about the low cut tops I have to wear, now imagine a short girl, showing boobs, legs and bum. It looks like I’m dressing for attention, but I’m not. I JUST SWEAT TOO MUCH.

And that leaves my legs. I have large thighs, which are probably the part of my body I’m most self-conscious about. I have to admit, if it wasn’t for the heat, I wouldn’t shave simply because I’m lazy and nobody ever see’s my stumps of legs. But having large thighs also means, more sweat. So I sit somewhere, and my legs kind of inflate as they always do when I sit down. If I’m sat there more than five minutes I will leave a huge patch of leg juice on the chair, which is v embarrassing. Not only that, but I end up with a huge rash on my thighs from where they’ve been rubbing together. And yes, there may be cream to help with that, but add that to shaving and that’s another 45 minutes added to my day just so I don’t overheat.

But despite these problems, I went home to explore the lakes and enjoy the sun. Even though the lakes aren’t actually lakes and I burnt the sausages on the BBQ, I loved the weekend and I couldn’t have been able to do it without the burning ball of gas in the sky. So thank you sun, you hot orb.

PS: The photo at the top is an old one, my hair is no longer blue.

Is my hometown even real?

I grew up in a tiny village in The Lake District. For those who don’t know, The Lake District is a beautiful place where people pay ridiculous prices to go and stay in a cabin, or where the rich people go to retire. Either way, people don’t stay long.

Sometimes when I go home, I laugh at how much the place is like a fantasy novel, and I love it. It’s like it’s stuck in time, always a little bit behind the rest of the world. So, without further ado, here is the list I’ve made over the last few weeks:

Reasons why The Lake District is some sort of Fantasy Land

  • Carlisle is literally nick-named ‘City of the Lakes.’  Even though there are no lakes in the city? Misleading but magical.
  • In one of the villages I lived in, there is a beck leading to a river. Kids splash and play in the beck all summer, and the road even goes into the river. How many children can say their parents drove through a river on the way to school?
  • Down the road from where I live, there is an Ice Cream Farm. That’s right folks, we get ice cream straight from the cows udder. There’s a place where you can pet the calves and there’s even fake cows for you to sit on while you enjoy your ice cream. I always thank the cows for the deliciousness they’ve provided. (The real ones, not the fake ones. You numpties.)
  • There is a man in the town centre who goes by the name ‘Tatty Tim.’ I’m not even going to explain that one.
  • There is also a man so famous that our town wanted to name the Wetherspoon’s after him. I’m not entirely sure who he is or why he’s so legendary, but where you at Rowland?
  • Buses? Pfft, who needs them? There is one bus trip a week from my village, and if you get on it, you better know when it’s due to come back. Otherwise you’ll be camping there for the week. You may also have to pick a fight with the elderly if you want a seat, and NEVER sit in ‘Margaret’s’ seat, even if she’s not there. The others will batter you.
  • The biggest event of the year by far is Appleby Horse fair, where the population of 3,000 increases to 30,000 as travellers from across come together to trade horses. They literally come to celebrate horses, wash horses in the river, and leave again. I get it’s traditional, but outside of Cumbria it does seem a little strange.
  • There is a marmalade festival. I kid you not. There is an entire festival, where people stick pictures of oranges everywhere and sell marmalade? What even?

So that’s my list so far, no doubt it’ll keep getting bigger the more I travel home. But for now, Netflix is calling my name.