Five for the price of one

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Sex is... eluding me.

For a number of months – that I think I’ll refrain from divulging at this point – my life has been depressingly sexless. Mournfully sexless. Like I’ve unwittingly taken a vow of celibacy and some deity has been feeling particularly vindictive, my cup instead has runneth over with nausea, mind-squeezing headaches, a five month period, and of COURSE, the apparently ubiquitous inability to unclench long enough to enjoy myself.

*selection of expletives and screams*

Metaphorical blood is shooting out of my ears like a power hose.

And my hair just hates moisture in the air, of course. Makes it frizz something terrible.

*insane laughter*

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Oh, Bear Grylls, you are the missing key to my anorexia!

In your seemingly relentless pursuit to eat your way through all the reptile, insect and arthropod families, as well as your apparent penchant for raw meat and fish, you have successfully put me off food for the remainder of my natural life.

Watching you squeeze and drink the water from elephant’s dung, from the semi-digested contents of a camel’s stomach and even your own urine out of a handy snakeskin has turned my stomach over so thoroughly that it seems to have shrivelled away to date-like proportions. Alas, I fear you may take this the wrong way, but let me be the first to assure you that I am extremely appreciative of this service you have provided me

And so, I dedicate my visible hipbones to you, Mr Grylls

Bravo.

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That is, apart from this evening, where I crammed so much food down into my stomach, I feared I might burst at a seam and spray a revolting lumpy combination of two slices of Dominos pizza, an obscene amount of Kellogs Honey Nut Cornflakes with over a pint of milk and three heaped tablespoons of brown sugar, two packets of Quavers and three Kit-Kats all over my boyfriend and our room surrounding us.

In and out in under an hour though, I mean, I’m almost impressed.

Almost.

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And HERE, further evidence that Croydon should be burnt off the surface of England. Surgically removed, then the surrounding area cauterized so that nothing may ever grow there again.

Well done love.

*applauds*

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And now, for something completely fucking awesome.

My local Lush branch, in conjunction the release of a snazzy new Chameleon themed bath ballistic, are throwing a Chameleon party during store hours this weekend. There’s also a campaign by the APA against the capturing wild animals for use as pets in the west, in this case the Chameleon. Many die in transit, or die within the first year of attempted domestication apparently. Whatever.

About the cause, I am less than moved.

If I were any less interested, I might pass out.

What flutters my stomach is that I have been asked to provide face painting services for the two days. To be paid in a large bag of Lush goodies.

*shrill noise of excitement*

I absolutely fucking ADORE Lush products. For me, a bath isn’t truly a bath without bubbles and the addition of glitter.

And it’s a great opportunity to get some basic makeup artistry experience before my course starts in January. AND it MAY hopefully lead to a job working there until mid-December.

Naturally, I’m compartmentalising my nervousness and fear, but in a small cupboard in the back of my mind I am a screaming babbling mess cowering in fear of all the ways this could possibly go wrong. From me simply fucking up completely to somehow triggering a meteor strike.

But if I plan for every possible eventuality, nothing can go wrong, right?

RIGHT?

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