There are few things less satisfying (and in my case, surprising) in life than accomplishing something one has determinely set out to do. In my case, it was seemingly succeeding in my repeatedly-attempted though never-realised dream of smoking cessation.
I was going strong, 'cutting back' to but a handful of cigarettes a day, limiting myself when out, rashioning my fags like any hard-working centrelink recipient should.
I was on the home straight, though suicidal thoughts rang loudly in my mind and the mere thought of a cigarette had me mid-orgasm, i felt as though SOMETHING good must come from this quitting bullshit, right? Yes prelonged life, health, blah blaaah..
Then came the most beautiful hurdle in my home straight immaginable-two brilliantly encased spanish cigarettes, bundled lovingly, poking out of my mailbox.
JOY! Now i had an excuse to resume my smoking where it left off, for it would be 'such a shame to waste 2 very decent packs of cigarettes'.. After all, my dear Miss Rossi had selflessly put effort into ensuring i get to sample spains finest tabacco produce.
I was not about to let my health or common sense stand in the way of my giant leap backward into the much-missed world of chain smoking. With both hands, i seizeed the packs greedily, oggling their fantastic figure and ravishing attire, and commenced my most satisfying suck and blow adventure ever.
(to be continued.. probably never....reviving old drafts....)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
I AM A FAG XXXIV
Well it's full steam ahead now in iamafag camp. After a taste of publishing verbal diarrhoea once again, i've found it hard to keep away. Now i wont let the general lack of interest dishearten me. I live in my own little world where my delusional mindset lets me believe that i am a diety in my own right. God of what precisely is the $64,000 question. God of fags? Maybe. God of bullshit? most definitely.
After an extended encounter today with an H2O steam mop, i am feeling very much the failed housewife daughter of a patient parent. My initial disgust at the product was soon overriden by a sick sense of satisfaction gained after the backward/forward/backward/forward repetitive motion of my right arm. My pitiful sinewy arm was finally getting a miniture work out. How does this even subtly relate to cigarettes you may ask? Well if you have ever been errm lucky enough to operate and H2O steam mop, you will be able to pick up on the similarities between it and myself.
Firstly, it operates only with liquid in its belly. In my case, a skinny-doubleshot-half-powder-voltage. In it's case, water.
Secondly, it is pretty stubborn, difficult to push around really, as it gets hung up on the most minor bumps. A join in the floor. A crack or crevice. What a testy little fucker.
And thirdly, and perhaps the most accurate likeness, the mop constantly puffs and billows clouds of steam from its gaping oriface. Comparable of course to the shroud of smoke which envelops me at any given moment througout my typical day.
Oh and PS, the mop is basically useless. end comparison.
Speaking of billowing smoke, let me bring you into the world of John Player Specials. Specifically, Blue. More easily identified as JPS, these cigarettes are cheap and cheerful. Setting you back little over $9 a pack, they allow change from a slippery blue 'tenna' and a sense of value for money.....A purchase that leaves me not only with a pack of smokes, but change in my pocket, is enough to turn even this sourpuss into a purrrrrrring kitty. meow.
Attractiveness of Pack- Surprisingly swanky for a budget product. The intertwining golden letters J P S add a whimsicle sense of style to the overall appearance. The solid blue pack is of a delicate royal blue hue, pleasantly different from the navy blue of many of its competing brands. Far from exceptional, yet strangely alluring. 4 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Smoothness and Flavour- A little grating to the throat i must admit. As smooth as the surface of my unshaven legs (ew. unwanted visual)... Yet the flavour delivered in the bumpy inhale almost cancels out the uncomfortable ride. A medium-bodied hit, not enough to knock me out, but gives me a less than gentle clip around the ears. and i like it. 4 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Burning Time- As they say all good things must come to an end. ive experienced a strange phenomenon with JPS. Whether it is purely in my senile mind, or actually occuring, i sensed that the cigarette burned faster and faster with each additional drag. It's almost as if the burning time of these babies was on an exponential rise until it reached the butt. The inconsistency bugs me a little, however it's better to end prematurely with the promise of more more more to come, than to drag out a brilliant activity to the point where you want to stab someone or commit mass homocide just to get to the fucking end.... ... .. 3 out of 5 mally tums.
Lingering Taste- A good "i'm not going to smoke much today" cigarette, as it leaves your tastebuds with the illusion of a recent smoke. An almost bitter-sweet aftertaste, leaving you with fond memories of what was. 4 out of 5 m.t
AVERAGE SCORE FOR JOHN PLAYER SPECIALS BLUE- 4 out of 5 malignant tumours. Now that's a result to write home about eh?
As i sit here i am death-staring the cheekiest of moths which has just landed on my freshly-H2O-mopped floor. Although i am trying to suppress my rage, i can't help but feel a desire for revenge well-up deep within my being. I will go as far as saying moths have singlehandedly caused most of my frustrations over the past week. They douse me in brown powdery shit as they swoop un-provoked. They commit suicide in my morning coffee cup. They flutter irritatingly around my iPhone screen when i'm innocently googling "sex with dog" in the dark late at night. Enough! i must leave you now, i have a fucking moth to capture, de-wing and sprinkle with miracle-grow crystals. There's nothing like a bright blue wingless creature spinning erratically in a state of shock and no doubt searing pain to make me feel like God.
el oh vee ee Missssy.
After an extended encounter today with an H2O steam mop, i am feeling very much the failed housewife daughter of a patient parent. My initial disgust at the product was soon overriden by a sick sense of satisfaction gained after the backward/forward/backward/forward repetitive motion of my right arm. My pitiful sinewy arm was finally getting a miniture work out. How does this even subtly relate to cigarettes you may ask? Well if you have ever been errm lucky enough to operate and H2O steam mop, you will be able to pick up on the similarities between it and myself.
Firstly, it operates only with liquid in its belly. In my case, a skinny-doubleshot-half-powder-voltage. In it's case, water.
Secondly, it is pretty stubborn, difficult to push around really, as it gets hung up on the most minor bumps. A join in the floor. A crack or crevice. What a testy little fucker.
And thirdly, and perhaps the most accurate likeness, the mop constantly puffs and billows clouds of steam from its gaping oriface. Comparable of course to the shroud of smoke which envelops me at any given moment througout my typical day.
Oh and PS, the mop is basically useless. end comparison.
Speaking of billowing smoke, let me bring you into the world of John Player Specials. Specifically, Blue. More easily identified as JPS, these cigarettes are cheap and cheerful. Setting you back little over $9 a pack, they allow change from a slippery blue 'tenna' and a sense of value for money.....A purchase that leaves me not only with a pack of smokes, but change in my pocket, is enough to turn even this sourpuss into a purrrrrrring kitty. meow.
Attractiveness of Pack- Surprisingly swanky for a budget product. The intertwining golden letters J P S add a whimsicle sense of style to the overall appearance. The solid blue pack is of a delicate royal blue hue, pleasantly different from the navy blue of many of its competing brands. Far from exceptional, yet strangely alluring. 4 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Smoothness and Flavour- A little grating to the throat i must admit. As smooth as the surface of my unshaven legs (ew. unwanted visual)... Yet the flavour delivered in the bumpy inhale almost cancels out the uncomfortable ride. A medium-bodied hit, not enough to knock me out, but gives me a less than gentle clip around the ears. and i like it. 4 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Burning Time- As they say all good things must come to an end. ive experienced a strange phenomenon with JPS. Whether it is purely in my senile mind, or actually occuring, i sensed that the cigarette burned faster and faster with each additional drag. It's almost as if the burning time of these babies was on an exponential rise until it reached the butt. The inconsistency bugs me a little, however it's better to end prematurely with the promise of more more more to come, than to drag out a brilliant activity to the point where you want to stab someone or commit mass homocide just to get to the fucking end.... ... .. 3 out of 5 mally tums.
Lingering Taste- A good "i'm not going to smoke much today" cigarette, as it leaves your tastebuds with the illusion of a recent smoke. An almost bitter-sweet aftertaste, leaving you with fond memories of what was. 4 out of 5 m.t
AVERAGE SCORE FOR JOHN PLAYER SPECIALS BLUE- 4 out of 5 malignant tumours. Now that's a result to write home about eh?
As i sit here i am death-staring the cheekiest of moths which has just landed on my freshly-H2O-mopped floor. Although i am trying to suppress my rage, i can't help but feel a desire for revenge well-up deep within my being. I will go as far as saying moths have singlehandedly caused most of my frustrations over the past week. They douse me in brown powdery shit as they swoop un-provoked. They commit suicide in my morning coffee cup. They flutter irritatingly around my iPhone screen when i'm innocently googling "sex with dog" in the dark late at night. Enough! i must leave you now, i have a fucking moth to capture, de-wing and sprinkle with miracle-grow crystals. There's nothing like a bright blue wingless creature spinning erratically in a state of shock and no doubt searing pain to make me feel like God.
el oh vee ee Missssy.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
I AM A FAG XXXIII
Let me begin now by alerting you to the fact that i have been rather absent from the blogging world for the past, let's say, 3 months. Now although i'd like to think the world has been a cold, dark and seriously under-entertained place during my AWOL stint, i'm sure realistically you've barely notice my absence. Whether or not you've been feeling IAMAFAG withdrawals, I can now happily say that with the repair of my laptop, i am once again able to vomit words for your eyes only. Promising more vulgarity, sexism and social ignorance and less cold hard facts, the continuity of my blog is sure to once again waste my unvaluable time and hopefully distract you from much more important things.
It's difficult now to choose where i recommence. Seeing as i have continued (when financially able) to purchase varying types of cigarettes, i now find myself chronically behind. A common case of 'too many cigarettes, not enough access-to-a-functioning-laptop-and/or-an-internet-connection'...
I am pleased to report that there have been many a good event, cigarette-wise, occuring in the past quarter.
Firstly, i have resisted the begs/pleads from various members of my family and social circle to quit. I am sure that both the Government (especially the treasury) and Phillip Morris are forever thankful and greatful for my continued funding and support. Equally as pleased is the not-yet-known GP who will no doubt reap financial benefit off my deteriorating health and counltess physical ailments in the years to come.
Secondly, our cigarette dispensary localities have been blessed with a few more very welcome additions- nothing gets my heart beating quite like a fresh carcinogen on our behind-the-counter supermarket shelf.
Thirdly and perhaps most notably, i am but a few packs away from completing my cigarette artwork. Rivaling Van Gough (a drastic understatement), this visual feast incorporates an impressive amount of cigarette packs, arranged in a deliciously tempting fashion. Needless to say this Monet hangs proudly above my bed. (As soon as i get my fucking camera back i'll photograph the thing.)
With an itty bit of procrastination undertaken, i have to now decide decide decide who shall be first cab off the rank for the IAMAFAG rebirth. Stab in the dark, let's recommence with Deal Blue.
Now Deal is a range new to us. It's name gives a sense of "do it, yup, decision made", as if i could give the middle-aged, peroxide-blonde, perennially-tanned, Indianish Coles worker a laugh (or at least a snigger? let a fucking smirk break his incessantly stern face please?) by cheesily uttering "Oh it's a DEAL, gimme a pack of DEAL blue thanks.."
Its $8.95 price tag cements it at the very bottom of the cigarette price range, offering value-for-money unrivalled by its competitors, but also suggesting a mediocre smoking experience. Let's crunch some numbers.
Attractiveness of Pack- Basic and slightly bland. Nothing exceptional or notable about the outer shell of these pleasure sticks. The 90degree clockwise rotation of the title adds a degree of interest, however it may just be a design or printing error made by a group of first year design students in a Korean back-alley sweat shop. 1 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Smoothness and Flavour- The flavour is notable but not overly pleasant. Similar to easter egg chocolate- the first bite is delightful, the second satisfactory, but with each additionaly morsel consumed, the compound chocolate and low-grade cocoa tends to fuck with your taste buds and leave you feeling a little filthy. Smooth enough however, but there's little use having a smooth inhalation of a substance that tastes a lot like rotting shit. 1 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Burning Time- Here Deal recovers a little, withstanding consecutive long 'first-smoke-of-the-day' drags and a good hard pull. However, long is not necesarrily good. As we know, it's the whole package that makes the man, i mean smoke, worth sucking. Still, Deal is worthy of 3 out of 5 for the time it takes to finish him, um, them off.
Lingering Taste- Hangs around for a commendable amount of time. But like many situations that arise in life (a deja-screw that didnt quite go as well as you remembered, mistaking a short, butch, cropped-haired person for a man with moobs rather than frighteningly masculine female, getting caught checking yourself out in the reflection of a car window then noticing there are people inside..) it's often more desirable to just cut it short, get the fuck away, and never speak of it again. 2 out of 5.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR DEAL BLUE- 1.5 out of 5. Yep. I would have no problem never ever seeing Deal again. I would not remenisce our 25 short and sweet moments together, nor would i fantisize about would could have been. As quickly as Deal came into my life, they have disappeared. (i was foolish enough to try it's more exuberant brother, Purple. WELL! a classic case of "what WAS i thinking!?".. that's for next time though..)
Speaking of brothers, David, you rock. i love you.
Anyhoo, i do realise i am a little rusty and this blogging mumbo jumbo. I'm sure my months away have allowed my brain to lose even more of the little knowledge it contained. A combination of consecutive days of viewing day-time TV, Pepsi-goon mixes and a general lack of mental stimulation will hopefully one day bring me down to a state of intelligence mirroring Paris Hilton. Hey, she seems happy enough.
Love to you my dears. I have some tonic water that needs drinking before the bubbles all jump out of the glass. BASTARDS.
X. M
It's difficult now to choose where i recommence. Seeing as i have continued (when financially able) to purchase varying types of cigarettes, i now find myself chronically behind. A common case of 'too many cigarettes, not enough access-to-a-functioning-laptop-and/or-an-internet-connection'...
I am pleased to report that there have been many a good event, cigarette-wise, occuring in the past quarter.
Firstly, i have resisted the begs/pleads from various members of my family and social circle to quit. I am sure that both the Government (especially the treasury) and Phillip Morris are forever thankful and greatful for my continued funding and support. Equally as pleased is the not-yet-known GP who will no doubt reap financial benefit off my deteriorating health and counltess physical ailments in the years to come.
Secondly, our cigarette dispensary localities have been blessed with a few more very welcome additions- nothing gets my heart beating quite like a fresh carcinogen on our behind-the-counter supermarket shelf.
Thirdly and perhaps most notably, i am but a few packs away from completing my cigarette artwork. Rivaling Van Gough (a drastic understatement), this visual feast incorporates an impressive amount of cigarette packs, arranged in a deliciously tempting fashion. Needless to say this Monet hangs proudly above my bed. (As soon as i get my fucking camera back i'll photograph the thing.)
With an itty bit of procrastination undertaken, i have to now decide decide decide who shall be first cab off the rank for the IAMAFAG rebirth. Stab in the dark, let's recommence with Deal Blue.
Now Deal is a range new to us. It's name gives a sense of "do it, yup, decision made", as if i could give the middle-aged, peroxide-blonde, perennially-tanned, Indianish Coles worker a laugh (or at least a snigger? let a fucking smirk break his incessantly stern face please?) by cheesily uttering "Oh it's a DEAL, gimme a pack of DEAL blue thanks.."
Its $8.95 price tag cements it at the very bottom of the cigarette price range, offering value-for-money unrivalled by its competitors, but also suggesting a mediocre smoking experience. Let's crunch some numbers.
Attractiveness of Pack- Basic and slightly bland. Nothing exceptional or notable about the outer shell of these pleasure sticks. The 90degree clockwise rotation of the title adds a degree of interest, however it may just be a design or printing error made by a group of first year design students in a Korean back-alley sweat shop. 1 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Smoothness and Flavour- The flavour is notable but not overly pleasant. Similar to easter egg chocolate- the first bite is delightful, the second satisfactory, but with each additionaly morsel consumed, the compound chocolate and low-grade cocoa tends to fuck with your taste buds and leave you feeling a little filthy. Smooth enough however, but there's little use having a smooth inhalation of a substance that tastes a lot like rotting shit. 1 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Burning Time- Here Deal recovers a little, withstanding consecutive long 'first-smoke-of-the-day' drags and a good hard pull. However, long is not necesarrily good. As we know, it's the whole package that makes the man, i mean smoke, worth sucking. Still, Deal is worthy of 3 out of 5 for the time it takes to finish him, um, them off.
Lingering Taste- Hangs around for a commendable amount of time. But like many situations that arise in life (a deja-screw that didnt quite go as well as you remembered, mistaking a short, butch, cropped-haired person for a man with moobs rather than frighteningly masculine female, getting caught checking yourself out in the reflection of a car window then noticing there are people inside..) it's often more desirable to just cut it short, get the fuck away, and never speak of it again. 2 out of 5.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR DEAL BLUE- 1.5 out of 5. Yep. I would have no problem never ever seeing Deal again. I would not remenisce our 25 short and sweet moments together, nor would i fantisize about would could have been. As quickly as Deal came into my life, they have disappeared. (i was foolish enough to try it's more exuberant brother, Purple. WELL! a classic case of "what WAS i thinking!?".. that's for next time though..)
Speaking of brothers, David, you rock. i love you.
Anyhoo, i do realise i am a little rusty and this blogging mumbo jumbo. I'm sure my months away have allowed my brain to lose even more of the little knowledge it contained. A combination of consecutive days of viewing day-time TV, Pepsi-goon mixes and a general lack of mental stimulation will hopefully one day bring me down to a state of intelligence mirroring Paris Hilton. Hey, she seems happy enough.
Love to you my dears. I have some tonic water that needs drinking before the bubbles all jump out of the glass. BASTARDS.
X. M
Sunday, January 24, 2010
I AM A FAG XXXII
There's no way better to spend a birthday-eve than with your arms elbow-deep and your knees squelching in 15years of un-washed and abandoned kitchen scum. Now I am not one for hyperbole, but the filth I molested tugged wiped scrubbed scratched begged and pleaded with today was a concoction of dust, dirt, skin cells, dead animals, decomposing food stuffs and the scregs of the nineties and noughties. All cemented together in the deepest crevice-like corners of cupboards and ingrained filthily in the nooks with the shear force of lazy-father syndrome that allowed their build up in the first place.
Many a gags and mouth voms to be had today I can tell you that. Ick.
See my dad is finally translocating his filth from one hell-ridden ghetto shack to another, commendably throwing out a lot of paraphernalia in the process. Kudos. With bi-monthly visits to the Tender Centre, accumulation of a lot of SHIT that of course, at the time, he just NEEDED, right? items include rusted and bent golf clubs, broken/dotted and speckled/fat mirrors, power tools (functional and those in non-working order solely for 'parts', computer monitors (we're talking CRT people, hello), roles of extra-wide commercial use duct tape, tyre tubes, basketball hoops, tents and inflatable mattresses, posters and signs, telephones, cables, plugs, window fittings, car parts, switches and transformers, shoe racks and vacuums, gas bottles, collapsible camp tables, fold up seats, beach umbrellas, cooking utensils, motor bike parts, helmets and tennis rackets, golf balls and ladders, fly screens, curtains, fish tanks and laundry hampers, transistor and UHF radios, poles and rods, wire mesh and steel stakes, pots and vases, shelving and air dryers, beds parts and tin foil....the list goes on.. all stacked haphazardly, disordered and wholly un-used throughout then innards of a trashy Lismore Heights duplex.
Why or HOW a man can allow such a build-up of useless trash is more of a mystery than 'what will Britney's hair colour be this week?'. Hoarders anonymous would have a field day getting to the very root of this man's damaging and expensive hoarding habit. How was I roped into assisting his cleanup effort? Though I would like to say it was from the goodness of my heart, he managed to bribe me- a lift south from Robina station in exchange for a few good hours of elbow grease. Hey, I got out of it easy, my brother has been in that maze going on 3 weeks now. By god I hope his reward is not only rich and monetary but also received STAT! The goodness of my dear brother astounds me, the darl :D
For those of you unlucky enough to have seen first-hand the build up of material waste in his joint (yes I know when you have no where else to stay on a Sat night after the One Missy's Dad's house sounds like sweet refuge, until you acquire tetanus from stepping on a rusty jagged piece of something that may have been a useful metallic object back in its day, and your respiratory tract is now lined and doused in the filthiest carcinogenic dust this side of Chernobyl..
Speaking of carcinogens, my next fag follows suit from my previous two- Brandon Red. My laziness, poorness and sheer curiosity have lead me to follow the Brandon-brick path throughout the entire range detour less (menthol Brandons next, yeep!) Reds offer the promise of kick and longevity, and so I was more than excited while ripping through their plastic outfit to get to their bare skin and bones, rip a long one from the pack, and suck suck suck. .. …. …..
And what did this young miss find you may ask? Well I won’t let you leave with your questions lingering and unanswered, of course…
Attractiveness of Pack- Red red red red. Win win win win. We all know I love red. No surprise I was as impressed with the colouring of this baby as I was with my 5-nights-in-a-row-drunk-for-freeeee effort last week ;) big (And strangely, beautiful) red and luscious, sexy vroom let me jump in and ride. Fast fast and tempting. Sensually revitalising. Sweetly stunning. 4.5 out of 5.
Smoothness and Flavour- As to be expected from reds, the smoothness is sacrificed for that extra kick and bounce needed in a heavier cig. However, I was surprised (as was H. ) at the less-than-normal harshness and in fact, relative mildness. The flavour was there yes, but not as bountiful and stampeding as I have found with other red fags. I really was waiting for my mouth to sizzle, whereas I received a mere singe. Not bad, but not really rough and tough enough for a red. 3 out of 5.
Burning Time- Steadier than their silver and blue brothers thank god, but I am certain that they could possibly afford to hang around a little longer. Come on, Brandon, you’re unemployed and I KNOW you have no where better to be, you may as well hang around and let me fondle and suck you a little while longer? Before I am arrested for cigaphelia, I will cut to the chase. Good but not good enough. Mustang compared to Empire. (If comparison is even able to be made.) 2 out of 5 mal.
Lingering Taste- Really far from impressive, I needed yet another swig of Blonde to wash down what the doctor did not prescribe. There’s a richness missing in the taste of these sticks that really break them in this make or break situation. I do appreciate and praise the attempt of the manufacturers, but really they’re riding the ‘you get what you pay for’ bus rather than the ‘cheap and cheerful’ bandwagon I like to see myself on. 2 out of 5
AVERAGE SCORE FOR BRANDON RED- 2.875.. Rather av, rather accurate for the praise or lack there of I have given. What else is there to say? It’s all up from here. Hm.
Well it has no officially ticked over to the 25th. Being my birthday. 20 years ago my poor midget mother was having her lower stomach sliced delicately through to her womb, and two screaming bloodies beings ripped hastily from within her. There’s some lovely pre-dinner imagery if I’ve ever seen it.. I do like to give her credit for trying, but let’s just say that one of those children should have gone straight from the womb to a gassing chamber and down to the morgue, for hasty cremation and little-to-no ceremony (and I’m not talking about David..) Doing so would have resulted not only in a higher average quality of the human race, but removed the stress Burdon and pain in many a people’s lives. Ah, my self appreciation overwhelms does it not?
Now to retreat into my bed, await the fireworks of my first 20year old fantasy dream. I’ve got my fingers crossed for Scarlett Johannsen and Penelope Cruz’s scene from VCB (though about 10fold sexuality and a lot more chocolate sauce and raspberry jam.. don’t ask..) yet I fear I’ll end up dreaming once again of ex-teachers and their not-so-private private lives. Ew. Have mercy on me.
Love from the 20y.o Misssss.
Many a gags and mouth voms to be had today I can tell you that. Ick.
See my dad is finally translocating his filth from one hell-ridden ghetto shack to another, commendably throwing out a lot of paraphernalia in the process. Kudos. With bi-monthly visits to the Tender Centre, accumulation of a lot of SHIT that of course, at the time, he just NEEDED, right? items include rusted and bent golf clubs, broken/dotted and speckled/fat mirrors, power tools (functional and those in non-working order solely for 'parts', computer monitors (we're talking CRT people, hello), roles of extra-wide commercial use duct tape, tyre tubes, basketball hoops, tents and inflatable mattresses, posters and signs, telephones, cables, plugs, window fittings, car parts, switches and transformers, shoe racks and vacuums, gas bottles, collapsible camp tables, fold up seats, beach umbrellas, cooking utensils, motor bike parts, helmets and tennis rackets, golf balls and ladders, fly screens, curtains, fish tanks and laundry hampers, transistor and UHF radios, poles and rods, wire mesh and steel stakes, pots and vases, shelving and air dryers, beds parts and tin foil....the list goes on.. all stacked haphazardly, disordered and wholly un-used throughout then innards of a trashy Lismore Heights duplex.
Why or HOW a man can allow such a build-up of useless trash is more of a mystery than 'what will Britney's hair colour be this week?'. Hoarders anonymous would have a field day getting to the very root of this man's damaging and expensive hoarding habit. How was I roped into assisting his cleanup effort? Though I would like to say it was from the goodness of my heart, he managed to bribe me- a lift south from Robina station in exchange for a few good hours of elbow grease. Hey, I got out of it easy, my brother has been in that maze going on 3 weeks now. By god I hope his reward is not only rich and monetary but also received STAT! The goodness of my dear brother astounds me, the darl :D
For those of you unlucky enough to have seen first-hand the build up of material waste in his joint (yes I know when you have no where else to stay on a Sat night after the One Missy's Dad's house sounds like sweet refuge, until you acquire tetanus from stepping on a rusty jagged piece of something that may have been a useful metallic object back in its day, and your respiratory tract is now lined and doused in the filthiest carcinogenic dust this side of Chernobyl..
Speaking of carcinogens, my next fag follows suit from my previous two- Brandon Red. My laziness, poorness and sheer curiosity have lead me to follow the Brandon-brick path throughout the entire range detour less (menthol Brandons next, yeep!) Reds offer the promise of kick and longevity, and so I was more than excited while ripping through their plastic outfit to get to their bare skin and bones, rip a long one from the pack, and suck suck suck. .. …. …..
And what did this young miss find you may ask? Well I won’t let you leave with your questions lingering and unanswered, of course…
Attractiveness of Pack- Red red red red. Win win win win. We all know I love red. No surprise I was as impressed with the colouring of this baby as I was with my 5-nights-in-a-row-drunk-for-freeeee effort last week ;) big (And strangely, beautiful) red and luscious, sexy vroom let me jump in and ride. Fast fast and tempting. Sensually revitalising. Sweetly stunning. 4.5 out of 5.
Smoothness and Flavour- As to be expected from reds, the smoothness is sacrificed for that extra kick and bounce needed in a heavier cig. However, I was surprised (as was H. ) at the less-than-normal harshness and in fact, relative mildness. The flavour was there yes, but not as bountiful and stampeding as I have found with other red fags. I really was waiting for my mouth to sizzle, whereas I received a mere singe. Not bad, but not really rough and tough enough for a red. 3 out of 5.
Burning Time- Steadier than their silver and blue brothers thank god, but I am certain that they could possibly afford to hang around a little longer. Come on, Brandon, you’re unemployed and I KNOW you have no where better to be, you may as well hang around and let me fondle and suck you a little while longer? Before I am arrested for cigaphelia, I will cut to the chase. Good but not good enough. Mustang compared to Empire. (If comparison is even able to be made.) 2 out of 5 mal.
Lingering Taste- Really far from impressive, I needed yet another swig of Blonde to wash down what the doctor did not prescribe. There’s a richness missing in the taste of these sticks that really break them in this make or break situation. I do appreciate and praise the attempt of the manufacturers, but really they’re riding the ‘you get what you pay for’ bus rather than the ‘cheap and cheerful’ bandwagon I like to see myself on. 2 out of 5
AVERAGE SCORE FOR BRANDON RED- 2.875.. Rather av, rather accurate for the praise or lack there of I have given. What else is there to say? It’s all up from here. Hm.
Well it has no officially ticked over to the 25th. Being my birthday. 20 years ago my poor midget mother was having her lower stomach sliced delicately through to her womb, and two screaming bloodies beings ripped hastily from within her. There’s some lovely pre-dinner imagery if I’ve ever seen it.. I do like to give her credit for trying, but let’s just say that one of those children should have gone straight from the womb to a gassing chamber and down to the morgue, for hasty cremation and little-to-no ceremony (and I’m not talking about David..) Doing so would have resulted not only in a higher average quality of the human race, but removed the stress Burdon and pain in many a people’s lives. Ah, my self appreciation overwhelms does it not?
Now to retreat into my bed, await the fireworks of my first 20year old fantasy dream. I’ve got my fingers crossed for Scarlett Johannsen and Penelope Cruz’s scene from VCB (though about 10fold sexuality and a lot more chocolate sauce and raspberry jam.. don’t ask..) yet I fear I’ll end up dreaming once again of ex-teachers and their not-so-private private lives. Ew. Have mercy on me.
Love from the 20y.o Misssss.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I AM A FAG XXXI
Well hoo haa we got us a house. Pretty darn over the moon about it really… and although this week will no doubt demand all the money in the world (which of course I don’t have ) I am as always carefree and ftw (fuck the world) because I know in poverty I am one step closer to the possibility of declaring bankruptcy, hello tax-free living.. um. Maybe.
Adding up the $82 here and the $85 there and the $72 everywhere I owe, I am more and more turning my poverty-stricken eyes to the possibility of entering the dirty red world of s-s-stripping. Now although I would (hope to) never sink quite so low (geez what do you take me for?.. don’t answer that..) the calling of money-for-next-to-nothing makes my ears prick up and stand rather aroused.. Let’s just say that I’m not making mamma any prouder. It’s hard to follow in the footsteps/shadow/whatever of a brother with a life ahead of him, a tidy little bank balance and a world of opportunity. Ah well, my optimism may border on the worst case of out of touch with reality ever, but as yet I have not been prescribed anything for this ailment. Hm.
Now moving onwards, it’s the first time in a while I have transcended from one cigarette in a range to another without a pit stop via Marlboro or reliable Choice for a pick me up. So from Brandon Blue I slipped across to Silver. Although I am rarely a fan of silver fags, I did hold a belief that their value for money would outweigh their mediocrity. Unfortunately, as is a common trend with light/silver cigarettes, perforations in the butt allowing for clean pure outside air to be drawn in with the inhalation of tobacco disrupts and flaws an otherwise pleasant smoking experience. To avoid this undesired dilution of tobacco, I have needed to really deep throat the damn things, with the butt well in my mouth and my lips pressed hard on the holes to disrupt the airflow. Nice. Plug it up I say.
Aside from this blemish in design, they’re not all bad really, providing a light feathery kick and a satisfactory buzz. Good enough eh.
Attractiveness of Pack- Like an Ethiopian at an all-you-can-eat buffet, I do feel lucky to have such a bulky, all-giving pack to rip fags from at any desired moment. All you can munch indeed. The all-over silver eliminates any confusion surrounding the strength of the cigerrrs, while also adding a touch of platinum class to an otherwise blatantly cheapo 40pack. Dynamic no. Innovative no. Yet satisfactorily pleasing. 2.5
Smoothness and Flavour- Once the diggity holes have been lipped-over, the true flavour from this cigarette is allowed to emanate from the tobacco and perambulate in the mouth. Smooth enough to caress yet rough enough to get you there. 3.5 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Burning Time- Only to be expected, Silver cigarettes have an unspoken rule of an insanely inconsiderately rapid combustion rate. Rushing off to meet his ex for coffee, I am left only halfway there, panting slightly and really feeling hard done by. Sigh. Of course there’s nothing a good long visit from umm Marlboro can’t fix, but I wish Brandon would finish the job he started. 1 out of 5.
Lingering Taste- Like the morning-after breath of an alcoholic, the taste left in the mouth post-cigarette is putrid. Ass-licking-esque. Like licking the scregs of a tobacco pouch to get your much-needed kick. The only remedy is a visit to Mr Wrigley’s and a fast-paced chew-suck through the mint. Satisfaction. 1 out 5 malignant tumours.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR BRANDON SILVER- 2 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Again, the results are rather reflective of my genuine opinion of the faaagin’ things. They’re okay but not a hit. They are played on the radio for no more than 5 days before being aired only by request. They are in the 2 for $20 bin at Myer. They are the lonely fucks hanging around the bar at 2:40 am. (Shuddup…. … . ) They’re the tonic in your gin. Not the most important element, surely not the most sought-after, but strangely their existence makes life that little-bit more liveable, consumable and enjoyable.
With my birthday drawing ever closer (25th you forgetful uncaring fuckers) I do request nothing more than Daniel Craig on my doorstep wearing nothing but a silver bow around his member. In the unlikely event this is not able to arranged, a wad of cash, carton of cigarettes or life-and-future-handed-to-me-on-a-silver-platted would suffice I suppppose…
“Hunter STOP FONDLING THE DOG!!!!”..
Until next time we meet awkwardly in the street, exchange glances, think “is it isn’t it?” and cross to the other side of the street at lightning speed to avoid finding out the answer to that pondering, ciao.
Missy.
EX.
P.S "The Fame" Hunty+Missy Bday party FRIDAY, 29th JAN. BE THERE WITH BELLS ON. FB for more info..
X
Adding up the $82 here and the $85 there and the $72 everywhere I owe, I am more and more turning my poverty-stricken eyes to the possibility of entering the dirty red world of s-s-stripping. Now although I would (hope to) never sink quite so low (geez what do you take me for?.. don’t answer that..) the calling of money-for-next-to-nothing makes my ears prick up and stand rather aroused.. Let’s just say that I’m not making mamma any prouder. It’s hard to follow in the footsteps/shadow/whatever of a brother with a life ahead of him, a tidy little bank balance and a world of opportunity. Ah well, my optimism may border on the worst case of out of touch with reality ever, but as yet I have not been prescribed anything for this ailment. Hm.
Now moving onwards, it’s the first time in a while I have transcended from one cigarette in a range to another without a pit stop via Marlboro or reliable Choice for a pick me up. So from Brandon Blue I slipped across to Silver. Although I am rarely a fan of silver fags, I did hold a belief that their value for money would outweigh their mediocrity. Unfortunately, as is a common trend with light/silver cigarettes, perforations in the butt allowing for clean pure outside air to be drawn in with the inhalation of tobacco disrupts and flaws an otherwise pleasant smoking experience. To avoid this undesired dilution of tobacco, I have needed to really deep throat the damn things, with the butt well in my mouth and my lips pressed hard on the holes to disrupt the airflow. Nice. Plug it up I say.
Aside from this blemish in design, they’re not all bad really, providing a light feathery kick and a satisfactory buzz. Good enough eh.
Attractiveness of Pack- Like an Ethiopian at an all-you-can-eat buffet, I do feel lucky to have such a bulky, all-giving pack to rip fags from at any desired moment. All you can munch indeed. The all-over silver eliminates any confusion surrounding the strength of the cigerrrs, while also adding a touch of platinum class to an otherwise blatantly cheapo 40pack. Dynamic no. Innovative no. Yet satisfactorily pleasing. 2.5
Smoothness and Flavour- Once the diggity holes have been lipped-over, the true flavour from this cigarette is allowed to emanate from the tobacco and perambulate in the mouth. Smooth enough to caress yet rough enough to get you there. 3.5 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Burning Time- Only to be expected, Silver cigarettes have an unspoken rule of an insanely inconsiderately rapid combustion rate. Rushing off to meet his ex for coffee, I am left only halfway there, panting slightly and really feeling hard done by. Sigh. Of course there’s nothing a good long visit from umm Marlboro can’t fix, but I wish Brandon would finish the job he started. 1 out of 5.
Lingering Taste- Like the morning-after breath of an alcoholic, the taste left in the mouth post-cigarette is putrid. Ass-licking-esque. Like licking the scregs of a tobacco pouch to get your much-needed kick. The only remedy is a visit to Mr Wrigley’s and a fast-paced chew-suck through the mint. Satisfaction. 1 out 5 malignant tumours.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR BRANDON SILVER- 2 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Again, the results are rather reflective of my genuine opinion of the faaagin’ things. They’re okay but not a hit. They are played on the radio for no more than 5 days before being aired only by request. They are in the 2 for $20 bin at Myer. They are the lonely fucks hanging around the bar at 2:40 am. (Shuddup…. … . ) They’re the tonic in your gin. Not the most important element, surely not the most sought-after, but strangely their existence makes life that little-bit more liveable, consumable and enjoyable.
With my birthday drawing ever closer (25th you forgetful uncaring fuckers) I do request nothing more than Daniel Craig on my doorstep wearing nothing but a silver bow around his member. In the unlikely event this is not able to arranged, a wad of cash, carton of cigarettes or life-and-future-handed-to-me-on-a-silver-platted would suffice I suppppose…
“Hunter STOP FONDLING THE DOG!!!!”..
Until next time we meet awkwardly in the street, exchange glances, think “is it isn’t it?” and cross to the other side of the street at lightning speed to avoid finding out the answer to that pondering, ciao.
Missy.
EX.
P.S "The Fame" Hunty+Missy Bday party FRIDAY, 29th JAN. BE THERE WITH BELLS ON. FB for more info..
X
Sunday, January 17, 2010
I AM A FAG XXX
Sitting contentedly at Maccas Coorparoo, tapping into the gloriously underrated resource that is free wireless, I am finally able to release the words phrases curses and vulgarities meandering unchained in my mind... The insanity I feel after a blogless week can only be compared to the state of mind of any person driving a Suzuki or living their life without a steady flow of nicotine- purely satanic and frighteningly lacklustre.
Finally my ranting is once again able to be digitally stored reproduced and raped on the WWW. Phew. Now I sit a little cold and perky, the aircon in here surely chills my silicone and gives these firm babies and extra upward and forward kick. Nice. And I am feeling so very very good about life, although still broke and jobless, I am not yet ready to snap back into the 9 to 5 lifestyle or live with the knowledge I’ve actually earned the $384.33 I receive fortnightly. Ew.
With my newly refunded bond, I find myself with a wad of cash and no sense of financial sense to stop me splashing out on a “fancy pants” pack of yes, TAILORED cigarettes. Well fancy is a little bit of an overstatement, but stepping proudly up from the rollies-gutter, I automatically feel a more worthy human being, having my machine-rolled cigarettes available to me whenever wherever without the least bit of concern about “where’zz ma papers..? Where the fark are my filters...” and so forth.
I’m living the Hollywood lifestyle when all I need is a lighter to get the party started, rather than much fondling and coercing tobacco to get a smoke-worthy product into my lungs ASAP.
The investment of choice- Brandon Blue. Well fuck me, $15 for a 40 pack, yeah you do the math and deliver me a high five for my exceptional bargain shopping skills and umm open-mindedness to try new things. Now I was expecting little more than a peck on the cheek from Brandon, maybe a shhhneaky up-skirt grab if that, but Brandon really had me on the floor with a satisfied and slightly exhausted result.
There really was nothing like waking up next to Brandon when I was used to waking up to Champion. Now ‘champ’ thought he was the shit, but there’s a lot he doesn’t know about pleasing Missy... yeah. Brandon’s penny-pinching nature did not even annoy me; his smashing ability to save me dosh made me even more keen to wake up to him morning after morning, groaning all the way. Let us now numerically express his pros and cons.
Attractiveness of Pack- Masculine, solid, sturdy- there’s no pansy shit here. ‘I am cigarettes hear me roar’ is what is expressed in this bulk-sized mighty rugged pack. Blue dictates the strength of the fag, and as I have previously said I greatly appreciate this no beating around the bush shit. Not glamorous, not stunning, not overtly pretty, just straight up hello take me and roll with me. Average yes, mediocre no. 3 out of 5 mal
Smoothness and Flavour- Flavour lacks a little zing, but coming off the back of rollies this is very understandable. Smooth enough to wipe your ass with however. Vroom. 3.5 out 5
“I feel so cold but my nipples aren’t stiff” *pulls down top to look.
“STOP!” *covers breasts with hands “we’re in the religious community!!” –Hunter
Nice.
Burning Time- Disgraceful actually. AGAIN following rollies v understandable, but come on. Man up. But that all said I’m not really used to a man hanging around for much longer than a handshake really. Sigh. 1 out of 5.
Lingering Taste- satisfying really, and the satisfaction continues on for several minutes, maybe even 12. Of course the ease of access to tailored cigarettes means it is a rarity that I don’t follow one cigarette with another, but if I try try try I can appreciate the remaining flavour of the previous cigarette. Hmmph 3 out of 5 malignant tumours.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR BRANDON BLUE- 2.625..
Well average yes, for a tailored, but the subtle step-up in society and proof of my increasing financial means (even though surely it should not be spent..) had me riding a happy horse in the fair.
Well now after a mediocre coffee and an unhappy tummy I am feeling like a nap not narrating my bullshit mind.
So I shall leave you here in the dim evening light rather than continue unravelling the threads of my ramshackled mind.
Get ma stitches out tomorrow, may my recovery continue to be as smooth and bountiful as it has been thus far. Can’t wait to start um reaping the benefits. Or at least wander from this drought-filled desert past the oasis of 2nd base.. oh.
Ex..M.
Finally my ranting is once again able to be digitally stored reproduced and raped on the WWW. Phew. Now I sit a little cold and perky, the aircon in here surely chills my silicone and gives these firm babies and extra upward and forward kick. Nice. And I am feeling so very very good about life, although still broke and jobless, I am not yet ready to snap back into the 9 to 5 lifestyle or live with the knowledge I’ve actually earned the $384.33 I receive fortnightly. Ew.
With my newly refunded bond, I find myself with a wad of cash and no sense of financial sense to stop me splashing out on a “fancy pants” pack of yes, TAILORED cigarettes. Well fancy is a little bit of an overstatement, but stepping proudly up from the rollies-gutter, I automatically feel a more worthy human being, having my machine-rolled cigarettes available to me whenever wherever without the least bit of concern about “where’zz ma papers..? Where the fark are my filters...” and so forth.
I’m living the Hollywood lifestyle when all I need is a lighter to get the party started, rather than much fondling and coercing tobacco to get a smoke-worthy product into my lungs ASAP.
The investment of choice- Brandon Blue. Well fuck me, $15 for a 40 pack, yeah you do the math and deliver me a high five for my exceptional bargain shopping skills and umm open-mindedness to try new things. Now I was expecting little more than a peck on the cheek from Brandon, maybe a shhhneaky up-skirt grab if that, but Brandon really had me on the floor with a satisfied and slightly exhausted result.
There really was nothing like waking up next to Brandon when I was used to waking up to Champion. Now ‘champ’ thought he was the shit, but there’s a lot he doesn’t know about pleasing Missy... yeah. Brandon’s penny-pinching nature did not even annoy me; his smashing ability to save me dosh made me even more keen to wake up to him morning after morning, groaning all the way. Let us now numerically express his pros and cons.
Attractiveness of Pack- Masculine, solid, sturdy- there’s no pansy shit here. ‘I am cigarettes hear me roar’ is what is expressed in this bulk-sized mighty rugged pack. Blue dictates the strength of the fag, and as I have previously said I greatly appreciate this no beating around the bush shit. Not glamorous, not stunning, not overtly pretty, just straight up hello take me and roll with me. Average yes, mediocre no. 3 out of 5 mal
Smoothness and Flavour- Flavour lacks a little zing, but coming off the back of rollies this is very understandable. Smooth enough to wipe your ass with however. Vroom. 3.5 out 5
“I feel so cold but my nipples aren’t stiff” *pulls down top to look.
“STOP!” *covers breasts with hands “we’re in the religious community!!” –Hunter
Nice.
Burning Time- Disgraceful actually. AGAIN following rollies v understandable, but come on. Man up. But that all said I’m not really used to a man hanging around for much longer than a handshake really. Sigh. 1 out of 5.
Lingering Taste- satisfying really, and the satisfaction continues on for several minutes, maybe even 12. Of course the ease of access to tailored cigarettes means it is a rarity that I don’t follow one cigarette with another, but if I try try try I can appreciate the remaining flavour of the previous cigarette. Hmmph 3 out of 5 malignant tumours.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR BRANDON BLUE- 2.625..
Well average yes, for a tailored, but the subtle step-up in society and proof of my increasing financial means (even though surely it should not be spent..) had me riding a happy horse in the fair.
Well now after a mediocre coffee and an unhappy tummy I am feeling like a nap not narrating my bullshit mind.
So I shall leave you here in the dim evening light rather than continue unravelling the threads of my ramshackled mind.
Get ma stitches out tomorrow, may my recovery continue to be as smooth and bountiful as it has been thus far. Can’t wait to start um reaping the benefits. Or at least wander from this drought-filled desert past the oasis of 2nd base.. oh.
Ex..M.
Friday, January 8, 2010
I AM A FAG XXVIX
I find myself at the end of one hell of a week. For those of you unlucky (or lucky??) enough not to be bombarded with my drunken excited ranting, you may not know that yes, on Tuesday, I underwent a breast implant procedure. Why? I was sick of feeling like a 12year old pre-pubescent being. I had had enough of my nipples capping a flattened plateau instead of two insurmountable peaks. I was fed up with attempting cleavage in an always-oversized bra with numerous forms of chicken fillets. I am a woman, and unfortunately my flatter-than-FlatsVille chest often made me mistake myself for a paedophile when I sleepily fondled my un-breasted chest midway through a lonely night. No longer do I see a budding 13 year old slightly-on-the-tubby side boy and grow sickly green with envy over his luscious bosom. It is the age of bounce. The age of cleavage. The age of infra-breast storing of personal items such as telephone and, appropriately, cigarettes. Now I could rage on the topic of breast augmentation until I’m blue in the face, yet we’re here for a reason. And a good one at that. Cigggggs. Now if you HAD noticed that my bloggin’ has dwindled down to non-existence, I apologise. My internet access has been near to nil, and although technology advances, I still can’t manage a way to conjure a wireless network with my thoughts alone.
I am proud to declare (as I hope you are proud of me too) that my smoking around the time of my procedure has been reduced ridiculously and limited to a handful of cigarettes a day. After all, I do wish to heal these babies so I can wack them out and reap the benefits ASAP. Though I have found it difficult to limit my smoking, I tell myself (knowingly and very correctly) that less smoking=less healing time. Ah you doctors finally have hit a soft spot with me. Tell me smoking will rot my silicone and you’ll hardly ever see me with a fag in my hand...
So, Champion Blue is, of late, my tabacco of choice. Perche? Easily accessible through various sale points including Coles and seveneleven. and in addition, Hunty dearrrrr has chosen Champion (champion for a champion one could say..) as his baccy of choice. Nice. Let's crunch some numbers before i get too wacky Mc wack wacked on the drugs i am consuming, let's just say i could fucking start up a very successful and profitable drug ring with the amount of meds i must pop each and every day (and tri and quad-daily at that. Noice)
Attractiveness of Pack- Shleak blue colour suggests simplisity and minimalist form. Sure labels brandish the pack, but in essence there is little more than necessary visually. The pack lends itself to dishevelling however, as relying on a sticky tab alone to seal and reseal and reseal and reseal is dangerous...the threat of disadherence (yeah i make up words too..) after use is very real. And unfortunately this means that i am forced to ensure the virginal qualities and togetherness of the product by sealing it in a hair band. No this is not a complaint as such, just an observation about the general lack of realworld and roadworthy testing that the company sadly suffers. 3 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Smoothness and Flavour- No where near the kick of a testy White Ox, yet smooth enough to discount this flaw and have you almost kid yourself that you're getting the best tabacco money can buy. Yes, Champion is cheap. Dirt cheap. Criminally cheap. Yet there remains an unsatisfaction reaped from this tabacco that generally i am left feeling a little empty. micro vacuoles of 'please-fill-me' fill my being. Good is good but never can good be great. 3 out of 5.
Burning time- If you havent already cottoned on to my additude about the very DIY nature of rollies, then wake the fuck up. As i have said time (and possibly time again) you decide. The power is sweetly and pleasurably in your hands. Aaaoo. But in terms of the actual combustion rate of the threads of tabacco itself, i'd say they do smoulder a little quicker than their rivals? Again it is very difficult to judge, but my seasoned senses know when things are happening all a little too quickly. So you're now forced to take my word for it or run for the hills? Yeah i know what i would be choosing too......3 out of 5 mal
Lingering Taste- Kudos for trying, fuck you for not quite pulling through. I mean a flavour remains present in the mouth for a considerable amount of time after inhalation yes i will admit, but it seems so minimal, and almost unpleasant, that only wrigley's or gloria jeans can disperse the filthy dirt i-just-sucked-a-bog taste from my mouth. ick. 1 out of 5.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR CHAMPION BLUE- 2.5 out of 5. Yes they've met me halfway, but i am a bitch and i ask for more more MORE!
Well whilst the maccas wifi is still holding up strong, while the coffee is still hot, and my tits are still supported well in my lusciously sexy sports-bra mutation (ick) i may as well fill in the time with another few words about b-b-boobs?
Too much information perhaps (if you're of the belief that girls dont poo or talk about poo then turn away now..) but they were REALLY serious when they told me that on the drugs i'm takin i would be constipated. Ha i laughed and thought of how wrong they probably are.
No. here and now, i admit i was wrong.
Never have i felt a larger burdon on my shoulders. Day one day tow DAY THREE passes with only the most minimal of poops. How can a person live like this?!! through scalpel and mega huge injection, sedation and stitches, constipation still reins as the worst part about this procedure.
When 20+ sennakot tablets, litres of fluid and a whole lot of 'oh please please' doesnt get things moving, you really begin to fear for not only YOUR life but the continued existance of human life itself.
Happy am i to report that as of this morning i am no longer plugged. Well hello. Never have i been so proud of a poop in my life.
Oh dear lord let's stop it here before the vomitting of masses is blamed on my vulgar tale.
Well until next time i leave you,
As my boobs soften, skin stretches, libido increases, appetite remains non existant, love for fags remains as steady as ever, and desire to bounce bounce bounce free of this sportsbra, i ask you to keep me in mind as you go for your evening jogs, lie flat on your tummy, or have sex. Things that iam craving craving craving with frightening force but as of yet cannot engage in. balls.
Catch you later fellows.
My bossomed, heaving, bi-silicone love.
Come meet the twins one day when you're free eh?
X. M
I am proud to declare (as I hope you are proud of me too) that my smoking around the time of my procedure has been reduced ridiculously and limited to a handful of cigarettes a day. After all, I do wish to heal these babies so I can wack them out and reap the benefits ASAP. Though I have found it difficult to limit my smoking, I tell myself (knowingly and very correctly) that less smoking=less healing time. Ah you doctors finally have hit a soft spot with me. Tell me smoking will rot my silicone and you’ll hardly ever see me with a fag in my hand...
So, Champion Blue is, of late, my tabacco of choice. Perche? Easily accessible through various sale points including Coles and seveneleven. and in addition, Hunty dearrrrr has chosen Champion (champion for a champion one could say..) as his baccy of choice. Nice. Let's crunch some numbers before i get too wacky Mc wack wacked on the drugs i am consuming, let's just say i could fucking start up a very successful and profitable drug ring with the amount of meds i must pop each and every day (and tri and quad-daily at that. Noice)
Attractiveness of Pack- Shleak blue colour suggests simplisity and minimalist form. Sure labels brandish the pack, but in essence there is little more than necessary visually. The pack lends itself to dishevelling however, as relying on a sticky tab alone to seal and reseal and reseal and reseal is dangerous...the threat of disadherence (yeah i make up words too..) after use is very real. And unfortunately this means that i am forced to ensure the virginal qualities and togetherness of the product by sealing it in a hair band. No this is not a complaint as such, just an observation about the general lack of realworld and roadworthy testing that the company sadly suffers. 3 out of 5 malignant tumours.
Smoothness and Flavour- No where near the kick of a testy White Ox, yet smooth enough to discount this flaw and have you almost kid yourself that you're getting the best tabacco money can buy. Yes, Champion is cheap. Dirt cheap. Criminally cheap. Yet there remains an unsatisfaction reaped from this tabacco that generally i am left feeling a little empty. micro vacuoles of 'please-fill-me' fill my being. Good is good but never can good be great. 3 out of 5.
Burning time- If you havent already cottoned on to my additude about the very DIY nature of rollies, then wake the fuck up. As i have said time (and possibly time again) you decide. The power is sweetly and pleasurably in your hands. Aaaoo. But in terms of the actual combustion rate of the threads of tabacco itself, i'd say they do smoulder a little quicker than their rivals? Again it is very difficult to judge, but my seasoned senses know when things are happening all a little too quickly. So you're now forced to take my word for it or run for the hills? Yeah i know what i would be choosing too......3 out of 5 mal
Lingering Taste- Kudos for trying, fuck you for not quite pulling through. I mean a flavour remains present in the mouth for a considerable amount of time after inhalation yes i will admit, but it seems so minimal, and almost unpleasant, that only wrigley's or gloria jeans can disperse the filthy dirt i-just-sucked-a-bog taste from my mouth. ick. 1 out of 5.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR CHAMPION BLUE- 2.5 out of 5. Yes they've met me halfway, but i am a bitch and i ask for more more MORE!
Well whilst the maccas wifi is still holding up strong, while the coffee is still hot, and my tits are still supported well in my lusciously sexy sports-bra mutation (ick) i may as well fill in the time with another few words about b-b-boobs?
Too much information perhaps (if you're of the belief that girls dont poo or talk about poo then turn away now..) but they were REALLY serious when they told me that on the drugs i'm takin i would be constipated. Ha i laughed and thought of how wrong they probably are.
No. here and now, i admit i was wrong.
Never have i felt a larger burdon on my shoulders. Day one day tow DAY THREE passes with only the most minimal of poops. How can a person live like this?!! through scalpel and mega huge injection, sedation and stitches, constipation still reins as the worst part about this procedure.
When 20+ sennakot tablets, litres of fluid and a whole lot of 'oh please please' doesnt get things moving, you really begin to fear for not only YOUR life but the continued existance of human life itself.
Happy am i to report that as of this morning i am no longer plugged. Well hello. Never have i been so proud of a poop in my life.
Oh dear lord let's stop it here before the vomitting of masses is blamed on my vulgar tale.
Well until next time i leave you,
As my boobs soften, skin stretches, libido increases, appetite remains non existant, love for fags remains as steady as ever, and desire to bounce bounce bounce free of this sportsbra, i ask you to keep me in mind as you go for your evening jogs, lie flat on your tummy, or have sex. Things that iam craving craving craving with frightening force but as of yet cannot engage in. balls.
Catch you later fellows.
My bossomed, heaving, bi-silicone love.
Come meet the twins one day when you're free eh?
X. M
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
I AM A FAG XXVIII
Contary to popular belief, there are a number of things one can learn from a formidable extended errrm.. vacation.. in Lismore.
I)Denim on denim is making a comeback. in a big way
II)Nothing screams class like a combination of low-rider jeans and leapard print.
III) You have not reached Nirvana unless your car is not only big, black and Holden, but noisy, explicitely bumper-stickered, and plates personalised with 'topdog'. Bonus points for Kid Rock blasting from the stereo, a dirty blonde bimbo residing in the passanger seat, and a pair of white sunnies that could scare the chastity belt off the most loyal virginal maiden.
One can only smirk and blush at the various creatures born of this swampy town. Where did they come from? More importantly, where are they going? (no-where..)
It's as if the town possesses a sub-human force, barrackading in the masses and masses of scum that never venture beyond the town limits (well maybe only to go the the Wyrallah Rd Dump to scrounge for xmas treats..) and holiday far away from their south lismore home in the classy hell-resort of Lismore Caravan park. "ga on ya little ankle-biters, off to tha lake pool... nah nah dont wanna hear nuffin bout the blue-green algae..it's good for ya, will put hairs on ya chest son..."
Gut and facial hair is the lismore standard for appearance, male or woman. Not only is Lismore the lowest socio-economic town in NSW, but it also would have the highest number of likely contestants for Extreme makeover, Backyard Blitz, Room for Improvement, or any surgical or landscape-like reality show that aims to overhaul and improve.
A solution to this mediocrity? Well let's just say if I were mayor (and how i would wear that title with such honour...) i would fund construction for a fence encircling the entire town (electrified and unpassable of course) , throw in a few good tonnes of beef-mince, a kilolitre of Coke, an assortment of metal vats, hops malt and barley, a Flo Ryder (sp?) CD and mix it all up. Advertise excessively, and suddenly this enclosure of filth becomes one of the greatest tourist hotspots in the country- Live feral bogan freak show, doing what they do best- Drinking eating belching and reproducing relentlessly without any consideration for the gene pool or the state of generation Z.
Now it pains me to reduce all the population of lismore down to this disgraceful sub-average stereotype, but those who arent bogans are old and senile, occupying our roads exessively and driving too fast and too slowly respectively. It takes a cruise through town and surrounding suburbs to genuinly realise how fucked up this place is.
It's as if there is no escape- Here at mum's i am drenched in the ho-hum whinge bitch nag nag nag of the elderly (well, over 55's). Escaping leads me to the dredges of lismore lacklustre looney lame losers. My only escape is in the smokey sanctity of Colin, windows up thanks and triple J blaring, or dragging the stupid family dog up and down the ridges mounds and hills of our farm (thank fuck we have a fair bit of property).
Speaking of smokey sanctity, i must admit my regression to rollies. With a wallet loaded with membership cards, overlimit credit cards and not much else, i realised that i would need to revert to rollies if i wished to have some shmokes for at least 4 days. Else i would be back to the greatly-feared nicotineless beast i have been known to become from time to time. And so (on a fearful dash from my car to the servo. And cant believe i wasnt raped or mugged in the long painful 7 seconds i was outside and vulnerable) i purchased White Ox tabacco. "Dark" tabacco FYI. reow.
Now nothing entices me as much as reference to a large wirey animal and the adjectives "fine" and "rich".. And as much as i'd like to say i regret my decision to take a step back into poorsville, i insist that well, i'm in lismore, i may as well fit in with all the smelly fuckers eh?
Let's take it from the top.
Attractiveness of Pack- Actually quit sexy, a rustic lofty fat and eager bulky bag rather than a slinky pack, these appear as a REAL man's tabacco, rather than the slightly prissy, overly feminine Drum packs. Now last time i checked i was a woman (oh and oh so woman oh so soon..) therefore what obviously attracts me to the masculinity of White Ox is their suggestive grunty nature and their big black and sturdy frame. reow. 4 out of 5 malignant tummmmmours.
Smoothness and Flavour- Their contents is nothing soft either. Dark, strongly aromatic, rich and tastyyyyyyy. If only i could transfer the qualities of this tabacco into a human male, i would then have found not only my Mr Right, but my Mr RIGHT NOW AAOOOOOO!!! .. 4.5 out of 5 sexy malignant throbbbbbing tumours. ;)
Burning Time- The dense dark threads of tabacco lend themselves to a slow combustion, long burning time and very steady smoulder. Just as it should be, they only burn when i drag. However, i've found that White Ox is more vulnerable to extinguishing after an oh-little-too-long-time without a drag.. and relighting is required. balls. All in all though they push 4 out of 5 of my buttons.
Lingering Taste- Really overwhelmingly rich aroma and flavour clings determinedly to the roof of my mouth and in various dank locations in my respiratory tract. But after a while of hanging around, this white ox begins to fester and ferment, and the flavour becomes a little unpleasant. hm... 3 out of fiiiiiiiiiive.
Average Score for White Ox- 4? Well, strap me down, they weren't all that bad. HOWEVER i expect 6 out of 5 before marriage babies mortgage and divorce ensues.
SO where were you on the last day of the decade? this will be the overused catch call of many a b-grade news readers for the coming days. Talk of new years' resolutions, new decade, impending 2012 apocalypse, improving financial state of the world will smash our senses. Have you sorted out your prorities? Have you planned day for day your every action word and thought for 2010? I'd hope not. I, surprisingly, have adopted a so-close-to-positive-optimistic-approach that i feel a little foreign. I say welcome benvenuto 2010. May you fuck me from every angle in the most pleasurable way, satisfy my cravings, and rub my back when i'm falling asleep.
See you next decade, you delicious bastards.
X.M.
I)Denim on denim is making a comeback. in a big way
II)Nothing screams class like a combination of low-rider jeans and leapard print.
III) You have not reached Nirvana unless your car is not only big, black and Holden, but noisy, explicitely bumper-stickered, and plates personalised with 'topdog'. Bonus points for Kid Rock blasting from the stereo, a dirty blonde bimbo residing in the passanger seat, and a pair of white sunnies that could scare the chastity belt off the most loyal virginal maiden.
One can only smirk and blush at the various creatures born of this swampy town. Where did they come from? More importantly, where are they going? (no-where..)
It's as if the town possesses a sub-human force, barrackading in the masses and masses of scum that never venture beyond the town limits (well maybe only to go the the Wyrallah Rd Dump to scrounge for xmas treats..) and holiday far away from their south lismore home in the classy hell-resort of Lismore Caravan park. "ga on ya little ankle-biters, off to tha lake pool... nah nah dont wanna hear nuffin bout the blue-green algae..it's good for ya, will put hairs on ya chest son..."
Gut and facial hair is the lismore standard for appearance, male or woman. Not only is Lismore the lowest socio-economic town in NSW, but it also would have the highest number of likely contestants for Extreme makeover, Backyard Blitz, Room for Improvement, or any surgical or landscape-like reality show that aims to overhaul and improve.
A solution to this mediocrity? Well let's just say if I were mayor (and how i would wear that title with such honour...) i would fund construction for a fence encircling the entire town (electrified and unpassable of course) , throw in a few good tonnes of beef-mince, a kilolitre of Coke, an assortment of metal vats, hops malt and barley, a Flo Ryder (sp?) CD and mix it all up. Advertise excessively, and suddenly this enclosure of filth becomes one of the greatest tourist hotspots in the country- Live feral bogan freak show, doing what they do best- Drinking eating belching and reproducing relentlessly without any consideration for the gene pool or the state of generation Z.
Now it pains me to reduce all the population of lismore down to this disgraceful sub-average stereotype, but those who arent bogans are old and senile, occupying our roads exessively and driving too fast and too slowly respectively. It takes a cruise through town and surrounding suburbs to genuinly realise how fucked up this place is.
It's as if there is no escape- Here at mum's i am drenched in the ho-hum whinge bitch nag nag nag of the elderly (well, over 55's). Escaping leads me to the dredges of lismore lacklustre looney lame losers. My only escape is in the smokey sanctity of Colin, windows up thanks and triple J blaring, or dragging the stupid family dog up and down the ridges mounds and hills of our farm (thank fuck we have a fair bit of property).
Speaking of smokey sanctity, i must admit my regression to rollies. With a wallet loaded with membership cards, overlimit credit cards and not much else, i realised that i would need to revert to rollies if i wished to have some shmokes for at least 4 days. Else i would be back to the greatly-feared nicotineless beast i have been known to become from time to time. And so (on a fearful dash from my car to the servo. And cant believe i wasnt raped or mugged in the long painful 7 seconds i was outside and vulnerable) i purchased White Ox tabacco. "Dark" tabacco FYI. reow.
Now nothing entices me as much as reference to a large wirey animal and the adjectives "fine" and "rich".. And as much as i'd like to say i regret my decision to take a step back into poorsville, i insist that well, i'm in lismore, i may as well fit in with all the smelly fuckers eh?
Let's take it from the top.
Attractiveness of Pack- Actually quit sexy, a rustic lofty fat and eager bulky bag rather than a slinky pack, these appear as a REAL man's tabacco, rather than the slightly prissy, overly feminine Drum packs. Now last time i checked i was a woman (oh and oh so woman oh so soon..) therefore what obviously attracts me to the masculinity of White Ox is their suggestive grunty nature and their big black and sturdy frame. reow. 4 out of 5 malignant tummmmmours.
Smoothness and Flavour- Their contents is nothing soft either. Dark, strongly aromatic, rich and tastyyyyyyy. If only i could transfer the qualities of this tabacco into a human male, i would then have found not only my Mr Right, but my Mr RIGHT NOW AAOOOOOO!!! .. 4.5 out of 5 sexy malignant throbbbbbing tumours. ;)
Burning Time- The dense dark threads of tabacco lend themselves to a slow combustion, long burning time and very steady smoulder. Just as it should be, they only burn when i drag. However, i've found that White Ox is more vulnerable to extinguishing after an oh-little-too-long-time without a drag.. and relighting is required. balls. All in all though they push 4 out of 5 of my buttons.
Lingering Taste- Really overwhelmingly rich aroma and flavour clings determinedly to the roof of my mouth and in various dank locations in my respiratory tract. But after a while of hanging around, this white ox begins to fester and ferment, and the flavour becomes a little unpleasant. hm... 3 out of fiiiiiiiiiive.
Average Score for White Ox- 4? Well, strap me down, they weren't all that bad. HOWEVER i expect 6 out of 5 before marriage babies mortgage and divorce ensues.
SO where were you on the last day of the decade? this will be the overused catch call of many a b-grade news readers for the coming days. Talk of new years' resolutions, new decade, impending 2012 apocalypse, improving financial state of the world will smash our senses. Have you sorted out your prorities? Have you planned day for day your every action word and thought for 2010? I'd hope not. I, surprisingly, have adopted a so-close-to-positive-optimistic-approach that i feel a little foreign. I say welcome benvenuto 2010. May you fuck me from every angle in the most pleasurable way, satisfy my cravings, and rub my back when i'm falling asleep.
See you next decade, you delicious bastards.
X.M.
I AM A FAG XXVII
You know there's something seriously wrong with you when, at 2:09 am, you angrily throw back the covers, make a bee line for the fridge, grab a beer, twist-off and take a deep long satisfied sip. Maybe it's the million percent humidity that is preventing sleep from ensuing? Or maybe the fact that my body is still in tune with QLD 'normal' time, rather than NSW's shitty excuse for daylight retention. Either way, there is only so much tossing and turning one can take before insanity comes knocking hornily on your bedroom door. Try as you may, you cant turn it away. Cleverly i have taken to my brother's laptop and in doing so not only shunned insanity (maybe not..) but also i am digitally vomiting some of the thoughts swimming irritatingly haphazardly in my mind. Nice.
Reclined unattractively relaxed on mum's plush gold-embellished red velvet couch (yes, wanker indeed..) i am reminded of why i left this place. I feel bad for speaking too loudly as i fear the decibles of my voice may injure the paint work. Walking too heavily on the carpet leaves me feeling i'm weakening the very foundations of the house. Dare i not breathe too hastily for i may displace one of the many crystalline figurines pointlessly decorating the furnishings of this house. Fark. Modernity is all but lost with my mother. She believes in the old-world charm of mahogany and the power of Royal Doulton.
"Hey mum, why the fuck don't you sell all this crystal shit and go on a holiday??"
"Because i worked a long time to save to buy it all and it means a lot to me and it looks nice and it's beautiful and and and ...." ..There lies the difference (one of the many differences) between my mother and I. I prefer the adventurous life of bankrupcy. She believes nothing says happiness like a cupboardfull of bling. Fair enough.
SO, continuing on the topic of fishsticks Vs Lobster, i now readily admit that while trying a rather dodgy poor-folks cigarette diet for a few weeks, i have unremorsefully returned to my old ways. a leapord never changes his spots. I blew a fair bit of smoke up rollies' ass. Put them high on a pedestal that, in retrospect, they possibly did not deserve.
And while i continue to insist that the praise given to them was not only well deserved but also truly meant, i did find myself very unsatisfied one evening, ducked up to my local 7/11 (i should probably set up permanent camp outside their damn store, i practically live there. My name should be blazened on the lease, a set of shop keys belong on my keychain. My daily attire should be that of a 7/11 employee...) to buy me a good ole pack of tailored cigarettes.
Why? WHY? something hit me as i sat daintily on the step of the back door (i had just cleaned and organised the patio setting, didnt want to muck it up you see) .. i realised that my love for DIY fags dwindled away as our 3 week anniversary came rolling around. I've never been one for monogamy. My cigarette-polygamy isn't all that sinful really.. Point being, i longed for a flawless long hard and ready being. I had had truly enough of imperfect. Unsatisfactory. The inconsistancies in rollies, though blameable purely on me, sure, left a lot to be desired.
I've reached a stage in my life (oh and how i'm getting wiser with age.... hm..) where all i want is the knowledge that i can have what i want, when i want it. And fuck me, tailored cigarettes, though many and varied in their strengths (and weaknesses...) will always look the bloody same, feel the same, just be the same.
I have no doubt in my mind that my choice to revert to an ole gooden' tailored pack was based mainly on the following facts-
a)i had had some freaky moments of oh so close avoidance of incidents while rolling whilst driving
b)if the air is too humind/my hands are damp/the wind is a-gusting it's all too difficult to get the roll right. and
c) i'm a lazy C U Next Tuesday and i cant be waiting around for cigarette-foreplay all the darn time.
Though upon inspecting my finances (wait, that big minus symbol, angry red font and threatening letters in the mail is BAD?) i have no doubt that any day now my need for nicotine at the cheapest going rate will completely squash any desire i have for a ready-made cigarette. Hold your horses for an ungraceful return to rollies.
Well, the pack to re-take my tailored virginity? Holiday Purple. WHY? Because in my nicotine-deprived ranting at the cigarette counter of the Chinderah Service Centre, it must have sounded like i said holidays... "cani avva packa thodr holfhad may zing puluease".. incomprihensible ramble? yes. Was i still delivered a pack of cigarettes? Yes. Needless to say i was eagerly salivating over the anticipation of the salvation that a good long tailored shmoke would bring. Hungrily stripping the pack of its preserving outer layer, i dove eagerly for a single cigarette, drew it quickasaflash to my lips and, igniting it at full speed, and felt my world turn from dark drizzle grey to rose pink.
It's as if i had relocated from living under a south lismore bridge, to the swankiest of Hiltons. Now we're really talking lobster on a fishfinger budget, champagne on a beer budget, but there is a level of absolute pleasure and satisfaction that results from tailored cigarettes that i had forecfully forgotten during my stint with rollies. Needless to say, the good memories came flowing back.
i dont have to spend a good 90 sleepy seconds rolling one when i get out of bed in the morning, bleary-eyed and nicotine defficient.
i dont have to endanger not only my own pointless life, but also the lives of possibly successful, probably equally as unhappy motorists on the road by rolling as i drive.
and i can maintain my image of pure class, rather than stoop down to the level of oh so many other graduates of Lismore (HA HA jerry seinfeld move over, there's some comedy for you... )
Let's get this shit compressed into numbers, or we will be here until the rooster crows (and yes, i am actually within a 300m radius of a rooster in this part of the country, and yes the cunt does crow early in the morning. and all i want to do is approach him with a family-feed style bucket of KFC and eat it in front of him, threatening him with a sharp knife and an oven-roasting tray, some ultimate chicken seasoning herbs such as sage and rosmary, and rub his face deep within the pile of chicken bones i shall leave in a heap at his feet)..
Attractiveness of Pack- As boring as an NBN news reporter. As plain as arrowroot bikkies. as lame as a scratched horse. BUT, i appreciate the consistancy in their range. All (or most) packs based around a blue colour scheme, only differentiated by a strip of various colours below the lid. Still, man up. Give me something to make my jaw drop, rather than just my forearm getting a work out. 2 out of 5 big fat bad mutated fuckers.
Smoothness and Flavour- No where near as smooth as rollies, that i will readily admit. But much more flavour is gained from a suck on these babies. I mean is it too much to ask for one hard satisfying hit? My level of patience with cigarettes in general has dwindled from nothing to sub-zero. I dont mind the smoothness or flavour of these, but i want a fag to just blow me (away) already! 2 out of 5.
Burning Time- "oh, it's okay... umm.. don't worry.." it's all over ridiculously quickly. Just because we're female doesnt mean we dont deserve just as much mmmmm ah as you. 2 out of 5. no actually, 1. fuckit.
Lingering Taste- A few lost points regained here. 3 out of 5. It does hang around. But we're talking hang around like that hmm-last-resort-its-better-than-being-alone-i-spose being. Stop texting me type shit. I close my eyes and when i open them i wish you to disappear. 2 out of 5. And i'm being generous.
Average Score for Holiday Purple- 2. now there's a lot of room for improvement there, and as this is my first sampling of the Holiday range, i am approaching the rest of the range with great trepedation and a head full of fear. eek. why must life depreciate faster than a european car? Currently i crave the value-for-money of a Mc Donald's menu item, melded with the satisfaction and pleasure of a bottle of shiraz. Is it really that much to ask? For a source to stem my happiness from? Oh dear, i would give more than the Salvos do if only i was given the chance.
Well now i am quite aware that the mix of late night sleeplessness and cider has murdered my sensible side and brought my rambling junkie side out to play.
I apologise for repeatedly cursing, using sexually explicit inuendo, and as usual, boring you stiff (oh if only. )
An hour later, i will now attempt to apologise to my bed for leaving it so hastily, and collapse back into it, wishing only to fall immediately and deeply into a state of restorative and reviving sleep.
I hope to see a fair few of you at NYE, by golly i am ever so excited. Bring your earplugs (or better, a shotgun), we all know how alcohol and good times gets my mouth a-yapping.
Love Lover Lovers Loving Loved Loveless. ... ..
M.
Reclined unattractively relaxed on mum's plush gold-embellished red velvet couch (yes, wanker indeed..) i am reminded of why i left this place. I feel bad for speaking too loudly as i fear the decibles of my voice may injure the paint work. Walking too heavily on the carpet leaves me feeling i'm weakening the very foundations of the house. Dare i not breathe too hastily for i may displace one of the many crystalline figurines pointlessly decorating the furnishings of this house. Fark. Modernity is all but lost with my mother. She believes in the old-world charm of mahogany and the power of Royal Doulton.
"Hey mum, why the fuck don't you sell all this crystal shit and go on a holiday??"
"Because i worked a long time to save to buy it all and it means a lot to me and it looks nice and it's beautiful and and and ...." ..There lies the difference (one of the many differences) between my mother and I. I prefer the adventurous life of bankrupcy. She believes nothing says happiness like a cupboardfull of bling. Fair enough.
SO, continuing on the topic of fishsticks Vs Lobster, i now readily admit that while trying a rather dodgy poor-folks cigarette diet for a few weeks, i have unremorsefully returned to my old ways. a leapord never changes his spots. I blew a fair bit of smoke up rollies' ass. Put them high on a pedestal that, in retrospect, they possibly did not deserve.
And while i continue to insist that the praise given to them was not only well deserved but also truly meant, i did find myself very unsatisfied one evening, ducked up to my local 7/11 (i should probably set up permanent camp outside their damn store, i practically live there. My name should be blazened on the lease, a set of shop keys belong on my keychain. My daily attire should be that of a 7/11 employee...) to buy me a good ole pack of tailored cigarettes.
Why? WHY? something hit me as i sat daintily on the step of the back door (i had just cleaned and organised the patio setting, didnt want to muck it up you see) .. i realised that my love for DIY fags dwindled away as our 3 week anniversary came rolling around. I've never been one for monogamy. My cigarette-polygamy isn't all that sinful really.. Point being, i longed for a flawless long hard and ready being. I had had truly enough of imperfect. Unsatisfactory. The inconsistancies in rollies, though blameable purely on me, sure, left a lot to be desired.
I've reached a stage in my life (oh and how i'm getting wiser with age.... hm..) where all i want is the knowledge that i can have what i want, when i want it. And fuck me, tailored cigarettes, though many and varied in their strengths (and weaknesses...) will always look the bloody same, feel the same, just be the same.
I have no doubt in my mind that my choice to revert to an ole gooden' tailored pack was based mainly on the following facts-
a)i had had some freaky moments of oh so close avoidance of incidents while rolling whilst driving
b)if the air is too humind/my hands are damp/the wind is a-gusting it's all too difficult to get the roll right. and
c) i'm a lazy C U Next Tuesday and i cant be waiting around for cigarette-foreplay all the darn time.
Though upon inspecting my finances (wait, that big minus symbol, angry red font and threatening letters in the mail is BAD?) i have no doubt that any day now my need for nicotine at the cheapest going rate will completely squash any desire i have for a ready-made cigarette. Hold your horses for an ungraceful return to rollies.
Well, the pack to re-take my tailored virginity? Holiday Purple. WHY? Because in my nicotine-deprived ranting at the cigarette counter of the Chinderah Service Centre, it must have sounded like i said holidays... "cani avva packa thodr holfhad may zing puluease".. incomprihensible ramble? yes. Was i still delivered a pack of cigarettes? Yes. Needless to say i was eagerly salivating over the anticipation of the salvation that a good long tailored shmoke would bring. Hungrily stripping the pack of its preserving outer layer, i dove eagerly for a single cigarette, drew it quickasaflash to my lips and, igniting it at full speed, and felt my world turn from dark drizzle grey to rose pink.
It's as if i had relocated from living under a south lismore bridge, to the swankiest of Hiltons. Now we're really talking lobster on a fishfinger budget, champagne on a beer budget, but there is a level of absolute pleasure and satisfaction that results from tailored cigarettes that i had forecfully forgotten during my stint with rollies. Needless to say, the good memories came flowing back.
i dont have to spend a good 90 sleepy seconds rolling one when i get out of bed in the morning, bleary-eyed and nicotine defficient.
i dont have to endanger not only my own pointless life, but also the lives of possibly successful, probably equally as unhappy motorists on the road by rolling as i drive.
and i can maintain my image of pure class, rather than stoop down to the level of oh so many other graduates of Lismore (HA HA jerry seinfeld move over, there's some comedy for you... )
Let's get this shit compressed into numbers, or we will be here until the rooster crows (and yes, i am actually within a 300m radius of a rooster in this part of the country, and yes the cunt does crow early in the morning. and all i want to do is approach him with a family-feed style bucket of KFC and eat it in front of him, threatening him with a sharp knife and an oven-roasting tray, some ultimate chicken seasoning herbs such as sage and rosmary, and rub his face deep within the pile of chicken bones i shall leave in a heap at his feet)..
Attractiveness of Pack- As boring as an NBN news reporter. As plain as arrowroot bikkies. as lame as a scratched horse. BUT, i appreciate the consistancy in their range. All (or most) packs based around a blue colour scheme, only differentiated by a strip of various colours below the lid. Still, man up. Give me something to make my jaw drop, rather than just my forearm getting a work out. 2 out of 5 big fat bad mutated fuckers.
Smoothness and Flavour- No where near as smooth as rollies, that i will readily admit. But much more flavour is gained from a suck on these babies. I mean is it too much to ask for one hard satisfying hit? My level of patience with cigarettes in general has dwindled from nothing to sub-zero. I dont mind the smoothness or flavour of these, but i want a fag to just blow me (away) already! 2 out of 5.
Burning Time- "oh, it's okay... umm.. don't worry.." it's all over ridiculously quickly. Just because we're female doesnt mean we dont deserve just as much mmmmm ah as you. 2 out of 5. no actually, 1. fuckit.
Lingering Taste- A few lost points regained here. 3 out of 5. It does hang around. But we're talking hang around like that hmm-last-resort-its-better-than-being-alone-i-spose being. Stop texting me type shit. I close my eyes and when i open them i wish you to disappear. 2 out of 5. And i'm being generous.
Average Score for Holiday Purple- 2. now there's a lot of room for improvement there, and as this is my first sampling of the Holiday range, i am approaching the rest of the range with great trepedation and a head full of fear. eek. why must life depreciate faster than a european car? Currently i crave the value-for-money of a Mc Donald's menu item, melded with the satisfaction and pleasure of a bottle of shiraz. Is it really that much to ask? For a source to stem my happiness from? Oh dear, i would give more than the Salvos do if only i was given the chance.
Well now i am quite aware that the mix of late night sleeplessness and cider has murdered my sensible side and brought my rambling junkie side out to play.
I apologise for repeatedly cursing, using sexually explicit inuendo, and as usual, boring you stiff (oh if only. )
An hour later, i will now attempt to apologise to my bed for leaving it so hastily, and collapse back into it, wishing only to fall immediately and deeply into a state of restorative and reviving sleep.
I hope to see a fair few of you at NYE, by golly i am ever so excited. Bring your earplugs (or better, a shotgun), we all know how alcohol and good times gets my mouth a-yapping.
Love Lover Lovers Loving Loved Loveless. ... ..
M.
Friday, December 25, 2009
I AM A FAG XXVI
There's nothing like a good walk on the farm (accompanied by a sneaky fag) with Spotty, the fatty boomba foxy dog, to help you get your beer-and-food-baby slowly making it's move to exit the body. Suprisingly, i only ate til i was 157% full, a fair call short of the usual twice-the-recommended-weekly-intake-of-food binge that usually entails xmas day. Upon pulling into my family home driveway this morning, i switched my mood from 'fuck xmas' to 'think happy thoughts, dont burp, dont yell, smile smile smile SMILE' and succeeded not only in getting a warm reception and welcome upon entry, but also only minimal sly bitchy remarks about the state of my face/hair/toenails/lower back/instep/earlobes or any other tiny judgeable facet of my being. Entering Wogsville without a barrage of insults and comments felt strangely foreign. Maybe my fam had bitched themselves down to zero pre to my arrival, and simply ran out of things to attack me about?
Sweet by me.
The second shock came when i gazed upon the christmas tree, and was stunned by the pitifully understocked present pile beneath. Gone are the days when bowed-boxes and pleasantly-packaged-parcels littered several square metres of the lounge room. No longer is the process of handing out presents as time consuming and tedious as colour-coordinating my neatly folded underwear (yeah i get it, i'm a sick freak, sorry.) receiving a grand total of 4 xmas cards, and one present (being a block of chocolate. oh how lovely) i have a feeling that our family is in serious need of a bit more xmas cheer. Well, considering my lack of contribution to the already miniscule pile of gifts (did someone say slack?) i really haven't the right to speak. Well, here's to next xmas, may i bathe in an ocean of gifts, knoose myself in wire-rimmed bows and adhere myself to countless strips of sticky tape.
Speaking of packs and parcels, my self-gifted xmas gift was by far the icing on this heavy, fruit-filled christmas cake (ew.) Drum Original (Dark Blue, YES still rollies..reow.) Opting for a darker hue of blue, and thus richer? heavier? stronger? flavour, Drum Original delivers as well if not better as their younger brother, Light Blue. With just as much smoothness, and an additional kick, Original caresses me from tit to toe in one gentle sweep, with me moaning all the way. hm. Ho Ho Ho.. ...
Attractiveness of Pack- These have a leg up on light blues, as i prefer a darker navy blue colour to the pissyish light carribean sky clear ocean minty gel toothpaste blue of the light babies. Design-wise they are identical, let me award 4 out of 5 malignant tumours, bonus points for the seductive allure of the midnight blue colouring.
Smoothness and Flavour- More flavourful than their buddy Light blues, though equally as smooth, with a delectably gentle buzz. Their almost therapeutic quality gives me a chance to sigh and relax, knowing full well that i am sucking on the best. hm. 4.5 out of 5.
Burning Time- As i have already made crystal clear, the DIY nature of these gems means that the choice is ultimately and entirely in your own hands. Pissy pussy skinny bitch or a big phat one, you determine the fate of your next fag. The choice gives you a sense of freedom previously only exprerienced on the last day of School, or the time you decided it would be fun to go skinny dipping. yarm. 5 out of 5. Flawless and free.
Lingering Taste- Hangs on and on like the smell of last nights' "what the HELL was i drinking?" on your favourite dress. Still, has the same bitter aftertaste of sour shit after a considerable amount of time. Of course nothing another fag or, heaven forbid, a piece of gum couldnt heal, but still becomes a little frusterating- No one likes feeling like they've just sucked on a turd. Still, 4 out of 5, as the bitterness does little to shadow the fact that these babies rock my world. I'd really like to take them lying down.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR DRUM DARK BLUE-4.5 ish? yeah. a smashing result from a cigarette i like smashing.
Well, with a sombre start to the morning (cleaning out my handbag. and holy shit i have never seen such filth in one place (except for at the One on any given saturday night, of course), i actually cant comprehend how 3 pairs of undies, 2 bras and 1 swimmer bottom can float undetected in the void-like depths of my bag for so long!?) and the prospect of driving up to Vegas, continuing my attack on my room and all my possessions, attempting to cram them orderedly into Colin, driving his fat ass somewhere and unloading, boom, i sort of wish i had 17 arms and a pretty powerful cyborg-like half brother to help me with the lifting. Ah well, you cant have everything you want eh...
Putting a spin on the term Boxing Day, i shall be filling boxes and boxes with utter and pure crap, because my hoarding nature does not allow me to part with anything.. the phrase 'oh, i might need it one day' is disgracefully overthought in my mind. Yes, i need help. And i'm talking $100/hr seriously intense psychotherapy. Oh Oh. OH.
I will leave you here, the promise of battling the boxing day crowds on the roads, becoming yet another xmas holiday fatality, or even possibly finally being nabbed for my relentless and careless speeding really has me rushing for my car keys, dashing for Colin, hand out the window farwell to the fam, and onwards, ever onwards, rolling a faggy with tender fingers as i teeter on the edge of death whilst steering with my knees.
Till death do us part,
M.
XX
Sweet by me.
The second shock came when i gazed upon the christmas tree, and was stunned by the pitifully understocked present pile beneath. Gone are the days when bowed-boxes and pleasantly-packaged-parcels littered several square metres of the lounge room. No longer is the process of handing out presents as time consuming and tedious as colour-coordinating my neatly folded underwear (yeah i get it, i'm a sick freak, sorry.) receiving a grand total of 4 xmas cards, and one present (being a block of chocolate. oh how lovely) i have a feeling that our family is in serious need of a bit more xmas cheer. Well, considering my lack of contribution to the already miniscule pile of gifts (did someone say slack?) i really haven't the right to speak. Well, here's to next xmas, may i bathe in an ocean of gifts, knoose myself in wire-rimmed bows and adhere myself to countless strips of sticky tape.
Speaking of packs and parcels, my self-gifted xmas gift was by far the icing on this heavy, fruit-filled christmas cake (ew.) Drum Original (Dark Blue, YES still rollies..reow.) Opting for a darker hue of blue, and thus richer? heavier? stronger? flavour, Drum Original delivers as well if not better as their younger brother, Light Blue. With just as much smoothness, and an additional kick, Original caresses me from tit to toe in one gentle sweep, with me moaning all the way. hm. Ho Ho Ho.. ...
Attractiveness of Pack- These have a leg up on light blues, as i prefer a darker navy blue colour to the pissyish light carribean sky clear ocean minty gel toothpaste blue of the light babies. Design-wise they are identical, let me award 4 out of 5 malignant tumours, bonus points for the seductive allure of the midnight blue colouring.
Smoothness and Flavour- More flavourful than their buddy Light blues, though equally as smooth, with a delectably gentle buzz. Their almost therapeutic quality gives me a chance to sigh and relax, knowing full well that i am sucking on the best. hm. 4.5 out of 5.
Burning Time- As i have already made crystal clear, the DIY nature of these gems means that the choice is ultimately and entirely in your own hands. Pissy pussy skinny bitch or a big phat one, you determine the fate of your next fag. The choice gives you a sense of freedom previously only exprerienced on the last day of School, or the time you decided it would be fun to go skinny dipping. yarm. 5 out of 5. Flawless and free.
Lingering Taste- Hangs on and on like the smell of last nights' "what the HELL was i drinking?" on your favourite dress. Still, has the same bitter aftertaste of sour shit after a considerable amount of time. Of course nothing another fag or, heaven forbid, a piece of gum couldnt heal, but still becomes a little frusterating- No one likes feeling like they've just sucked on a turd. Still, 4 out of 5, as the bitterness does little to shadow the fact that these babies rock my world. I'd really like to take them lying down.
AVERAGE SCORE FOR DRUM DARK BLUE-4.5 ish? yeah. a smashing result from a cigarette i like smashing.
Well, with a sombre start to the morning (cleaning out my handbag. and holy shit i have never seen such filth in one place (except for at the One on any given saturday night, of course), i actually cant comprehend how 3 pairs of undies, 2 bras and 1 swimmer bottom can float undetected in the void-like depths of my bag for so long!?) and the prospect of driving up to Vegas, continuing my attack on my room and all my possessions, attempting to cram them orderedly into Colin, driving his fat ass somewhere and unloading, boom, i sort of wish i had 17 arms and a pretty powerful cyborg-like half brother to help me with the lifting. Ah well, you cant have everything you want eh...
Putting a spin on the term Boxing Day, i shall be filling boxes and boxes with utter and pure crap, because my hoarding nature does not allow me to part with anything.. the phrase 'oh, i might need it one day' is disgracefully overthought in my mind. Yes, i need help. And i'm talking $100/hr seriously intense psychotherapy. Oh Oh. OH.
I will leave you here, the promise of battling the boxing day crowds on the roads, becoming yet another xmas holiday fatality, or even possibly finally being nabbed for my relentless and careless speeding really has me rushing for my car keys, dashing for Colin, hand out the window farwell to the fam, and onwards, ever onwards, rolling a faggy with tender fingers as i teeter on the edge of death whilst steering with my knees.
Till death do us part,
M.
XX
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About Me
- iamafag
- i am usually noisy. unless i'm asleep. then i'm a little less noisy. i like smoking. i also enjoy coffee. i'm a bag of cliche`s you've just got to have.