"One of the first conditions of happiness is that the link between Man and Nature shall not be broken."
It was with this in mind that I rose at 6:30 and started digging up the garden. I'm really not the type to rise at 6:30 or dig. Generally I'm a lazy cow. I tilled the soil like a goodun, (though not 100% on what "tilling" is) incorporating as I dug a large portion of homemade compost. I might have gone too soon on the compost, its supposed to be sweet smelling and crumbly, this was soggy, rank and included a potato that you could have still made chips out of. I suppose it will continue to decompose on site though.
I dunno though, is it weird of me to take Tolstoy's words to heart in this way? I have to say, that even after one whole hour of working the land I did not feel any sense of nobility nor that my body was simply a machine etc. Obviously I felt a bit smug but is that enough?
I notice that they say that Tolstoy didn't really like women. I don't see this though in my experience of nearly one-third (yay!) of Anna Karenina. It seems to me that it is the men that come in for the sharp edge of his tongue. I'll get back to you on this one.
Fallen off the wagon slightly tonight. I had that disturbing experience tonight (fellow big wine drinkers will know when I'm coming from) of trying to open a screw-top wine bottle with a corkscrew. I got in in the end though.
Drunken kisses,
Your Very Own
Dolores x
Saturday, 5 May 2007
Friday, 4 May 2007
Dolores Blogavitch
Chapter 246
"Then we shall see," Dolores Blogavitch said to herself, and, sitting down at her broad cluttered desk she pressed the blue illuminated button that powered up her sturdy desktop computer, that loyal and deliberate friend that held on its large hard disk all the hopes and dreams of her weary life. As the machine launched into a needless Spyware scan her large expressive feet moved slightly in their worn but still-valid black sandals, this small gesture revealing in its jerky detail the turmoil that was hard to discern in the blank arrangement of her ordinary yet tanned and passingly intelligent face.
Waiting for Windows Live Messenger to complete its inexorable journey towards signing-in, a journey from which no amount of clicking on "Cancel" would cause deviation or acceleration, Dolores twiddled irritably with her straw-like but strangely pink hair. She slumped into a reverie, remembering a time when her hair had shone as dark wild and shiny as a conker without having to spend an entire day in the chaotic hair salon, full of women compensating for their past youth with a trolley full of evil-smelling chemicals and their observations on men that cut as sharply as the professional scissors that lay on the natural wood benches that adjoined the slowly twirling seats positioned so unkindly before the large frank mirrors.
A piping biddleybonk from the computer shook Dolores Blogavitch back into the present and she downloaded her email, unable, still, to repress a sense of optimism as she scanned the headers of the 34 new messages. She scarcely breathed until she had looked at them, and then the disappointment hit her with the force of a pressure washer aimed directly between her suffering eyes. Nobody had commented on her blog, in fact, nobody had even fecking read it.
"Then we shall see," Dolores Blogavitch said to herself, and, sitting down at her broad cluttered desk she pressed the blue illuminated button that powered up her sturdy desktop computer, that loyal and deliberate friend that held on its large hard disk all the hopes and dreams of her weary life. As the machine launched into a needless Spyware scan her large expressive feet moved slightly in their worn but still-valid black sandals, this small gesture revealing in its jerky detail the turmoil that was hard to discern in the blank arrangement of her ordinary yet tanned and passingly intelligent face.
Waiting for Windows Live Messenger to complete its inexorable journey towards signing-in, a journey from which no amount of clicking on "Cancel" would cause deviation or acceleration, Dolores twiddled irritably with her straw-like but strangely pink hair. She slumped into a reverie, remembering a time when her hair had shone as dark wild and shiny as a conker without having to spend an entire day in the chaotic hair salon, full of women compensating for their past youth with a trolley full of evil-smelling chemicals and their observations on men that cut as sharply as the professional scissors that lay on the natural wood benches that adjoined the slowly twirling seats positioned so unkindly before the large frank mirrors.
A piping biddleybonk from the computer shook Dolores Blogavitch back into the present and she downloaded her email, unable, still, to repress a sense of optimism as she scanned the headers of the 34 new messages. She scarcely breathed until she had looked at them, and then the disappointment hit her with the force of a pressure washer aimed directly between her suffering eyes. Nobody had commented on her blog, in fact, nobody had even fecking read it.
Playing Away
Hello Loves!
Sorry I've not been around but I've been playing away at plooptionary.com
Incidentally I challenge you to type plooptionary without accidentally putting plopptionary, maybe I should buy plopptionary.com and catch all the clever sloppy seconds from this site.
The Ploops posted my spiny fish graph on the site and are kind and nice about my comments. This is especially flattering as the razor-sharp loyal band of comment-makers can be very acerbic. Its been like being allowed into the sixth form common room.
But... [TEACHERY SUPEREGO PIPES UP] its all very well having fun but we're only a third of the way through Anna Karenina and its only a few weeks till the end of term. We must get back to Tolstoy.
Sorry I've not been around but I've been playing away at plooptionary.com
Incidentally I challenge you to type plooptionary without accidentally putting plopptionary, maybe I should buy plopptionary.com and catch all the clever sloppy seconds from this site.
The Ploops posted my spiny fish graph on the site and are kind and nice about my comments. This is especially flattering as the razor-sharp loyal band of comment-makers can be very acerbic. Its been like being allowed into the sixth form common room.
But... [TEACHERY SUPEREGO PIPES UP] its all very well having fun but we're only a third of the way through Anna Karenina and its only a few weeks till the end of term. We must get back to Tolstoy.
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
Beating the urge to text - in graph form
I've now stopped the racking sobs brought on by yesterday's entry and done a graph. I am not embarrassed to admit that I was heavily inspired by the marvellous peeps at plooptionary.com
Graph Showing The Urge To Text Over Days Since Breakup
In this model the breakup is assumed to have occurred on a Saturday, which it probably did.
The blips are caused by being drunk on subsequent Saturdays.
2 actual texts are sent. The first (day 7) reads "How r u?" and the second (day 14) claims that you have a new partner who actually appreciates you.
The shape of the graph suggests a horrible spiny fish, and that is what the whole situation stinks of.
Graph Showing The Urge To Text Over Days Since Breakup
Notes:
The blips are caused by being drunk on subsequent Saturdays.
2 actual texts are sent. The first (day 7) reads "How r u?" and the second (day 14) claims that you have a new partner who actually appreciates you.
The shape of the graph suggests a horrible spiny fish, and that is what the whole situation stinks of.
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
Potted Life History of a PotHead
Observant readers might notice that I've stopped slagging off my ex. I can't be arsed with it any more.
One thing I know is that he did his best to be my loving boyfriend but in the end his past pulled him down. To keep him by my side was like swimming while carrying a giant cannonball. And I can only do the doggy-paddle myself.
Pause for everyone to sneer and say yeah, we can't go blaming our youth, we've all had a hard time.
Well your experience probably wasn't as bad as his.
When he was 18 he became a postman. The Post Office gave him 50p a week to wear his own clothes because they didn't make uniforms small enough for his 4ft 10 figure. During his year with them he grew one foot. It was only when he started earning his own money that he got fed, before that nobody remembered to do it.
How the hell he passed the letter-sorting test when he couldn't read or write is a mystery. It was the kind of thing he could do just by pure native intelligence, an intelligence that coupled with his extreme ignorance and lack of education came across as weaselly cunning.
He is a second child. The first (the favoured) grew up to make a complete dogs dinner of his life and now drinks away his life raging about his sunken narrowboat. He is locally famous for abusing passers by when pissed, and once drew a big crowd in the town centre by publicly masturbating. However, catch him before he starts on the beer and he is a sweet fella.
Little brother is the one that got all the survival skills.
His mum worked for the Military, doing something really clever like cracking codes. She was getting on by the time she had her boys, and developed Alzheimers in the 90s, before dying in about 1996. Both brothers claim they are the only one that looked after her during this time. She would only eat carrots, corned beef and Cornettos in her last years.
I think they loved her, but she worked night shifts and the boys ran wild.
On the other hand, their dad was one of nature's vilest creations. This was his second marriage, the first being to someone really posh. There were some children of this first marriage but they were never seen by their half-brothers.
He was for sure an alcoholic and preferred his pub mates to anything at home. There is a horrible story in which he let one of his friends abuse the little boys (I am not allowed to tell this story, it is a secret) and took his friend's side against his children. Dad was long-dead when I heard about this and I hope he's rotting in hell.
Every Christmas, dad would go to prison for his debts so as to avoid the stress of the festive season. Presents are an alien concept to my ex and he was never able to accept anything from me nicely though I tried and tried to give him stuff. Gifts make him nervous and he never learnt to say the words "Thank you"
Mum and dad got together for their shared love of dogs, and they bred dogs in the family home, there were always a couple of dozen living there. There were various breeds and obviously they would often mate with the wrong type and produce unsaleable puppies which had to drowned in
a bucket in the back yard. Dad would starve the dogs for one day every week, the reasons for this are not understood.
My ex went on to forge some kind of life. He went to night school to learn to read and write. He got a skilled job and held it down by the skin of his teeth for years. He is fiercely loyal to his friends, many of whom have done nothing to deserve this loyalty, because he cannot tell a genuine friend from a friendly user.
Its not all been great though. He drinks too much and when he is drunk his only mission is to show his mates how cool and tough and big he is. Just like his dad did.
He had smoked a lot of dope since he was 14 and by the time he was 40 it had made him paranoid, blurred and stupid. He gave it up for me, but the minute we fell out he took it up again, just a bit, to relax. He also used to sell it to his friends but didn't make any money because they would wheedle it out of him for nothing. Imagine his surprise when he stopped dealing and his friends disappeared.
His heart was broken when he was 20 or so, when his beloved girlfriend had a baby. After a few months they split and he never saw the baby again. Ex tells it that the girl's parents split them up by calling him a useless pikey but I am sure the fact that he cannot handle families at all must have come into it. The boy is now all grown up and working in the butcher's, so ex can't ever go there.
I loved him and I guess I still do. Who can resist an underdog and when he was with me he struggled so hard to be a better man. In the end the pressure was too much and now he is hurtling back to the gutter from whence he came. He might have enough about him to get a grip pretty soon.
He loved me and I guess he still does. But what was he doing with a posh bird with 3 kids and impossibly high demands? A lot of the time we didn't understand each other at all. It was like a union between an elephant and a hyena. Imagine how unsaleable our puppies would have been.
So ... goodbye and good luck my Weaselly Ex xxxx
One thing I know is that he did his best to be my loving boyfriend but in the end his past pulled him down. To keep him by my side was like swimming while carrying a giant cannonball. And I can only do the doggy-paddle myself.
Pause for everyone to sneer and say yeah, we can't go blaming our youth, we've all had a hard time.
Well your experience probably wasn't as bad as his.
When he was 18 he became a postman. The Post Office gave him 50p a week to wear his own clothes because they didn't make uniforms small enough for his 4ft 10 figure. During his year with them he grew one foot. It was only when he started earning his own money that he got fed, before that nobody remembered to do it.
How the hell he passed the letter-sorting test when he couldn't read or write is a mystery. It was the kind of thing he could do just by pure native intelligence, an intelligence that coupled with his extreme ignorance and lack of education came across as weaselly cunning.
He is a second child. The first (the favoured) grew up to make a complete dogs dinner of his life and now drinks away his life raging about his sunken narrowboat. He is locally famous for abusing passers by when pissed, and once drew a big crowd in the town centre by publicly masturbating. However, catch him before he starts on the beer and he is a sweet fella.
Little brother is the one that got all the survival skills.
His mum worked for the Military, doing something really clever like cracking codes. She was getting on by the time she had her boys, and developed Alzheimers in the 90s, before dying in about 1996. Both brothers claim they are the only one that looked after her during this time. She would only eat carrots, corned beef and Cornettos in her last years.
I think they loved her, but she worked night shifts and the boys ran wild.
On the other hand, their dad was one of nature's vilest creations. This was his second marriage, the first being to someone really posh. There were some children of this first marriage but they were never seen by their half-brothers.
He was for sure an alcoholic and preferred his pub mates to anything at home. There is a horrible story in which he let one of his friends abuse the little boys (I am not allowed to tell this story, it is a secret) and took his friend's side against his children. Dad was long-dead when I heard about this and I hope he's rotting in hell.
Every Christmas, dad would go to prison for his debts so as to avoid the stress of the festive season. Presents are an alien concept to my ex and he was never able to accept anything from me nicely though I tried and tried to give him stuff. Gifts make him nervous and he never learnt to say the words "Thank you"
Mum and dad got together for their shared love of dogs, and they bred dogs in the family home, there were always a couple of dozen living there. There were various breeds and obviously they would often mate with the wrong type and produce unsaleable puppies which had to drowned in
a bucket in the back yard. Dad would starve the dogs for one day every week, the reasons for this are not understood.
My ex went on to forge some kind of life. He went to night school to learn to read and write. He got a skilled job and held it down by the skin of his teeth for years. He is fiercely loyal to his friends, many of whom have done nothing to deserve this loyalty, because he cannot tell a genuine friend from a friendly user.
Its not all been great though. He drinks too much and when he is drunk his only mission is to show his mates how cool and tough and big he is. Just like his dad did.
He had smoked a lot of dope since he was 14 and by the time he was 40 it had made him paranoid, blurred and stupid. He gave it up for me, but the minute we fell out he took it up again, just a bit, to relax. He also used to sell it to his friends but didn't make any money because they would wheedle it out of him for nothing. Imagine his surprise when he stopped dealing and his friends disappeared.
His heart was broken when he was 20 or so, when his beloved girlfriend had a baby. After a few months they split and he never saw the baby again. Ex tells it that the girl's parents split them up by calling him a useless pikey but I am sure the fact that he cannot handle families at all must have come into it. The boy is now all grown up and working in the butcher's, so ex can't ever go there.
I loved him and I guess I still do. Who can resist an underdog and when he was with me he struggled so hard to be a better man. In the end the pressure was too much and now he is hurtling back to the gutter from whence he came. He might have enough about him to get a grip pretty soon.
He loved me and I guess he still does. But what was he doing with a posh bird with 3 kids and impossibly high demands? A lot of the time we didn't understand each other at all. It was like a union between an elephant and a hyena. Imagine how unsaleable our puppies would have been.
So ... goodbye and good luck my Weaselly Ex xxxx
Saturday, 28 April 2007
So what are MY eyes saying?
With thanks to Tolstoy and my big son with the prodigious camera .. er ..talent. I am expressing something very definite with my eyes and then I am adding something. Sensitive Russian types should be able to get it, word for word.
Anna Karenina
So determined was I to get fit that I downloaded Anna Karenina onto my iPod to mitigate the intolerable boredom of going to the gym. That was a month or so ago and I went to the gym, guess how many times? - yep - two. But I'm still listening to AK and I'm still only on part 26 of 91.
It IS good But the detail - oh - the detail they had in those days. At times is makes you want to slit your throat. Check this out (and I quote)
"Her eyes added" - that kills me. I challenge you to say something really complex with your eyes and then add something. I'm very tempted to do a youtube thing and run a competition to see who can most accurately interpret what I'm saying with my eyes. Though that would mean finding the webcam that I hid years ago when I found it was showing everyone what I REALLY looked like. I might do it though. I might just do it. Now how the feck do you do this youtube thing?
By the way, if you have a spare six months you can read the whole book for free from Project Gutenberg
It IS good But the detail - oh - the detail they had in those days. At times is makes you want to slit your throat. Check this out (and I quote)
The two girls used to meet several times a day, and every time
they met, Kitty's eyes said: "Who are you? What are you? Are
you really the exquisite creature I imagine you to be? But for
goodness' sake don't suppose," her eyes added, "that I would
force my acquaintance on you, I simply admire you and like you."
"Her eyes added" - that kills me. I challenge you to say something really complex with your eyes and then add something. I'm very tempted to do a youtube thing and run a competition to see who can most accurately interpret what I'm saying with my eyes. Though that would mean finding the webcam that I hid years ago when I found it was showing everyone what I REALLY looked like. I might do it though. I might just do it. Now how the feck do you do this youtube thing?
By the way, if you have a spare six months you can read the whole book for free from Project Gutenberg
Wednesday, 25 April 2007
Quite good revenge idea
Hello Loves!
I'd never dare do this myself but the idea is so good I would like someone to have it.
Contact http://www.chameleonsigns.co.uk/ and get them to make you some car graphics. Use your creativity to tailor the message to your ex, eg "I lie and I cheat" could work, or I quite like "I will never amount to anything". Its probably classier to avoid swearing and I don't think Chameleon would do that anyway.
In a surprisingly short time (they're very good) some nice blokes will drive down from Bradford with the vinyl. You need to time this so that ex is distracted, ideally doing the thing that split you up, and his car parked in a public place. The Northern chaps will stick on your graphics in such a way that it ain't never coming off.
It sounds expensive but I reckon the bill would come in under £200. Nothing compared to the money he owes you.
I'd never dare do this myself but the idea is so good I would like someone to have it.
Contact http://www.chameleonsigns.co.uk/ and get them to make you some car graphics. Use your creativity to tailor the message to your ex, eg "I lie and I cheat" could work, or I quite like "I will never amount to anything". Its probably classier to avoid swearing and I don't think Chameleon would do that anyway.
In a surprisingly short time (they're very good) some nice blokes will drive down from Bradford with the vinyl. You need to time this so that ex is distracted, ideally doing the thing that split you up, and his car parked in a public place. The Northern chaps will stick on your graphics in such a way that it ain't never coming off.
It sounds expensive but I reckon the bill would come in under £200. Nothing compared to the money he owes you.
Monday, 23 April 2007
Shitey Day
On the face of it today has not been bad. Happy customers including a grateful and sexy builder. Kids in a good mood. Private maths tuition kid made me laugh and seemed to get the hang of decomposing into prime factors. Had a management meeting this morning with myself this morning and made notes and came up with an inspiring list to put on the wall.
There's been a crap atmosphere though. An all-pervading feeling of wrongness and sorrow. Bummer.
There's been a crap atmosphere though. An all-pervading feeling of wrongness and sorrow. Bummer.
A Spot of Self-Denigration
You know what this is really about don't you? Hell hath no fury like a woman spurned. But even that fury is nothing compared to the fury of a woman pushed to the limits of her endurance for years and years and then spurned.
I'm going to lay off Him for a bit and have a pop at myself for a change. I did something last night that was not in theory that twatty, but it is making my skin crawl and wrecking my day.
The Prince of Wales was having its big St George's Day party all day yesterday. My house is only about 50 yards away so I could hear the excited squeals of people having their fish and chips and going on the bouncy castle. About 9pm, I went outside to get my recycling bin and heard the M*******s playing, a band whose members are Friends of Weasel. (I'd love to give them a plug with their real name cos they're good, but would make it too easy to link it all up and don't yet want Weasel publicly humiliated) . So I thought I'd pop along and listen. Sounds all natural and lovely so far.
The pub was stuffed to the gunnels with friends of Weasel and they all fecking ignored me, it was horrible, I had to stand at the edge with my glass of wine making grim sub-dancing moves and feeling so out of it it wasn't true. I think a few people even did that thing when they stare at you and when you turn to look at them they turn away.
After a bit the band took a break and I took my wine outside and tried to chat to a couple of women that I know. They weren't having it either and I was left on my own in a mass of chattering people feeling like a COMPLETE TUBE.
In an attempt to save the situation I sat down next to a fat glum guy and gave him my very best dazzling patter. Which did at least cheer him up. His mates turned up and waggled their eyebrows at him, saying "Get in there, mate" in every possible way without actually speaking. His mates soon said "We're going in now mate cos its cold" to leave Fatso to his destiny with the desperate over-friendly woman. As they left Fatso got up too and said he had enjoyed talking to me very much but had to go inside with his mates.
So I was home again by 10, drunker and more humiliated than when I had gone out, and make no mistake, I was fairly drunk and humiliated even then.
Just to make things worse, I texted Weasel to tell him I had met a man from Cardiff. Then I followed up with another text saying "PS He was a fucking misery. Even worse than you".
Oh God. Do I feel better now? Nope.
I'm going to lay off Him for a bit and have a pop at myself for a change. I did something last night that was not in theory that twatty, but it is making my skin crawl and wrecking my day.
The Prince of Wales was having its big St George's Day party all day yesterday. My house is only about 50 yards away so I could hear the excited squeals of people having their fish and chips and going on the bouncy castle. About 9pm, I went outside to get my recycling bin and heard the M*******s playing, a band whose members are Friends of Weasel. (I'd love to give them a plug with their real name cos they're good, but would make it too easy to link it all up and don't yet want Weasel publicly humiliated) . So I thought I'd pop along and listen. Sounds all natural and lovely so far.
The pub was stuffed to the gunnels with friends of Weasel and they all fecking ignored me, it was horrible, I had to stand at the edge with my glass of wine making grim sub-dancing moves and feeling so out of it it wasn't true. I think a few people even did that thing when they stare at you and when you turn to look at them they turn away.
After a bit the band took a break and I took my wine outside and tried to chat to a couple of women that I know. They weren't having it either and I was left on my own in a mass of chattering people feeling like a COMPLETE TUBE.
In an attempt to save the situation I sat down next to a fat glum guy and gave him my very best dazzling patter. Which did at least cheer him up. His mates turned up and waggled their eyebrows at him, saying "Get in there, mate" in every possible way without actually speaking. His mates soon said "We're going in now mate cos its cold" to leave Fatso to his destiny with the desperate over-friendly woman. As they left Fatso got up too and said he had enjoyed talking to me very much but had to go inside with his mates.
So I was home again by 10, drunker and more humiliated than when I had gone out, and make no mistake, I was fairly drunk and humiliated even then.
Just to make things worse, I texted Weasel to tell him I had met a man from Cardiff. Then I followed up with another text saying "PS He was a fucking misery. Even worse than you".
Oh God. Do I feel better now? Nope.
Sunday, 22 April 2007
Weasel thinks he works really hard
I know I've set a pattern here of slagging - quiet reflection - slagging - quiet reflection, but no time for quiet reflection as have thin-based pizza in oven.
Weasel is often so tired he can't lift his thumb to text, the reason he gives for this is that he works really hard in the open air and has to go in people's houses which is tiring in itself and has to lift cable drums.
It is true that sometimes he doesn't finish work till 7pm but on these days he hasn't even freaking started till 3pm. He often shakes his head in an "if only you knew" kind of way when I suggest my day was also quite busy. Although my own day (including 3 children and all their concerns, loads of customers for my fledgling business, and sundry other million duties) started at 7:30am and finished at 11:30pm.
I've SEEN him working flat-out. He can phone his supervisor from my kitchen and tell him he's nearly on site but stuck in a queue on the A33 at present. He doesn't blush, sound sheepish or even see a discrepancy in what he says. Because one of the key things about Weasel and one that I will explore when I have a couple of days off is that he LIES.
Weasel is often so tired he can't lift his thumb to text, the reason he gives for this is that he works really hard in the open air and has to go in people's houses which is tiring in itself and has to lift cable drums.
It is true that sometimes he doesn't finish work till 7pm but on these days he hasn't even freaking started till 3pm. He often shakes his head in an "if only you knew" kind of way when I suggest my day was also quite busy. Although my own day (including 3 children and all their concerns, loads of customers for my fledgling business, and sundry other million duties) started at 7:30am and finished at 11:30pm.
I've SEEN him working flat-out. He can phone his supervisor from my kitchen and tell him he's nearly on site but stuck in a queue on the A33 at present. He doesn't blush, sound sheepish or even see a discrepancy in what he says. Because one of the key things about Weasel and one that I will explore when I have a couple of days off is that he LIES.
Saturday, 21 April 2007
Weasel has not updated his look since 1983
Weasel is afraid that if he wears anything at all noticeable then he will be thought gay. He chooses his clothes from a palette of navy-blue and the colour of denim.
He tucks his polo shirts firmly in so that they cannot be lifted by a shirt-lifter. Once he tried a grey polo shirt but wasn't happy.
I got him a pair of Levis for Christmas but they didn't sit right. To sit right, there should be a completely flat area at the rear from the belt down to the mid-thigh. Even a hint of an arse would be too provocative.
Practicality is his watch-word. This is why, when he has had a skinful, he will go to bed with his shoes on.
He tucks his polo shirts firmly in so that they cannot be lifted by a shirt-lifter. Once he tried a grey polo shirt but wasn't happy.
I got him a pair of Levis for Christmas but they didn't sit right. To sit right, there should be a completely flat area at the rear from the belt down to the mid-thigh. Even a hint of an arse would be too provocative.
Practicality is his watch-word. This is why, when he has had a skinful, he will go to bed with his shoes on.
Bit of a breather there...
..while Weasel came over and tried to sell me his new idea for a relationship. (He sees me if he feels like it and ... that's it really)
It was hard to look at him when I've started a blog dedicated to taking the piss out of him, but no-one reads it, so what the fuck.
After a short spell of trying to be civilised I've gone back to wanting to kill him, so time for another cathartic out-pouring.
It was hard to look at him when I've started a blog dedicated to taking the piss out of him, but no-one reads it, so what the fuck.
After a short spell of trying to be civilised I've gone back to wanting to kill him, so time for another cathartic out-pouring.
Thursday, 19 April 2007
Weasel is weird about his dog
Granted the dog is cute. Shaggy like a poodle, squat like a terrier, grey like his daddy.
When I met Weasel the dog had never been for a walk in the country, so I took him and ignored the instruction to not let him off the lead. The dog went mad with joy and whenever he saw me after that would go crazy for me, the woman that correctly identified him as a dog and not a life partner. Weasel told me he was a fussy eater and was gob-smacked when I gave him a bowl of Vitalin (£6.99 a hundred-weight) and Doggo wolfed it down.
When Weasel was going somewhere where dogs weren't welcome I was supposed to look after the dog but Weasel couldn't leave him. The dog is like a son to him you see.
You say "Sit" to Doggo and he'll just look at you befuddled. "That's my boy!" crows Weasel, "Nobody tells him what to do!" The unspoken thought lies heavy. The dog is cute but thick.
Weasel claims he doesn't need me because all he needs is his dog.
Naturally I asked does he have sex with the dog?
What kind of sick bastard has sex with a dog? he replied.
When I met Weasel the dog had never been for a walk in the country, so I took him and ignored the instruction to not let him off the lead. The dog went mad with joy and whenever he saw me after that would go crazy for me, the woman that correctly identified him as a dog and not a life partner. Weasel told me he was a fussy eater and was gob-smacked when I gave him a bowl of Vitalin (£6.99 a hundred-weight) and Doggo wolfed it down.
When Weasel was going somewhere where dogs weren't welcome I was supposed to look after the dog but Weasel couldn't leave him. The dog is like a son to him you see.
You say "Sit" to Doggo and he'll just look at you befuddled. "That's my boy!" crows Weasel, "Nobody tells him what to do!" The unspoken thought lies heavy. The dog is cute but thick.
Weasel claims he doesn't need me because all he needs is his dog.
Naturally I asked does he have sex with the dog?
What kind of sick bastard has sex with a dog? he replied.
Miracle cure
I'm already sickening myself with all this nastiness. I must be healing too fast! Like another sci-fi movie where injuries instantly mend!
But I do have to keep writing writing writing because if I don't I start to look at my phone and ask pointless and demeaning questions like "Why doesn't he contact me?"
Though I have to stop for long enough to put the littluns in bed.
But I do have to keep writing writing writing because if I don't I start to look at my phone and ask pointless and demeaning questions like "Why doesn't he contact me?"
Though I have to stop for long enough to put the littluns in bed.
The Weasel: Spends over £100 a week on the lottery
(Didn't publish last post which badly denigrated all the inhabitants of Emmer Green. It was so rude it shocked even me. I'll keep this personal)
He says he spends £100 a week on the lottery. But before moving on, let us apply the law of Weasel Bad Habit Understatement. Conservatively, every stated unit of stupidity = 4 real u.o.s.
So more like £400 then.
In his defence, though, I should tell you that some of the "lines" have a really good feel to them. They do not follow any definite mathematical sequence nor display clumping. We must also remember that he knows he will win one day and in fact did win £2000 in 1995! Not to mention several tenners since then.
Even using the £100 figure, he has spent £62,400 on the lottery. That's some investment which many would have frittered away buying houses and presents for their girlfriends. No wonder he has no money to spend on luxuries like the £400 repair bill for my back door which he trashed while on a drunken binge.
But, as he pointed out, its all money money money with me.
He says he spends £100 a week on the lottery. But before moving on, let us apply the law of Weasel Bad Habit Understatement. Conservatively, every stated unit of stupidity = 4 real u.o.s.
So more like £400 then.
In his defence, though, I should tell you that some of the "lines" have a really good feel to them. They do not follow any definite mathematical sequence nor display clumping. We must also remember that he knows he will win one day and in fact did win £2000 in 1995! Not to mention several tenners since then.
Even using the £100 figure, he has spent £62,400 on the lottery. That's some investment which many would have frittered away buying houses and presents for their girlfriends. No wonder he has no money to spend on luxuries like the £400 repair bill for my back door which he trashed while on a drunken binge.
But, as he pointed out, its all money money money with me.
Cool Stop Smoking Counsellor
After a nightmarish week of being jerked around by the Weasel I had to go and see Maria at the clinic to report that my smoking had hit record highs.
"Don't tell me I stink and don't make me blow in that thing" I snarled on arrival.
Seeing that smoking cessation was not going well she recommended that I give up on it for a bit, keep coming for the NHS patches and stockpile them for happier times.
I then revealed that I had thrown myself at my ex in a spectacularly pathetic and desperate way, which had caused him to say he didn't love me, or did he? and that is was over, or should we try again? and that he didn't desire me any more but it would be sort of ok if I sucked his dick, and then he could go back to ignoring my text messages.
For a few days I have been acting all light and jolly and fun just to show that I am terrific girlfriend material, but last night a fuse blew.
It was like a mad laugh going HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA up the scale and then cracking and going weird and scary, like a malfunctioning robot in a sci-fi movie. So returning to pathetic desperation, I texted him in the middle of the night to say that I missed and loved him and was worried.
No reply.
So Maria and me said I should write out my pain.
She said I should write positive things. So that's what I'm doing.
HA-HA-HA-HA-HA (mad laugh)
"Don't tell me I stink and don't make me blow in that thing" I snarled on arrival.
Seeing that smoking cessation was not going well she recommended that I give up on it for a bit, keep coming for the NHS patches and stockpile them for happier times.
I then revealed that I had thrown myself at my ex in a spectacularly pathetic and desperate way, which had caused him to say he didn't love me, or did he? and that is was over, or should we try again? and that he didn't desire me any more but it would be sort of ok if I sucked his dick, and then he could go back to ignoring my text messages.
For a few days I have been acting all light and jolly and fun just to show that I am terrific girlfriend material, but last night a fuse blew.
It was like a mad laugh going HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA up the scale and then cracking and going weird and scary, like a malfunctioning robot in a sci-fi movie. So returning to pathetic desperation, I texted him in the middle of the night to say that I missed and loved him and was worried.
No reply.
So Maria and me said I should write out my pain.
She said I should write positive things. So that's what I'm doing.
HA-HA-HA-HA-HA (mad laugh)
The Weasel : He is Boring When Driving
Let's start with some good old-fashioned character assassination. It isn't big or clever but sadly it is necessary.
How boring he is is too big for just one post, he has such a wide-range of tedious traits.
Here's one:
If you go for a long drive with him you can bet your arse he's been down every road on the route before. And there's an anecdote for every stretch. These anecdotes are not entertaining. For example it might be that once a Tesco lorry was in front of him and he couldn't overtake for seven miles. Oh, what's this: a pub? Him and his stupid mates were thrown out of there in the 80s (his hayday) for
Do not get into a car with this man unless you have an ipod. Just grunt "idiots" once a minute and he'll never know you're not listening.
How boring he is is too big for just one post, he has such a wide-range of tedious traits.
Here's one:
If you go for a long drive with him you can bet your arse he's been down every road on the route before. And there's an anecdote for every stretch. These anecdotes are not entertaining. For example it might be that once a Tesco lorry was in front of him and he couldn't overtake for seven miles. Oh, what's this: a pub? Him and his stupid mates were thrown out of there in the 80s (his hayday) for
- complaining the food was too poncey
- physically abusing someone who appeared to be too poncey
- being arse-holed and refusing to leave
Do not get into a car with this man unless you have an ipod. Just grunt "idiots" once a minute and he'll never know you're not listening.
Come view my spleen
I know a thing or two about blogs and how they can help. During my dark ages of marital-style misery I wrote the whole sorry tale down and it turned my life around. Why! they even made a play about it and staged it at the Edinburgh Festival. This one won't be so popular though because its unlikely to have any sex in it.
Right now I've got some spleen to vent and I want you to watch. You wanna see my spleen?
Dolores xx
Right now I've got some spleen to vent and I want you to watch. You wanna see my spleen?
Dolores xx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
