Fried Chicken & Disappointment

Anonymous

‘Why do you think the general public would be interested in an average looking woman constantly complaining about men being attracted to her? You’re average looking, there are women better looking and less attractive than you that have the same things happen to them every day. You’re not highlighting anything particularly interesting for your reader. I’m sure you’ll find a way to insult me in a “clever and witty way” for saying this because you’re unable to take criticism.Just like your mother ;)’

Anonymous tumblr post, SO BRAVE. I’m sure my followers agree. I’m entirely able to take criticism, but not from someone who is not confident enough to leave a name because they know I’ll launch a personal attack so humiliating that they wouldn’t be able to take it and would thrust themselves through the doors of the nearest McDonald’s into a trough of Big Macs before I’d even had the opportunity to culminate my argument. You’re far more likely to be bothered by a personal attack than I am; I’m far too unconcerned, as is obvious from the fact I’m usually the mentalist running round a club with messy hair, trainers and a fucking rucksack. I like being a cunt, and if I’m average looking, that still means I am better than you. There are more important things than looks; a prime example would be the ability to read. It is rather obvious that you cannot do so, seeing as you are under the impression that my blog is about ‘men being attracted’ to me; nor is it me claiming to be attractive. In regards to writing ‘something particularly interesting for [my] reader’, I’m not writing a fucking novel; this isn’t some George Orwell shit that is intended to call people to arms or inspire them in any way. It is what it is, a personal tumblr filled with bullshit anecdotes, which is what my friends want to hear. I’d direct you to a library, but as I’ve already said, your literary prowess is far from well-developed. Stick to reading The Sun.

As for average looking, I have nothing to compare myself against so I’m unsure what is your motive for attacking my looks. At this moment I’m tending towards jealousy, otherwise you wouldn’t have been driven to write such a bitter attack based on nothing but superficiality. I do cuss fat people quite a lot, thus I am moved to believe that you are one of the larger members of society who is looming over your greasy keyboard with chicken nuggets falling here and there from your mighty embittered jaws. In no post have I expressed that I believe myself to be anything more than ‘average looking’; so that attack is rather pointless. I may refer to my fabulous breasts once or twice, but they are really quite fantastic.

By all means, get in touch with your name, I’d love the opportunity to discuss this further in full knowledge of who you are. And I’m sure I’d be able to give you my own deduction of your personality/ appearance with ease. 

In the meantime I suggest you stop projecting your anxieties onto other people, babes, and do feel free to go fuck yourself. If you’re ugly, take up the issue with your mother. If you’re fat, get the fuck out of Greggs. Simplez.

I have to get back to putting make up on my average looking face before I’m late for work.

FAT GURL had a bad day

I guess I better stop dissing fat chicks seeing as I pretty much am one now. I valiantly stormed home through the greasy streets of Stonebridge, Next Hype blaring out of my iPod ready to crush the skull of any imbecile on a bike that dared to cross my furious path. I was fresh from Oxford Street (I returned some trainers so I could afford to eat again) and with one thing on my mind: Chinese food. 

I usually find myself forced to become that which I hate most (obese) after a stressful day at work. Today was just one of those days when every single freak of the Earth seemed to wander in through the door to throw money at me, give me rape eyes and generally ruin my entire life.

Firstly I had to deal with a woman whose entire face seemed to be occluded by the many jagged-rock shaped teeth that were jutting out of her mouth to such an extent that she looked like an albino lawnmower. As usual with girls whose hair is one colour on top and another underneath (they think chic two-tone, I think chav skunk) she threw her money on the table as she purchased her Skittles and I smiled at her through my fantastically straight teeth, as if to brag and show her what life COULD be like if her mouth did not resemble the crumbling cliffs of Dover. I strangled her within the dark recesses of my mind as she walked off without a Thank You, and fantasized emptying the Skittles down her throat, pondering on how they might coagulate into violent- although pleasant flavoured- froth within her lungs. 

Back to work.

Next was Hungry Bitch. I call her thus because she stumbled in on legs thinner than bamboo shoots , no doubt from some Anorexia Convention (or model casting, WHATEVAAAA) and feasted her eyes on all we had to offer, yet all she chose to buy was 4 single gum pieces and insisted on paying 48p on a card whilst eyeing me up as though I was some pesky carbohydrate that she was being pressured to eat. Fuck off.

Thirdly we had Over Enthusiastic Bitch Who Is Too Old To Have Kids And So Has Stolen Someone Else’s For The Day And Has To Emphasis Every Word To Make The Day FUN. Suffering from a banging migraine after my fourth coffee, it is needless to say that I was not in the mood for such stressful syllables. I cannot complain too much about this lady, as although the sugary tone of voice she employed made the soya milk curdle in my belly, she seemed nice enough. 

3pm arrived and I ran out the door so fast other staff members might have been guilty of assuming that M-Ho had asked me to clean something. Which I tend to refuse on the grounds of the fact that I am not Cinderella, cos I’m a I’m a a Divaaa. I had to walk to Oxford Street to exchange my trainerz fo’ dollaz so I could buy some bananas and keep myself alive until the end of the month. I shall admit I am not great at dealing with crowds, or even people in general, so getting to Office was quite trying for me. I managed to only hit one child with my bag on the way, although I did thrust my rucksack in the face of a woman who tried to push in front of me to get on the tube. EATMYRUCKSACK,BITCH.

So now I sit in the chilly recesses of my chamber, devouring my King Prawns (Hong Kong style, obvs) and watching my favourite cartoons to unwind as I yet again avoid my dissertation.

Perhaps I’ll just link them to my blog.

Hungover Monday

Feeling very cheerful until I strolled past the mirror in the bedroom and saw the emaciated face of a ghost staring back at me. Oh, wait. It’s me… Except I seem to have been raped by Oxfam and dumped in a canal. Thus I am currently considering indulging in some Cheese Masochism and ordering a Domino’s to try and fatten my skinny bitch self up. 

Fatties Need Love Too… But They Gotta Pay.

So I have a new potential true love.

As usual I’m disinterested as he is one of those that I would suspect suffers from Buried Penis Syndrome. Hopped on the 18 bus to Harlesden; simply had to leave the house as I’d spent approximately seven hours googling things that no person should know [Why Do My Nipples Go Hard When I Sneeze?] as I pretended to my mother that I was writing essays to escape having to undertake real activities. Tubson was busy, fisting herself to Come Dine With Me or whatever it is that floats her boat these days (I think Jeremy Kyle starts a bit too early, and everyone knows fisting before breakfast is a no no). JLV was on one of her frequent trips to Nottingham to get drunk and lose her possessions, forget her own name and generally disgrace her life, and as far as I’m aware everyone else was studying. Like I should be. But where there’s youtube, there’s a procrastinating Samantha.

So my Harlesden Hottie got on the bus a stop after me. Hottie, in that he was sweating profusely from in between the flabby folds that escaped his tshirt to such an extent that I was surprised he wasn’t standing in a puddle of his own putrid bodily fluids. I was sitting by the door, and he slowly rolled towards me so that he was directly in front of me, interrupting my vacant gaze with his emulsified and well-fed mass.

As he breathed all over me as heavily as a paedo in Nursery, I tried to avoid his hungry eye contact. But it’s rather difficult to avoid someone that is so large they simultaneously occlude your entire range of peripheral vision as well as your normal range of sight. Thus I had no option but to look upon him with speechless horror and disgust as his large and flaccid tongue protruded from his fusty lips, grease from his mouth mixing with the sweat oozing from his pores, as he licked his ripe flabby lips at me.

Again.

And Again.

And Again.

Funnily enough I did not immediately reach the levels of ecstasy he was expecting. I’m not entirely sure what he believed would come of his actions, whether he thought I would be so moved with sexual animalistic passion at him licking his swollen jaws that I would immediately wrap my legs around his gigantic engorged head before he got off at Harlesden Jubilee Clock. But that didn’t happen. I simply got off at the next stop and walked straight into Sam’s Chicken to recover.

This is the most interest any man has shown me in a while, all the ones whose penises are not buried by the consequences 8 or 9 KFC family buckets seem disinterested.

Perhaps I should be pleased?

I Just Couldn’t Take It You’re So Motherfukin’ Gawwwwjus

Rarely am I ever moved to write about anything other than strange occurrences in my own personal life, whether it’s being shouted at by a moralistic chav, having my personal appearance poorly rated by a gap-toothed builder or getting trapped on the tube between the shoulders of two morbidly obese people sitting either side of me to the extent that I nearly lose a limb. 

But today, something happened. I was reclining on the quagmire of Shakespearean texts that currently grace my bed as I pretend to be writing my dissertation (really I’m falling deeply in lust with Tyler the Creator, stalking Tubson on Facebook and designing trainers I shall never afford on Nike ID), when I came across this:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124246/Samantha-Brick-downsides-looking-pretty-Why-women-hate-beautiful.html

Now. Growing up as a Werewolf, commonly likened to Grigori Rasputin and a great many other men whose faces were often bedecked with beards, I was forced to develop a personality, which was complimented by my repulsive sense of humor. I learnt from attending a high school with the highest pregnancy rates in London that women who develop beauty at a young age are often left devoid of personality; these ones were easily marked out by their pregnancy bumps and the fact that full-grown men could often be seen loosely hanging dejectedly from in-between their thighs in a loveless, underage coital embrace.

They did not have to develop a personality, or indeed, any social or academic skills at all; their youthful vaginas offer a welcome substitution in the eyes of the menfolk. Thanks to my faux-Russian and rather manly appearance, in addition to my distinct love of cartoons and the fact that I regularly eat my weight in fried chicken, I left school with both my womb and my dignity intact.

When I first heard about this article, I thought it would be a case similar to what I’ve described above; a once-beautiful, desperate woman in denial trying to claw away the wrinkles that are the signposts of her impending death, clinging to the remnants of her fading beauty. But then I saw a photo.

I entreat you to look at the eyes; the cold, dead eyes stare out at you with a subtle air of vacancy. I was chilled the very darkest recesses of my soul as I gazed upon her photograph. I am quite sure this facial expression is supposed to be representative of a smile; to me it seems more of a grimace, but then I realized- if she really is as hot shit as she professes to be, then this bitch has taken a pounding.

‘Throughout my adult life, I’ve regularly had bottles of bubbly or wine sent to my restaurant table by men I don’t know. Once, a well-dressed chap bought my train ticket when I was standing behind him in the queue, while there was another occasion when a charming gentleman paid my fare as I stepped out of a cab in Paris.’

One would not blame her for being a bit sore, she’s obviously been a busy girl. 

However there are women out there who do not substitute the everyday exchange of currency with the exchange of their own personal bodily fluids, who are no doubt angered by the idea that they are merely jealous of a woman with eyes so empty they seem to rob one of one’s soul. To say that she is not beautiful would be unfair; it would be unfair to women who are not beautiful. Samantha Black has carved out for herself a new level of unattractive that I do not think I have seen before. Firstly there is the fact that if I looked out my window on a dark night and saw those eyes staring blithely at me I would no doubt be dealing with an imminent Code Brown situation. 

Secondly is her complete lack of both tact and basic intelligence. [And obviously a mirror, but that goes without saying]. 

‘Perhaps then the sisterhood will finally stop judging me so harshly on what I look like, and instead accept me for who I am.’

Babes, you are a cunt. Most cunts out there are celebrated for being ‘cunts’, for making ridiculous statements and not giving two shits what others have to say about it. But when you’re a cunt devoid of personality, of humor, brimming with bland arrogance and shoving your bland vagina down everyone’s throats and telling women we hate you because we’re jealous, we’re going to react badly. I would understand if Jessica Alba had taken to the nauseating platform of the Daily Mail and had started cussing me down for being jealous of her; I’d agree with her and walk straight to the nearest KFC for a bucket with all the sides to eat in bed whilst watching Jeremy Kyle repeats and deleting my Facebook photos whilst searching Gumtree for adverts for cats. But this is coming from an empty husk of a woman with what seems to be a poorly-peeled potato gracing the centre of her face, (perhaps her real nose fell off- consistent solvent/ coke abuse might explain the psychosis).

Maybe she should have spent some more time carving out a personality rather than deep-throating her way to ‘success’, then maybe you could publish something other than the ravings of a misinformed lunatic/ bored housewife with too much time/ mascara on her hands. Seriously, someone who is this deluded? Fuck off the journalism and become a porn star, you certainly have the confidence; and the dejected dead look behind your eyes will certainly compliment such a profession, you got it covered.

And chuck those white jeans, your horse knuckle put me off my sandwich.

Anonymous asked: I'd ask you out if your status' weren't so well worded

There is absolutely nothing wrong with a brimming and rich vocab