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