So I happened upon an ex-boyfriend's blog yesterday. I know it's my ex-boyfriend because there is a picture of him. With his eyes freakishly close together. I don't remember them being that close together but love, I have learned from the comfortably safe distance of hindsight, is totally blind.
Honestly. I have made some strange choices in my life. And I have no idea why. This particular boyfriend has absolutely no redeeming feature - he's not clever (and I do clever in a BIG way). He's super mega-fugly (and I can like to like all kinds of sexiness). Oh, he's not sexy. And also - you know that redeeming feature that some ugly guys have that I would definitely not discuss on this blog for fear of Mother/Father/(worse still)Brother reading? Well he lacked that. So. Huge. Style. It. Wasn't. Even. Real.
Yawn.
Nope. Geek Ex-Boyfriend With Perm was (and judging by putridly inane contents of his blog, remains) all kinds of unPanty-ness on so many levels.
Now, I don't mean to be unkind, but I don't really care about this individual. I would rather (I swear) wake up next to... ummmm.... who's really siff? A simpleton who eats his own eye goop. But I thought that, at least, someone - anyone - would care enough about this person to tell him the truth about his ramblings.
There's no one out there. And so I've taken it upon myself to do some charity work. You know, help those in need. I'm a kind person, after all.
Dear Geek Ex-Boyfriend with Perm,
What was I thinking?
And, pal, seriously. What's with the blog?
There's a little function in the English language called "grammar". This compromises of little lines and dots called "punctuation marks". These "punctuation marks" help separate ideas and thoughts. And they also help readers decipher what the eff you are trying to say.
Oh, and also. Blog about something interesting.
If you can.
Yours (never ever ever ever ever ever again)
Panty.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Wine-Free Wax Session: Fail.
I have a friend. No, that's not the end of my story. But this friend, who we'll call Friend for the purposes of this blog, popped in this afternoon.
Friend: Hi, was just in the area. Thought I'd pop in and say hi.
The Pant: You live in the, ahem, area. You're bound to find yourself in this particular area at least daily. And why are you sprinting to the microwave with a wax kit under your arm?
F: Need wax. Haven't waxed since December. (Peering in the fridge, with rising panic in voice) And where's the effing wine?
TP: Alcohol/Meat/Sugar/Chocolate/Starch/Fun-free diet. You're going under unanaesthetised.
F: Bloody hell. Shit. But why?
TP: Don't ask. Just strip.
And so there I was, spreading molten wax onto Friend, when she shrieked.
Friend: Bloody hell. Cheese and rice. Crikey effing Moses. That's going to blister!
The Pant: I know it's been a while. But that is how one removes unwanted hair from the body. And you chose to do this without wine. Me? I'm on a wax-free diet until I'm off the wine-free diet.
She chose to continue. And just as I was about to rip one of the more intricate strips off, she yelped:
Friend: Don't. It's still moist.
I feel sick. And dirty. I made her rip her own strip off and sent her home.
And not even a glass of wine to calm my own nerves.
Shitballs.
Friend: Hi, was just in the area. Thought I'd pop in and say hi.
The Pant: You live in the, ahem, area. You're bound to find yourself in this particular area at least daily. And why are you sprinting to the microwave with a wax kit under your arm?
F: Need wax. Haven't waxed since December. (Peering in the fridge, with rising panic in voice) And where's the effing wine?
TP: Alcohol/Meat/Sugar/Chocolate/Starch/Fun-free diet. You're going under unanaesthetised.
F: Bloody hell. Shit. But why?
TP: Don't ask. Just strip.
And so there I was, spreading molten wax onto Friend, when she shrieked.
Friend: Bloody hell. Cheese and rice. Crikey effing Moses. That's going to blister!
The Pant: I know it's been a while. But that is how one removes unwanted hair from the body. And you chose to do this without wine. Me? I'm on a wax-free diet until I'm off the wine-free diet.
She chose to continue. And just as I was about to rip one of the more intricate strips off, she yelped:
Friend: Don't. It's still moist.
I feel sick. And dirty. I made her rip her own strip off and sent her home.
And not even a glass of wine to calm my own nerves.
Shitballs.
Diets. Sucky.
There's a reason I've never been on a diet - that is until my ultra skinny BF (my people) somehow managed to coerce me into Cleansing Whatever Organ It Is That Makes Gall Stones Detoxification (Sick) (Effing) Diet. And the reason is simple: Diets suck. Huge anus.
I don't think I need to diet. Sure, there's a little extra post-Christmas-demise-of-post-break-up-anorexia padding that could be shed. But I'm okay with it. I've never had to give up fat/meat/liquor/sugar in tea/chocolate/bread/potatoes/fun to do it. I've always relied on the rhythmical cycle of heartbreak to keep me in shape.
But when The BF, my people (skinny as a Monday is long) told me that this particular diet would ensure decreased severity in hangovers, I signed up within two shakes of a dog's lipstick.
And now I'm fed the eff up.
I have to drink a litre of apple juice a day. No mean feat, I hear you say. Try it. It's like having constant cotton mouth.
And I have to drink olive oil and lemon juice in the mornings. Which is not the worst part. True, the coating of tongue, teeth and cheeks in oil is fairly revolting. But the cutting out of kiff food is far more of a challenge.
I'm certainly not looking forward to the Epsom Salts. At all.
Tonight we're eating brown rice and butter beans. Without the butter, of course. And I ordinarily wouldn't mind a meal like this. But today I really effing mind. With all of my human merely being.
All I want is warm white bread, straight from the oven, slathered in butter. Chased down by a robust red. Only because I'm not allowed it.
Bugger.
I don't think I need to diet. Sure, there's a little extra post-Christmas-demise-of-post-break-up-anorexia padding that could be shed. But I'm okay with it. I've never had to give up fat/meat/liquor/sugar in tea/chocolate/bread/potatoes/fun to do it. I've always relied on the rhythmical cycle of heartbreak to keep me in shape.
But when The BF, my people (skinny as a Monday is long) told me that this particular diet would ensure decreased severity in hangovers, I signed up within two shakes of a dog's lipstick.
And now I'm fed the eff up.
I have to drink a litre of apple juice a day. No mean feat, I hear you say. Try it. It's like having constant cotton mouth.
And I have to drink olive oil and lemon juice in the mornings. Which is not the worst part. True, the coating of tongue, teeth and cheeks in oil is fairly revolting. But the cutting out of kiff food is far more of a challenge.
I'm certainly not looking forward to the Epsom Salts. At all.
Tonight we're eating brown rice and butter beans. Without the butter, of course. And I ordinarily wouldn't mind a meal like this. But today I really effing mind. With all of my human merely being.
All I want is warm white bread, straight from the oven, slathered in butter. Chased down by a robust red. Only because I'm not allowed it.
Bugger.
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