Okay, I’m not sure this deserves a post, but here goes:

I approve spam comments. I was mildly amused at myself when I realised I do it. Thinking about it, I have decided that I have three main reasons.

First and foremost, I freakin’ love it when I get a comment. HELLO POPULARITY. I feel like the reincarnation of Jesus. Reading the uberly complimentary comments that most spammers seem to like to use makes me feel absolutely brilliant. I want to dance and sing and hug my pet cat, because someone out there thinks that I’m awesome. *bigheadedmoron*

Also, my mind-blowing sense of humour has alerted me that it is incredibly funny when you write something totally non-serious and full of bullcrap *cough* Shopping Trolleys Are The Spawn Of Satan *cough*, and you get a spam comment telling you how amazingly intelligent and well-educated you are.

“I’m impressed, I must say. Really rarely do I encounter a blog that’s both educative and entertaining, and let me tell you, you have hit the nail on the head. Your idea is outstanding; the issue is something that not enough people are speaking intelligently about. I am very happy that I stumbled across this in my search for something relating to this.”

A comment on a previous post. Really, I found that hilarious. That’s probably just me. But still, when I read it, I felt like a superhero. Thank you, strange religious spamming website.

Lastly, I want to ask a question. How does a spam blocking application know that it’s blocking spam? What if someone out there genuinely wants to compliment me to death and just happens to have the username ‘BUY MY PRODUCTS’? (okay, two questions) The very thought of myself deleting a genuine comment made me feel like Satan (not good) and therefore I had no choice in the matter. It had to be approved. All of them, always, had to be approved.

So, spammers, I bet you get a lot of hate, but personally, I think you are awesome. And if there really are non-spammer people out there complimenting me, I love you.

So, take heed! Comments are my favourite things. And whenever I get a comment, I dance and sing and hug my cat. *beggingforattention*

Go on, James will love you. (Yes, that’s my cat’s name.)


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.

So, the first day of Summer, and since 12 o’clock yesterday, we’ve been free to do whatever the hell we want. People seem to be getting quite excited. I, however, am really not.

That is how boring I have managed to become. I have 7 weeks of freedom ahead of me, and I don’t really want them. What the hell am I going to do to occupy myself for 7 weeks? I’ve no social life and no hobbies. Also, I hay-fever, and eczema, which is irritated by grass and flowers and all those summery things, so in my opinion, Summer can go fuck itself.

So, I think I would like some sort of long-term project. Very much open to suggestions, although i don’t see myself getting any. I’m tempted to do one of those ridiculous 30 Day Challenge things that are so popular on the inter-webs. Or I might play The Lying Down Game to pro level, and keep you lucky readers updated.

That’s something I’ve been meaning to mention actually – The Lying Down Game. The absolute best game on the planet. I mean, come on, combination of lying down, and amusement. I see no flaws in this. I see a few innuendos, but no flaws. Apart from that guy who died, that was unfortunate… But yeah, other than that, epic win.

Now, the important thing about The Lying Down Game is that it is absolutely under no circumstances to ever be called Planking. It is not called Planking. It will never be called Planking. Anyone who refers to it as Planking is an idiot. If you’re play The Lying Down Game and shout ‘look, I’m Planking’, you are not cool. Please, God, stop.

So besides death/job loss/idiots calling it ‘planking’, The Lying Down Game is the way forward. It really is. I think I probably will devote a majority of my holiday to playing it. I know you probably think I am two years too late, but I ensure you, this shit is eternal. Here is my favourite example found on the inter-webs.

Mind. Blown.

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.

I fucking hate Facebook. I hate it, with all my heart and soul. The entire website just makes me want to jump around like a maniac with frustration and anger. Grr.


‘What’s wrong with Facebook?’, I hear you ask. What’s right with Facebook? NOTHING. Every single thing that Facebook does is shit. Everything. And it doesn’t even do it’s shit things properly. 

Why are they always trying to fix things, consequently making them even worse? Leave your shit website as it is! Just as you get used to how SHITE the chat function is, they change it, to something even more shit.

Also, it’s always covered from top to bottom in advertisements. I don’t give a fuck who’s better out of Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner, stop asking me. I don’t give a fuck if Next is having a 0.00005% off sale on purple-polka dot crocs.

The advert that really takes the ‘i am an arsehole’ cake though, is the one that is an explicit lie. ‘Amy! These friends have tried this app!’ …

Me: Have you tried this app?

Friend: No.


You know what else I don’t give a fuck about? ‘*insert name here* found a lost sheep on their farm!’ I DON’T CARE. I don’t want to play Farmville, I don’t want to ‘adopt a sheep’. Why is Facebook always screaming at me about abandoned virtual sheep? FUCK OFF.

Well, it is.

My entire homepage is made up of advertisements, lost sheep, and whiney people complaining about everything (hurray for being a hypocrite). Oh, and girls with big hair and faces dipped in make-up, standing in their bathrooms, taking photos of themselves.

Why do these girls think that a photograph, of yourself, with your toilet, is cool? It isn’t. And I don’t want to see your crappy pictures so fuck off posting them every 5 minutes. Also, don’t comment on your own photo, of yourself, which you’ve clearly spent fucking ages taking, saying ‘i’m so ugly’. If you’re so ugly, don’t take the god forsaken photograph. And definitely don’t post it so that I have to look at it.

But the thing that really gets me, is that I can’t stop using it! If I haven’t checked Facebook in a while, I feel like I must have missed something important. So I check the homepage. Over and over again. You know what happens? NOTHING. More lost animals/advertisements/slags/whiny faggots. There is never anything worth seeing.

Well, occasionally, something happens that is interesting (interesting in the mildest form of interesting imaginable). For example, the whiny slaggy people will argue over something. Or a relationship ends. Or someone gets fired because of something they’ve posted. So Facebook causes arguments, ends relationships and creates unemployment.

Facebook Creates Hobos.

The only thing Facebook is good for is stalking people. And being good for stalking people, isn’t all that good. There’s also the whole paedophile thing. Y’know, people with cyber-fear that think every on the internet is a middle-aged man in a trench coat, craving after 12 year old girls.

Facebook is only good for paedophiles, stalkers, whiny slags, and players of Farmville. I’d say that’s a bad thing. And if you disagree, you’re one of the above listed, and therefore not entitled to an opinion…

You know what? Get Google+. You know why? It’s like Facebook, but it’s NOT FACEBOOK. And it has circles. Who doesn’t love that? Like Facebook groups, but circular, and NOT FACEBOOK. And they actually work. Unlike Facebook.

%d bloggers like this: