I have had a bad day.

So I just watched The Human Centipede. Yeah, I know, 2 years after everyone else. Whatever. Today, I felt sufficiently fucked in the head, and made myself watch it. I figured it was a generally bad plan and I would hate it. But I liked that, and so, I watched it.

Biggest disappointment of my life. Here I am, waiting for the emotional trauma and mental scarring, and you know what? IT WAS BLOODY BORING. Why take a film that has so much opportunity to be downright horrific and leave it at borderline horrific?


You ruined my night, writer of The Human Centipede. You’re just not fucked up enough. Sure, the concept is a bit weird. Maybe even a lot weird. But it could have been so much more weird! Not weird enough. Sadface.

Have to admit though, Dieter Laser’s performance as Dr. Heiter is preeeettty good. Really got that mad scientist thing going down. Proper psychopath mad scientist, not weirdly attractive eccentrically dressed scientist. Though you probably got that part from the whole ‘sewing people together at the ass’ thing.


So, the training of the centipede. Heiter’s attempt to train the creature as a dog was downright freaky. Really lets you into the psycho’s mind. Seeing more into his head would have been better, but this gave you a bit of a look. Which is good.

The ending has its perks aswell. *SPOILERS* Heiter’s death: brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Kudos to him. Being trapped forever and ever with a dead person’s ass in your face and your dead best friend attached to youuur ass: pretty sick.

Should have made more scenes like that, and less scenes like ‘oh dear, I’m pretty and American and I’m going to run around aimlessly in this house’. It seemed not enough of the movie properly played with the concept, or was gory/horrific/scarring enough.

Seriously, going back to drag your unconscious friend? You freakin’ idiot. Scenes going on foreevvverrr of really, really slow crawling? Give me a break.

Don’t get me wrong, I get the whole ‘less is more’ idea. I just prefer ‘more is more’. Basically, not satisfied, but still very much interested. Hopefully the (uncut!) sequel, in all it’s banned-from-the-UK glory, is more impressive.

It seems I raised my expectations too high and consequently watched them crash and burn. Don’t believe the hype.

Also, it rained this morning. Some water fell from a gutter onto myself and my toast, which wasn’t cool. (sadface about the toast)


OH MY GOD. I hate people who think they are photographers. I’m sorry. I just hate you. Y U SO GAY?!

This is basically a continuation of my last post, hating on that old guy spending the entirety of The Subway’s set on Facebook. There are so, so many things wrong there. Ew.

Okay so, The Kooks on Monday (omfgtheywassogood) got off to a horrific start, queueing next to what I can only describe as fangirls. Like myself, but louder and squeaker. *facepalm* Really, these were the worst people I have ever encountered. Also, some guy in the queue, in a green overcoat, appeared to be ‘fixing me with the mesmer-stare’ (see below). URGH.

The Mesmer Stare In All It's Glory

Horrible image quality but the best the interweb offered me. If you haven’t seen that man before, get the hell off my page, bro.

So yeah, creeeeepy.

Things got better after that. The support were amazing, and then there was Luke Pritchard. HI HI. Amazingly amazing. And there were these amazingly Canadian guys I grew fond of in 5 seconds flat. (hi hi!) HOWEVER, the amazingly amazing amazingness was destroyed. And it was destroyed by (dun-dun-duuuuuuun) a middle-aged woman with a goddamn camera.

U R G H. Why, why, why? Watching the band through air > watching the band through camera screen. YOU COULD DO THAT AT HOME BRO. So yeah, this woman was a bloody retard. She threw her drink over my little sister, then proceeded to throw herself around while taking photographs of herself so that it looked as if she was being really ‘hip’ at a really ‘hip’ musical event with a really ‘hip’ band.

'Hip'. Oh yes, I was there.

But they weren’t even playing. And she elbowed me in the jaw.

And it was after encountering this lady person, that I realised how annoying it is when people in crowds take pictures. Every camera I saw in that room from that moment forward sent me into angry spasms. How am I meant to get my boogie on (hellyeah) when you’re waving your photographic circuit board in my face? Just fuck off.

And so, following the events at The Subways, I report that at The Kooks, I renounced the sacredness of the barrier for the glory of the mosh-pit. Despite this, I still encountered weird old people, and now was faced with the evil that is photographers in the crowd. D I E.

Whenever I see a camera now, I curl up in a ball and cry.

I am very, very, very ill. I couldn’t be more ill if I tried. I’m sneezing and everything. *achoo*

I hate being ill. It makes me angry about everything. And now, I have lost my voice. Picture this : My angry little face, turning purple. My mouth opening to spew out mild obscenities. And nothing comes out. I can’t take it anymore. I need therapy. I need a new game to tackle. Anything.

Right now, I am at school, spreading my minion germs throughout the social scum that are those at Ashington High School. Not sure why I’ve been put in front of this computer but yeah, there’s not much else going on in the interwebs. So hi.

I haven’t got much to complain about today. Everything is equally bad, evil, satan-ish and my life is generally full of the mundane and the confusing.

Something I would like to point out though, is that if you aren’t interested in a band, you do not belong on the barrier in a music venue. After spending 5 hours crushed up against a middle-aged, sweaty man, who had no apparent reason to be there. at a gig, I have become a barrier hater. He spent the whole time, on Facebook. What the hell? Aswell as Mr Sweaty, was an equally sweaty security bloke. Who, although he had the whole barrier to stand against, spent the whole time IN MAH FACE. The entire thing was sufficiently ruined. The only reason I didn’t just die there and then was the presence of a one Billy Lunn. William. Yummy.

My one and only forever, with two mongs.

So the next time I find myself in a crowd of sweaty music fans, I’m not going to bother fighting off angry goths to establish a good barrier position. It’s not worth it. It’s so damn hard to get up there, at the front. A sign of power and superiority. Only the very best find the way there. So why was I surrounded by middle-aged people on Sunday night? BAH.

Some short, fat lady wearing a crucifix was literally fighting my little sister for a spot. What’s going on, old people? What are you trying to prove? It’s all good though because she got a good elbow in the face and disappeared into the oblivion of the crowd.

I think the old people are plotting against us, fellow ‘yobs’. I fear a war is at hand. I will report back Monday night, on the state of the crowd in the o2 academy. If my one and only Luke Pritchard is being licked and stroked by middle-aged men, I will declare war. Officially. It’s just not cool.


Oh jeez, I’m struggling for the words to even begin to tell you how much hatred I am feeling right now.

The absolute highest height of all frustration. Beyond anything the rubik’s cube ever offered. Beyond anything people who walk slowly ever offered. A whole new level of evil.

So, here’s a scenario for you:

You are partaking in some sort of traditional dancing to some sort of high-tempo techno music. Seeing as you are dancing as wildly and energetically as I would, you begin to tire. You find yourself thinking about the condensation that is gathering on your ice-cold bottle of Dr Pepper in your hyper-modern portable fridge freezer. You fantasize uncontrollably about the sweet, sweet taste of the caffeinated, sugar-filled goodness. You are absolutely dying for a drink, basically.

So, you want a drink. You get out your drink. You stare lovingly at it for a split-second, and turn the lid. Turn. The. Lid.

Holy crap, why the holy smegging hell won’t my smegging bottle smegging open.

You find yourself in the most frustrating situation ever. It’s right there. LIQUID. You find you’ve never wanted anything more than to get into the bottle. You have to have it.

And the goddamn bottle top is too selfish and stubborn to get the hell out of your way. It sits there between you and happiness, laughing in your face.  I hate that little bastard.

The purpose of a bottle top is to keep a bottle closed. That’s all it has to do, sit there. Until, one day, someone like you comes along, wishing to quench their thirst. Then, the big moment. The one thing a bottle top is required to do other than sit around on top of a bottle.

Get the holy fuck off of the bottle.


Look at him, and his evil little pink eyes.  He thinks he’s so smart, keeping the contents of your bottle all to himself. He ain’t moving. Well, you know what’s funny? If you tie an elastic band around a bottle top, you can open it with ease. Like takin’ candy from a baby. (Oh, how I have longed to say that.) You, Mr Bottle Top With Pink Eyes, are a goner.


Ha, he didn’t like that.

URGH. I mean really, urgh. I despise the little bastards. They are big and scary and horrible. Life on earth is  ‘beautiful’? Seriously? Moths?


That is one ugly creature of evil. What the heck is going on with it’s head? Again: URGH. If I had to choose something to wipe out that wasn’t the human race, I think I’ve found it. Just, ew.

What I really hate, though, is the invasion of personal space. Why is my house full of moths?! They just won’t leave me alone. Every corner I turn, there is a whopping great moth in my face.

And make no mistake, they are always in your face. With the manic flapping of the wings and the manic thinking everything is the moon… Oh my gosh, it’s the moon! … No, Mr Moth, that would be my face.

Why do they like the moon so much anyway? It’s a giant chunk of rock in the sky. LET IT GO.

Moths are just butterflies with extra Satan. And I really hate butterflies.

And another thing: they eat clothes. I’m hardly fashionable, but I don’t want some little smegger eating my clothes. Imagine you had a signed t-shirt. Imagine it was signed by, I don’t know, Derren Brown. Now imagine an insect of evil and fluffy-antennae chewed away at the signature.


Not to mention the sad truths of evolution…


That’s right, one day, we will be surrounded by ridiculously large moths with the ability to shoot lasers from their bulging eye-balls.

There’s just nothing good about moths. They’re furry in a bad way, like bees. They vibrate. That’s just wrong. They attack innocent faces. Bad. They attack innocent faces in the shower. Bad and wrong. They suck up rotting fruit through their tongue, which is a tube. Wrong.

Some people believe moths are lost souls eternally trying to find heaven. What the holy smeg? WRONG.

Some people believe moths mean bad luck, and for some reason, that they bring mean letters. A little bit weird, but still: BAD.

I heard a story once about a moth flying directly into someone’s ear and remaining there flapping it’s wings until said person saw a doctor about hearing noises, and was presented with a dead moth from inside of their ear. *cringe*. Bad and wrong and downright disgusting.

So last night, I’m sitting around in my room, nerding-out and a huge-ass mo-fo moth decides the place to be is in my bedroom. I freak. It goes for my face. I freak more. But the absolute final straw? It goes for my tv. And sits directly on the  face of Link. That, my friend, is not cool.

There's A What On My Face?!

Moths are servants of Ganondorf! What more do you want?! Go all extinction on their tiny little asses!

Sadly, my delicate and loving nature meant that squishing the bitch was out of the question. So, I grabbed a glass I had been drinking from and trapped it. While rewarding myself for my quick-thinking and trapping skills, however, the moth spazzed out, and managed to get it’s enormous and terrifying wings all stuck in left-over Dr Pepper.

I swear it did it on purpose. It died. I’m going to hell.

So, a little way into Summer (I have no idea what day it is), and I seem to be an incomprehensible mess of boredom, loneliness and vacancy of thought.

I am currently lying on my bed, staring longingly at Kurt Cobain, who is stapled to my ceiling. A poster depicting his god-like face, that is, not actually him. And he’s godlike in attractiveness, not long-white-beard-like-Santa-ness.

See what I mean, I can’t even construct a statement without confusing myself. And being confused about stapling Santa to the ceiling is not cool. The only thing I can think of that is less cool, is Derren Brown being gay. How could something like that happen :”'( I hate everything. *cries forever and ever*

I definitely do not want to talk about it. *stabs self with fork* *dies*

Okay I’m going to talk about it. Thanks to the pure evil that is the internet, I am no longer entirely sure that Derren Brown is straight. The more I try to find an answer, the more confused I become. Google, why do you hate me so?

Please, someone, tell me my soulmate is not bent?

So far this summer, I have done absolutely smeg all. And for the rest of summer, I plan to do absolutely smeg all. And now, I will do smeg all while possibly having to be grieving the best relationship Derren will never have…

OMFGZ I smegging hate this smegging game *angerangerhate* … LINK GODDAMMIT. Spending 2 hours continuously failing to grab a rope is not cool. Damn pirates. Yeah, really.

This post does have a purpose besides expressing my inner turmoil, however. Today, as well as being the day on which I got the most views ever, I got my SECOND SUBSCRIBER. *jizz in my pants*. So yeah, shout out to you, my tree-hugging companion.

I have dedicated a post to you. Does this make up for the years of  ‘battering and abuse’ ? 😉 Well, perhaps it would do a better job if the post was not about my heart being smashed into tiny little pieces by the words ‘Derren Brown’s Boyfriend’. I would write about you, but I suppose you would punch me in the face or something, so I will refrain.

Also, while I am here, something you poor, desperate readers have been deprived of in my absence. My favourite thing.

A photo of the babe himself.

That is one nice picture. I can’t even describe that. We’re definitely getting married. He loves me really. I know he does.

I am currently blogging on my phone. Not even sure if that works. But I’m standing in the bathrooms at school, amongst a bunch of girls I neither know, nor wish to know. So I’m trying to disappear into my phone. It’s not really working.

-5 Minutes Later –

And now, the bell has gone, and I’m standing outside what I believe is my next class. Noone’s here. Either everyone’s dead or I’m missing something here. Starting to suspect the apocalypse. Oh well.

-15 Minutes Later- 

A-Ha! It’s IT. Which is similar to the apocalypse.

This morning has been absolutely awful. It’s chucking it outside, and i walked all the way here on my own. Some tit full on splashed a puddle straight up my skirt aswell, Bridget Jones style. Not happy at all.

-15 More Minutes Later-

OMFG. It’s a bloody good job that this shit works on my phone because the faggots that run IT have smegging blocked me from editting posts. They’ve also blocked anything to do with … *cries with anguish*.

For some reason beyond my understanding my phone is typing in capitals. It’s really really annoying me now. Ew, hate everything. Yeah, that’s how I’m feeling today.

This is probably the worst blog I’ve ever written. I HATE THE WORLD.

-Later on-

I’d like to apologise for the pathetic attempt at structure/grammar to this blog. I think I’ll refrain from blogging on my phone from now on. That was an experiment that I will deem a failure, and there will be no repeats, except in exceptional circumstances. I’m sorry readers, I have failed you.

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