Urgh, god. Christmas.
Christmas starts with me and She Who May Not Be Named Under Pain Of Horrific Mascara Torture And Death Of The Stand aka Catharine aka Satan's Favourite Prostitute ect etc [/insults] opening our Santa-sacks. I got a new copy of The Stand (seeing as my old one had all-new front covers made from an old plastic mac) and that glue gun I requested, which I have dubbed "Dobbin".
Catharine got pink sparkly hideous crap, as per usual, and The Spear. I'm going to enjoy this. It's a book about neo-Nazis and the ressurection of a rather mouldy Heimlich Himmler, and she is very very squemish. Nearly as squemish as Himmler himself (he fainted when some brains splattered on him at a mass execution - serves him right).
Then Gramma comes over. Apparently, Gramma wasn't always permadrunk, but that was before I was born. Mum drank to keep her company and therefore both were passed out on the sofa by lunchtime. This meant that it was up to me, Cat and dad to cook Christmas Dinner (Grappa doesn't belive that men should cook). We can't cook anything more comlicated than a microwave dinner. So, as always, we had Turkey Twizzlers, MacCain MicroChips and raw carrots. Followed by Cadbury's chocolate mousse.
Then, Christmas Films. These are a 'family event' which mean I have to watch them. Joy of Joys. I'd much rather be watching 'The World At War' which I can watch as long as I cover my eyes during the opening credits because I find them creepy. Yeah, I know, flames, but I find the faces creepy. Lets say I am pro-bombs but anti-war. So I sang rude carols through 'Finding Nemo' and them sugested we find him in sushi. It was at this point that Catharine threatened my new copy of The Stand and I shut up. No-one touches my The Stand!!!
Yes, after that was Doctor Who with The Lovely David Tennant. Squee! Bascially, David Tennant is not the only reason I watch Doctor Who - more like the cream on a delicious chocolate fudge cake. The Cream (David Tennant) makes the fudge cake (Doctor Who) a lot lot nicer, but it is not essential. Lovely though.
I do wonder... why do I look forwad to Christmas, seeing as it's always like this?
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.
Trashcan Girl.
Tuesday, 25 December 2007
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
Emos: All big frauds in my opinion
OK. Dear Emos who are reading this. I have nothing against you personally, you could be the best people in the world.
BUT.
If emos say that "everyone hates me" and "I'm so miserable/depressed/bleeding to death from slitting my wrists with a chainsaw next time I'll use a razor blade" then why must they make my life more miserable and add further confirmation to my belief that everyone hates me???
Today, free period with Johnny, reading comics (me: Lenore - borrowed off of him, him: JTHM, borrowed off of me) and some emos (fringe positioned correctly, downcast o woe is me expression in place, bracelets showing off and complimenting hardcore wrist slashings on one of them) came over and said "wannabes!" and (specifically to me) "PyroPsycho!"
I didn't know the emo population fraternized with my sister Bitchface. She thought up "PyroPsycho" like, last year. Um... o-kaaaaaaaaaay...
Also, we are not emo wannabes. We a pseudogothic, and know it, so we cannot be wannabes. Wannabes do not know they are wannabes. And why in God's name would I want to be an emo? I have enough pain in my life already without having to slash my wrists and get more. :) Also, I'm too hyper. One of the physics teachers told us off because we were quoting Invader Zim at each other and it got very loud. VERY LOUD.
Well, Johnny asked about that, and I had to lie. Setting fire to stuff can cost you your social life, I admit that. Other people's intolerances. Tcha!
On the plus side, he calls me "Trash" not "Sammie" *puke puke*. I told him not to call me "Sammie" or I would rip out his eyes and play golf with them. He thought I was joking. I guess I was... for a first offence.
By the way, Catbutt thinks she has a social disease. Nuh-uh, I was in charge of putting away the clean underwear and 'doctored' her undies with chilli powder. I've been laughing my head off watching her scratch her butt and boobs all day now and trying to cover it up because she's with boys she's trying to impress. :D
BUT.
If emos say that "everyone hates me" and "I'm so miserable/depressed/bleeding to death from slitting my wrists with a chainsaw next time I'll use a razor blade" then why must they make my life more miserable and add further confirmation to my belief that everyone hates me???
Today, free period with Johnny, reading comics (me: Lenore - borrowed off of him, him: JTHM, borrowed off of me) and some emos (fringe positioned correctly, downcast o woe is me expression in place, bracelets showing off and complimenting hardcore wrist slashings on one of them) came over and said "wannabes!" and (specifically to me) "PyroPsycho!"
I didn't know the emo population fraternized with my sister Bitchface. She thought up "PyroPsycho" like, last year. Um... o-kaaaaaaaaaay...
Also, we are not emo wannabes. We a pseudogothic, and know it, so we cannot be wannabes. Wannabes do not know they are wannabes. And why in God's name would I want to be an emo? I have enough pain in my life already without having to slash my wrists and get more. :) Also, I'm too hyper. One of the physics teachers told us off because we were quoting Invader Zim at each other and it got very loud. VERY LOUD.
Well, Johnny asked about that, and I had to lie. Setting fire to stuff can cost you your social life, I admit that. Other people's intolerances. Tcha!
On the plus side, he calls me "Trash" not "Sammie" *puke puke*. I told him not to call me "Sammie" or I would rip out his eyes and play golf with them. He thought I was joking. I guess I was... for a first offence.
By the way, Catbutt thinks she has a social disease. Nuh-uh, I was in charge of putting away the clean underwear and 'doctored' her undies with chilli powder. I've been laughing my head off watching her scratch her butt and boobs all day now and trying to cover it up because she's with boys she's trying to impress. :D
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Sibling rivalry
Hello, and sorry for the delay. Long story, to be recounted below.
I casually mentioned that Johnny and I will be going into town for "Christmas Shopping". Read: Buy cheap crap for worthless family members and then stuff our faces with muffins, milkshakes, hot dogs, buy Stephen King and James Herbert books. Yay! We don't like most shopping.
AOS overheard. And because Ickle Sammie is going on an outing with only ONE boy, and no others, this is a date. Divvo. And dates = MAKEOVER TIME!!! Yes, it's horrible. Makeup (eww) hair (I honestly don't know what she could do with my hair - lets say it went frizzy) and finally...false nails. OH. MY. GOD. (Sorry, had to be done.)
I tried to remove them but they were stuck. No movey. What did she use, No More Nails? Heh. So, acetone-soaked fingers and achey hangnails later, I light some soothing candles... wait, who am I kidding? I light my dish of lighter fluid. It has a similar effect. My intention was to forget the horror in a spot of meditating... flaming dish, Firestarter music, chill... piss off AOS, no big loss.
“My” nails caught fire. On my right hand. One trip down A&E later by mum and not with Catharine, more burns dressings and me now typing in my leather driving gloves. I wear them a lot. I also have globs of acrylic at the ends of my fingers, and a slightly gross noise happens when I pick at it. I think they’re now permanent.
So no trip with Johnny, painful hands, and I was very angry, seeing as Cat’s arse was the cause of all this. I burst into her room (where she was performing vile acts - but fortunately as close to fully clothed as she gets – with faeces features), brandished my hand in her face and yelled “THIS IS ALL YOUR BL**DY FAULT!!!” I then told her to never, ever, ever do such things to me again or I will give her a pyromaniac haircut. You know what they are, dear reader. She had a go at me for burning her favourite picture of faeces features and using it to graffiti the toilets. Basically, we went over everything we did to each other, including my “assimilation” of some of her Barbies with my own when I was 8 and she was also 8 (there's only a 10-month age gap between us because Mum forgot that the idea of not having children shortly after childbirth only works when breastfeeding). Her Barbies were as packaged, mine were post-apocalyptic cyborg punks merged into some post-apocalyptic Star Wars action figure play fantasy. Nuff said. MINE WERE COOLER!
The upshot is, we’re not talking to each other. Or getting each other Christmas presents, which is good, because I didn’t want to spend any money on pink sparkly fluffy crap, and I didn’t want to receive any pink sparkly fluffy crap either.
I casually mentioned that Johnny and I will be going into town for "Christmas Shopping". Read: Buy cheap crap for worthless family members and then stuff our faces with muffins, milkshakes, hot dogs, buy Stephen King and James Herbert books. Yay! We don't like most shopping.
AOS overheard. And because Ickle Sammie is going on an outing with only ONE boy, and no others, this is a date. Divvo. And dates = MAKEOVER TIME!!! Yes, it's horrible. Makeup (eww) hair (I honestly don't know what she could do with my hair - lets say it went frizzy) and finally...false nails. OH. MY. GOD. (Sorry, had to be done.)
I tried to remove them but they were stuck. No movey. What did she use, No More Nails? Heh. So, acetone-soaked fingers and achey hangnails later, I light some soothing candles... wait, who am I kidding? I light my dish of lighter fluid. It has a similar effect. My intention was to forget the horror in a spot of meditating... flaming dish, Firestarter music, chill... piss off AOS, no big loss.
“My” nails caught fire. On my right hand. One trip down A&E later by mum and not with Catharine, more burns dressings and me now typing in my leather driving gloves. I wear them a lot. I also have globs of acrylic at the ends of my fingers, and a slightly gross noise happens when I pick at it. I think they’re now permanent.
So no trip with Johnny, painful hands, and I was very angry, seeing as Cat’s arse was the cause of all this. I burst into her room (where she was performing vile acts - but fortunately as close to fully clothed as she gets – with faeces features), brandished my hand in her face and yelled “THIS IS ALL YOUR BL**DY FAULT!!!” I then told her to never, ever, ever do such things to me again or I will give her a pyromaniac haircut. You know what they are, dear reader. She had a go at me for burning her favourite picture of faeces features and using it to graffiti the toilets. Basically, we went over everything we did to each other, including my “assimilation” of some of her Barbies with my own when I was 8 and she was also 8 (there's only a 10-month age gap between us because Mum forgot that the idea of not having children shortly after childbirth only works when breastfeeding). Her Barbies were as packaged, mine were post-apocalyptic cyborg punks merged into some post-apocalyptic Star Wars action figure play fantasy. Nuff said. MINE WERE COOLER!
The upshot is, we’re not talking to each other. Or getting each other Christmas presents, which is good, because I didn’t want to spend any money on pink sparkly fluffy crap, and I didn’t want to receive any pink sparkly fluffy crap either.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)