The smashed wine of hope and dreams

Hey guys, I hope you’re all still feeling the spookiness of Halloween and your Christams fever hasn’t quite started yet.

Even though Aldi have released their Christmas advert and Costa’s and McDonald’s have their cute little cups in. Companies need to chill, it’s literally 4 days into November. We still have to celebrate Guy Fawkes failing to blow shit up and remember all the soldiers who died for us. THEN we can move onto Christmas.

So turns out I have developed a new habit of destroying alcohol. First it was the wee cider (which will make no sense if you haven’t read last weeks post.) And now I have smashed a full bottle of mulled wine in Morrsions.

It’s like a ghost is haunting me, but instead of scaring me, it just knocks things over to make it look like it was me. I am trapped in an eternity of smashed bottles and soaked jeans.

Aside from that, I went home for a few days because it was Jak’s birthday. He is now 17, and I have accepted my fate as an elder, I would get into knitting if I was trusted with the needles.

I asked Jak what he wanted to do, thinking he’d say the cinema, the trampoline park or even Laser Quest. But no, Jak wanted to go to The Range and buy a bin.

That’s right folks, for his 17th my brother bought a bin. I’m starting to think maybe all of mu family is just insane.

Alas, I had to return to the horrors of Crewe because I had to go and pitch ideas to professional writers. Whilst this was all-in-all and okay experience, I’m having a crisis about it all.

I have a problem with finishing stories. I just can’t do it. It’s always so unsatisfying, and I want to fill it with plot twists and brilliance. But, I did come up with a solution:

I would stick to short stories.

Short stories are easy to finish, I don’t know why. Saying that, I’ve only finished one. The agent I met reminded me that short stories are sold as collections, and I felt my stomach drop through the many floors of the overly posh university building. I already knew that, but it still somehow felt like a rejection.

The second agent was lovely. I pitched my script and she said to continue with it, but it’s going to need a big budget. That I didn’t mind so much because she didn’t shoot me down as much as agent 1.

Being a writer means I better get used to struggling getting places, but hopefully I’ll get there in the end.

I haven’t done much else this week, even though I’ve been up at 6 every day. So I’ll leave you on this note:

It’s only 7 weeks til Christmas!

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.)

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.

My reign of terror

I thought I’d start this post wishing good luck to the lads who are kicking around an inflatable orb of air, for the honour of our country. I was going to make this post all about football, but as you can see, I know absolutely nothing about it.

So, moving onto a topic that I’m all to familiar with:

Clumsiness.

Now, I’m not talking about the cute type of clumsiness that people find attractive. I am not occasionally tripping over my feet or stubbing my toe. My clumsiness is something else.

People used to tell me that it was just my hormones, and I’d grow out of it. Alas, with age it has only got worse. It has manifested from a little flaw into something that is controlling my life and transforming me into a walking disaster that should be avoided at all costs.

Just this week I have fallen flat on my bum in public twice. Luckily I was wearing sunglasses that could disguise my shame. It’s like when I put sunglasses on I feel like I’m a fabulous celebrity and nothing can damage my ego. Then when I take them off, my ego disappears altogether and I’m left in a pit of self-doubt. (Fun times.)

I also managed to spill Coke all over some poor, innocent stranger. Basically, McDonald’s has introduced table service (which has made me a very salty person.) I was in a rush to give the tray to the man, and I must have let go before he had hold of it. I watched it fall like it was in slow motion, twisting in the air, and splashing onto the seat. Next thing I know, he was covered in Coke, his food was covered in Coke, and his best friend was sat laughing like a maniac. I apologised at least ten times, but this stranger was kind enough to laugh it off. The whole ideal is still giving me nightmares.

I broke my sofa bed. Ian and I got it out to watch Jurassic World and have plenty of space for blankets, beers and snacks. Then Ian tried to tickle me, my body spasmed and the entire bed just split in half. I think Ian learnt his lesson after he spent an hour fixing it.

And to top off all of that, I broke Ian’s mug. Whilst that may not seem like the end of the world, he had grown an attachment to that mug. It was his only mug for 6 years (Kinda gross) and it had come all the way from Germany. It was one of a kind, and my arse knocked it straight off the table and it smashed on the floor. The horror in his face was hilarious  so sad. Luckily, it was just the handle that smashed so we can still keep it, watching over us from cup heaven.

I’d just like to point out, if you’re annoyed at a clumsy person for making a mess or breaking something, just think. It’s probably worse for them. They have to live with the havoc they cause, you just happen to be a bystander who got in the way.