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May 2007

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Random Acts of Kindness

May 29, 2007


My very virtuous mother recently lectured me on the value of performing random acts of kindness for those around you. This is in order to “cleanse the soul,” and ultimately “be saved,” as she so eloquently put it. Under normal circumstances I would have ignored this advice, preferring instead to continue on my journey toward complete self-destruction. However, burdened with the guilt of a particularly sinful week (sex, drugs, excessive masturbation, the accidental killing of a cat, etc) I thought, why not give some kindness a try?

Last Tuesday started out like any normal day (i.e. uneventful and ultimately pointless). While waiting for my laundry to be done, I decided to go for a stroll in a nearby park. Once there I fell into a particularly vulgar conversation with a middle-aged Turkish man. I have to admit, I have a weird affection for arbitrary sleaziness with complete strangers. I tend to engage anyone who makes even the slightest pass at me—normally because my life is so fucking boring that I have nothing better to do.

“You’re very sexy,” purred the man as I walked by him, running his hairy fingers through his long, greasy hair.

“Thanks,” I smiled seductively. “You too.”

“You wanna go out with me sometime baby?” He was walking with a severe swagger, as if one of his legs were shorter than the other.

“Yeah, maybe…” I lied. (Always maintain a flicker of hope.)

“I’d really like to fuck you,” he groaned. “I’ve been with a lot of women, but none as pretty as you.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“You like it in the ass?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Yeah? You know, I like you girl. So, tell me, what color is your pussy?”

“My pussy?” I asked, slightly taken aback. This was a bit forward, but appreciated nonetheless.. “Uh… it’s pink.”

“I thought so,” he grinned. He seemed into it.

As we walked through the park our conversation grew weirder and weirder. We talked about everything from our favorite sexual positions, to the way in which I shave my public hair (landing strip—embarrassing), to how I like being tied up. His dick was growing visibly bigger inside dip dyed jeans. As he felt more and more comfortable he started to push his luck.

“Show me what sounds you make baby,” he pressed, “like in bed.” Sadly, I was forced to refrain as we were standing dangerously close to a playground full of children. Although that’s not to say I wasn’t tempted.

“Well then… can I see your tits?” he continued.

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, show me your tits.”

“No.”

“Just once,” he begged. “Really quick.”

“No.”

“Pleeease. It would make me sooo happy.”

It was then that I realized—this was it. This was my moment—the moment in which I had the clear opportunity to make better, even if only for a second, the life of another. This was my random act of kindness.

So I did it. I showed the stranger my 36-DDs right there in the middle of Burgess Park. And you know what, I sort of enjoyed it. Who knew? Charity work isn’t so bad after all.

“I’ll never forget you,” he smiled before we parted ways.

Though I didn’t want to admit it, I knew it was true. “I’ll never forget you either.”

My soul is saved.

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Moon Cup

May 15, 2007



Me and Kerri in front of our favorite Bournemouth restaurant. We never actually make it inside.

Some friends and I went to Bournmouth this past weekend for what was meant to be an innocent, drunken few days at the beach. Little did I know by the end of our trip I would be doused in the DNA of a fat lesbian. My life sucks.

Three of the guys I live with in our South London Squat (a.k.a. “Squallyoaks”) are in a band called Ratty Rat Rat. On Saturday night they were playing a gig in their hometown of Bournemouth, so a few of us squatmates decided to join them for a weekend get away. It started out fun—stealing Backstreet Boys cassette tapes from charity shops, getting drunk at the beach, watching cable TV (always exciting for the underprivileged), etc. Come nightfall we headed to The Consortium, Bournmouth’s trendiest nightclub. Little did we know that “trendy” in Bournmouth means a half empty room with sticky floors and a balding fat man touching himself in the corner. Good times.

Halfway though the night I started coming up on some shitty pills I bought off a girl in the club bathroom who I swear was pregnant. I love ecstasy but I despise the person I become when I’m on it. It just makes me love everyone and everything, which if you knew me is pretty much the antithesis of who I am when I’m not high.

Sufficiently loved-up, I spotted a girl sitting alone at the end of the dance floor. She looked about thirty, weighed roughly seventy-nine million pounds, and was wearing a floral crop top that beautifully accentuated her protruding fat rolls. Her rotting, jagged teeth hung like tiny stalactites from the roof of her mouth. I walked over and struck-up a conversation.

The girl’s name was Georgia. Georgia didn’t live in Bournemouth, but was there for the week visiting her parents. She seemed happy to have someone to talk to, and eventually we started dancing. A few minutes later she asked me to come to the bathroom to pee. Unbeknownst to me this was all part of her master plan to get me alone so she could work her psychotic dyke moves on me and rape me of my innocence.

We weren’t in the stall long before she had her overweight tongue down my throat. I didn’t mind really. I mean I’ve been with girls before and I’m into it. It was more the sheer size of her that scared me. Still, we spent a few minutes tongue wresting and hair pulling before she suddenly stopped, pulling away from me.

“I have my period,” said Georgia as she backed away from me.

“Oh… ok,” I replied wearily. I didn’t know where the conversation was going but I realized that this could be my possible moment of escape. “Maybe I should go….”

“No, I mean, you can stay if you want,” she smiled. “Actually, I’m not wearing a tampon. I hate tampons. They itch. I’m wearing this new thing called a Moon Cup. It cost fifteen pounds, but it’s amazing.” She began pulling down her skirt. “It’s good for the environment or something. It’s basically this plastic cup that you shove up your pussy and you can use over and over again. It has a little handle attached to… well… do you just wanna see it?”

“Well… I… umm…”

Judging by what happened next, I must have said yes (or something that resembled ‘yes’), but in my state of inebriation / disbelief, I can’t exactly remember. Nonetheless, Georgia proceeded to squat over the toilet and pull down her black tights to reveal her fleshy, hairless vagina. Next she reached deep inside. Once she had a firm grip on the Moon Cup, she began to tug. Instead of sliding out of her smoothly like she intended, however, the small plastic container popped, splattering the entire contents of the Moon Cup all over my thighs, hands, and face. I was covered in blood.

You’d expect the moments that followed to be some of the most awkward two human beings could experience. Georgia, however, seemed surprisingly unfazed.

“Oh shit, sorry” she moaned. “I guess I’m pretty heavy today. Maybe we better not…”

“Yeah… maybe you’re… right,” I managed to mutter, wiping bits of her uterine lining from my lips. “Bad timing. It was… nice meeting you though.” (It was the only thing I could think to say.)

“Ditto,” she grinned, cleaning my inner thighs with a wad of toilet paper. “Call me.”

“Sure thing.”

Wait… what?

Some more photos from the adventure:


1. Me model
ing.

2. Everyone looking at my new grown chin hair.


1. Maria singing with Ratty Rat Rat (she really likes hot dogs).


2. Kerri shopping.

erri shopping

1. White people on the beach.

2. It’s true. And gross.

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My Epiphany

May 15, 2007


My house (a.k.a. Squallyoaks). I can’t have babies here.

I’ve had an epiphany. I think it came somewhere between turning twenty one and buying my first set of tableware. I can’t be sure. But what I’ve come to realize is that all of this—the drugs, the sex, the suicidal tendencies—this isn’t who I really am. I mean like deep down or whatever. Me, I’m destined for greatness. No really, I am. My mother even said so. Well, she hasn’t said it in a while, but I know somewhere in her heart she still believes it.

But basically what this whole enlightenment epiphany thing has taught me is that now is the time to make a change. Goodbye hard drugs. Goodbye mindless sex with Mexican bus boys in back alleys. Goodbye eating out of garbage bins. I’m a changed woman. From here on out I’m going to devote the remainder of my existence to cooking, cleaning, making babies, having slow, polite sex, and wearing flat, practical shoes. The future looks bright.

This epiphany didn’t happen all at once, by the way. It’s been a gradual decline. At first it was subtle changes, like using garbage cans rather than the floor, learning how to use a washing machine, and not wanting to fuck anything with a penis and a beard. It got more serious when I found myself wanting to kidnap infants on the street, and searching through my boyfriend’s room for pictures of him as a child, trying to visualize what our hypothetical offspring would look like. Once I even found myself standing in front of the mirror after a greasy fry-up, gazing admiringly at my protruding stomach and drifting into sweet daydreams of my future life as a pregnant mother. Before I know it I’m going to be jerking off to Better Home and Gardens.

There is one thing that worries me about my new life as a domestic goddess, however, and that’s my complete and utter incompetence when it comes to doing, well… everything. How can I raise a family when I, myself, still survive on steady diet of bin food and MDMA, make an income of only £80 a week, and live in a squat where the room next door to me is a homosexual, ketamine-fueled love dungeon of sin and debauchery? Shit man. I need to sort my life out.

So, is this whole pseudo enlightenment bullshit all just a phase? In a week will I come to my senses and realize that normal life just isn’t for me? My boyfriend seems to think I’ll get over it. Still, I’ve noticed he’s been more cautious than ever recently about remembering to wear a condom…

Some more reasons why getting preggo is probably not a good idea:



1. We have parties like this.


2. I live with people who act like this.

3. We have parties and smash walls.

4. The basement looks like a crack den.

5. We play loud music.

6. We pull things that look like this out of our drains. I think this one was breathing.