Author: karleyslutever

This video is a bit old now… maybe about 6 months or so. But I thought I’d put it up anyway for your viewing pleasure. Basically the back story is that we had a party in our infamous basement (a.k.a. The Squallyoaks Dungeon). Foals played. People got wasted. It was fun. However, despite all the happy/gurning faces around me, I couldn’t help but think, “Fuck! This party would be so much more fun if that god-forsaken wall wasn’t there!” So, at about 8 in the morning, we decided (or I decided and then other like-minded people joined in) that we should tare it down. Duh! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier.

Hope you enjoy this more than the rest of the people I live with did… I think the quote my squat-mate Dom said the following morning was something along the lines of… “I want to rape your face with a cheese grater.”

Love of my life…

I think I’m finally feeling better. Slightly. I’m over my existential crisis anyway. Existentialism is for assholes. Stuttering is for assholes. Nosebleeds are for assholes (although I do still get them occasionally). But overall I think I’ve finally realized that things aren’t so bad. They could be a hell of a lot worse anyway. It’s like my mother always said whenever my little brother or I complained as children: “At least you still have your arms.” And she’s right, luckily for me, I do still have my arms. I’d probably appreciate them more if they were slightly slimmer, but I’m thankful for their existence nonetheless.

However, since getting over my existential crisis, I have developed a pretty serious case of insomnia. This is the fourth night in a row that I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve tried everything—reading, counting sheep, masturbation—nothing works. It’s 6:30am at the moment. I’ve just finished watching She’s the Man—a gem of modern cinema. All I want to do sleep. Ugh, I wish I had some valium, or any sleeping aid in the form of a pill… or powder… or liquid. I just need drugs. Drugs drugs drugs. Drugs solve everything. Drugs to make me happy. Drugs to cheer me up when the drugs that made me happy are making me feel sad. Drugs to go to sleep. Drugs to stay awake. Drugs to calm me down. Drugs for everything. This is what has been drilled into my head since before I can remember. No matter what’s wrong with me, there’s a pill out there somewhere that will make everything ok. Painless. If I get a headache, a pill will make it better. If I’m feeling depressed, some more pills will make it better. If I can’t concentrate, pills will solve the problem. I accidentally forget to wear a condom during sex, don’t worry, all it takes is a speedy trip down to the sex clinic for a baby-killing pill and everything is all better. I have been programmed.

These days, however, the variables have changed slightly. Instead of popping an ibuprofen to get rid of a migraine, I’m snorting lines of coke to keep from feeling fat, and pulling myself in a K hole to mute my constant feelings of depression and sadness.

But I guess what my point it (if I’m even making one), is that it’s not my fault that I’m this way. My recent surge in drug use reflects no weakness in character on my part. It’s the American way of life that’s to blame, not me. I’m the victim here people. A casualty of my own warped existence. Help me. Save me. Love me.

The thing is, though it kills me to admit it, I think at the root of all my recent sadness is my breakup with Blaine. And now, like salt in the wound, the bastard’s run off with his band to tour America for two months. So apparently I’m so repulsive that it’s necessary to put an entire ocean between us. Oh God, he’s probably having loads of rampant sex with hot fifteen year old groupies. He’s probably hanging out with someone really cool like, l don’t know, The Strokes or Matchbox 20 or whoever. He’s probably eating Tex Mex. I so hate my life right now.

My only solace in moments like these is Bridget Jones. I love Bridget. We have a real connection. I mean, she was a single, fat alcoholic until she was, what, like forty? And she ended up with Colin Firth. Maybe that’s what my life is going to be like. Maybe I’m going to be made to suffer until I’m middle aged and then magically one day I’ll meet Louis Theroux and we’ll fall madly in love and move into a flat in Primrose Hill and drink expensive wine and talk about smart people things and I’ll have lots of funny anecdotes about when I used to be young and poor and eat out of garbage bins and take ketamine recreationally. One can only hope…

Vaginas unite.

So I think I’m finally feeling better. Slightly. I’m over my existential crisis anyway. Existentialism is for assholes. Stuttering is for assholes. Nosebleeds are for assholes (although I do still get them). But overall, I think I’ve finally realised that things aren’t so bad. They could be a hell of a lot worse anyway. It’s like my mom always said whenever me or my little brother would complain about stuff when we were kids: “At least you still have your arms.” And she’s right, luckily for me, I do still have my arms. I’d probably appreciate them more if they were slightly slimmer, but I’m thankful to have them nonetheless.

Why am I feeling better you ask? Well, my solution so far has been to never be alone or left with nothing to do, thus keeping my mind off of all of my over-bearing problems that I can’t be bothered to fix or face. Finding things to keep myself occupied has been an entirely new and exciting experience in itself. Over the past week I’ve played about 500 hours of Mario Cart, 500 more of Golden Eye, and roughly 5 million hours of Mario Party (which by the way isn’t even fun but my squat-mate Darren is obsessed with it and has a total psycho freak-out if anyone tries to touch the console when he’s in the midst of one of his 9 hours sessions). I’ve also spent an impressive amount of time playing charades. I had forgotten how fun that game can be. Try acting out “Lawrence of Arabia” when you’re stoned. It will keep you occupied for at least 45 minutes. Other activities have included watching every one of Britney Spear’s music videos chronologically all in one sitting… then doing the same with N’SYNC… then Mandy Moore, and so on and so on. I’ve picked up quite a few good dance moves along the way. I even went to the arcade… although that was a bit depressing as I suck at everything and the driving simulator thing made me feel nauseous. Sigh. If only I was an independent woman like Beyonce. Or Tyra. Or Oprah. Or any of those curvaceous, empowered black women. But no. I have the curves and none of the snappy, black-chick confidence to go along with them, so I’m just a frumpy, depressed white girl with a nosebleed problem. Boring.

In other news, all of my friends as lesbians. Literally. It’s beginning to freak me out. At first I thought it was cool because if we went out as a group any hot boy that paid us any attention would end up with me by default. Unfortunately for me, however, the honeymoon period is over and I think it’s about fucking time that the rest of my idiot friends started appreciating the male genitalia. It’s like, I wouldn’t mind so much if I wasn’t constantly burdened by the fear that I might catch it. (And by “it” I mean the burning desire to lick someone’s vagina.)

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking, “She’s so naive,” or “ What a homophobe! Gayness isn’t contagious.” Well let me tell you something: YES IT IS. Not even a year ago all my friends loved the cock. Actually, they were gagging for it. Fast forward to 2007 (Which by the way was the year that gave birth to GIRLCORE. Coincidence?) and everywhere you go feels like a girl-power fuelled pussy convention. It sucks. I asked my newly converted friend Maria about her thoughts on the lesbo revolution, and her response wasn’t that a case of the lesbi-friendliness was going around, but rather that girls are just starting to realise more and more that… you guessed it… guys are assholes. I decided to think long and hard about what she had said, and though I never thought so before, after a week of being treated like fucking shit by the male species, I’m starting to think that, gosh-darnet, these bull-dykes might be onto something. For example, if you’re out having a nice, relaxed drink with a guy and you lean in to kiss him and he responds by whacking you across the face with a newspaper- that’s the sign of an asshole. Or if it’s 9am and you’re all sat around doing laughing gas and he pops your very last balloon with his cigarette just to piss you off- that’s the sign of an asshole. Or if he invites you out for a drink and then brings you back to his house with the clear intention of fucking you, then has to has hide you in his bedroom like you’re 14 and his mommy is about to come home because his flat-mates aren’t allowed to know you’re there because he has a fucking girlfriend- that’s the sign of an asshole. Fuck this shit. Boys are for gays.

In 30 years time I’m going to look back on my life and realise that there were three main factors in the hideous and spiralling decline of me as a human being: Lesbians, Nintendo 64, and Dawson’s Creek. I resent them all.

My heroes

1. My black mother.

2. Whenever I’m feeling self-concious I try and “channel Tyra.” In the words of my idol: “Back that booty up and make it fashion.”

Drug induced happiness?

Fuck. Shit. Cunt. Whore. I’m having an existential crisis. Actually, according to my squatmate Dom what I’m suffering from is a “serious case of existentialities,” as we’ve discovered it’s contagious and now the whole of Squallyoaks seems to be infected. Our house is one massive mental breakdown waiting to happen. Dom has locked himself in his room and eats nothing but Pot Noodle. Hannah is convinced he has AIDS. Even Darren, who is normally the voice of reason, has shaved off his beard and now does nothing but wander around in a daze, jabbering about suffering from “post-beard fear.” This feels like the beginning of the end.

I’m in love with every boy. Literally. Lately it feels like I fall in love more often than I take a shower. I was at a dinner party the other evening at my friend Jack’s house, and during our conversation his mother asked me, “Have you experienced love yet Karley?” My immediate response was, “What… like today?”

This isn’t to say any of my loves result in any form of physical gratification. Rather I seem to be the epitome of repulsion to most of the men I desire. Oh yeah, by the way I broke up with my boyfriend of three years, Blaine, a couple weeks ago. Bad move. I mean, what was I thinking? He was perfect and I’m a fucking loser. I’ll never find anyone better. I mean yeah he’s disabled and he can’t realty walk and he’s got these weird dreads that sort of smell like dead cats, but I’m into that shit. Ugh, my life is a series of unfortunate events.

Another symptom of my existential crisis has been the recent development of a fake stutter. This is a desperate attempt on my part to make myself more attractive to the opposite sex (and just generally the entire population of the world), but provoking sympathy from those around me. D-d-d-d-do you think that’s a good idea? My squatmate Simon seems to think so as he’s jumped on the bandwagon as well. To be honest, though, my attempts thus far have been fleeting. For example, stuttering doesn’t seem to help when trying to get the Turkish man in the off-license to lower the price of Glen’s Vodka from £8.99 to £7.99. It also fails to persuade bus drivers to let you on the bus without a ticket. It has also yet to trick anyone into sleeping with me. (Apparently ‘p-p-please f-f-fuck me’ isn’t an uber sexy turn-on.) Still, I’m not giving up that easy. I’m going to hold out for a while longer. I have a f-f-f-feeling thing might take a turn for the b-b-better.

Yesterday I cried while making a salad. I just started sobbing, mid cucumber. No prior warning. It scares me to think that I’m the type of person who has vegetable induced emotional meltdowns.

In other news, my nose is going to rot off. Over the past few weeks I’ve put more shit up my nasal passage than I thought humanly possible. I am now suffering the repercussions of my actions. Most of my days are spent either wiping liquidy snot from above my upper lip or running to the bathroom to clean up a nosebleed. The worst was when I got a nosebleed on the first day of my new internship at Tank Magazine last week. Talk about embarrassing. Thankfully the head of editorial, Xerxes, is just as much of a wastoid as I am. When I returned clean-faced from the bathroom after the shameful episode, he looked at me sympathetically and said, “Don’t worry about it. I puked on a duck this morning.”

However, in between blowing my nose and not having sex, I’ve been spending most of my time trying to “figure it out.” And by that I mean I hired the book Introducing Existentialism from the library. I chose this particular book because of the quote on the cover that reads, “Feel smarter almost instantly.” Sounds good to me. Unfortunately, with every page I read I feel more and more like a fucking idiot. “Every step forward in reflection is a step back from immediacy.” “Subjective life can never be made the object of formally abstract knowledge.” Like, what? I’ve been reading this shit for days and the only conclusion I’ve come to is that I’m a retard. Amazing. Put a gun to my head and paint the walls with my brains. Actually, I take that back. If I’ve learned one thing from my studies it’s that suicide is not the answer (despite how glorious it may seem in my current state of self loathing). At least I think that’s what this God forsaken book is trying to tell me anyway. Sartre says this: “Suicide, as the last act of life, is denied the future and is therefore meaningless.” Looks like I’ll be s-s-sticking around for a w-w-w-while longer then.

More maddness:

1. Bestival, pre-brain damage.

2. GIRLCORE takes over Radio Bestival.

1. First squat party at the Toilet Factory. Amazing.

2. Mid party, lying in a pile of filth.

Things can only get better from here.

I got arrested for the third time in six months last night. The first two times were for ship lifting. This time was for, uh, wait what was it again? Oh yeah, homophobic assault. Obviously.

A few of my girl friends and I run a monthly club night called GIRLCORE. The idea behind the night it is to promote female talent, booking only female artists, performers and DJs. For every night we have a different theme—this time it was Divas. I was dressed as Marilyn Monroe.

As the night came to a close my flamboyantly dressed friends and I stumbled out onto the streets to Shoreditch—myself in a ball gown, my flatmate James dressed as Britney Spears, Simon in a sequined tube top. He’s not gay but I swear he had his tongue down Gary’s throat. They do that sometimes.

As we staggered down the street were approached by a group of five meathead guys. “Look at the puffs,” one of them shouted as they saw us, laughing. Unable to let anything even vaguely offensive slide, I immediately began shouting back. I think what I said was “Fuck you cunts!” but it probably just came out as a bunch of inaudible dribble.

“You looking for trouble, faggots,” one of them fired back, fist raised in the air. I then wisely proceeded to spit in his face, after which he grabbed my head, spit a giant wad of mucous into my eye (like my actual eyeball) and threw me onto the ground. At this time my loyal friends jumped in to defend me, but like I said they aren’t exactly the manliest of men, and were soon lying face down on the pavement as well. I was when I spotted Gary being dragged along the street by his hair, shouting, “No, please, not the hair!” that I knew we were in trouble.

In a panic I called 999, saying my friend and I had been attacked. The police came within minutes. After a while of questioning, I was excited at the thought of witnessing the group of pricks being escorted into the police van. That’s when I heard the words:

“Miss, you’re under arrest for homophobic assault. You have the right to remain silent.” WHAT THE FUCK?

To make a long story short, the only people arrested were James, Gary, and myself. Apparently during questioning the meatheads claimed that they were gay, and that our group had verbally attacked them. Everything that happened afterward was just “self defense.” When I tried to explain to the moron cops that this was obviously a complete lie, that I was the person that had called the police in the first place, and that if they had half a brain they would know that me and my band of raging homo friends were obviously not gay bashers, they just responded by handcuffing me and throwing me head first in the back of the van. All cops are bastards.

I spent the next twenty one hours lying on a metal cot in a holding cell of the Stoke Newington Police Station in a Marilyn Monroe costume. Printed in giant red letters on the ceiling directly above my head were the words ARE YOU SICK AND TIRED OF BEING SICK AND TIRED?

YES I FUCKING AM.

1: Me pre-jail cell

2: We’re all in this together…

Outside my squat there’s this weird man that has a stall where he sells loads of random shit. Mainly he sells out of date food but occasionally he has other exciting things, like novelty ties and bleach. His name is Dave and he has a lazy eye. We at Squallyoaks, however, prefer to refer to him solely as “THE MAN,” because when said with dramatic affect, it holds far more comedic value. For example:

“Hey, where’d you get that tasty looking out-of-date Cherry Coke and dented can of sardines?”

“Oh, just THE MAN.”

Another regular of the THE MAN’s stall is his sidekick, The Fat Man. The Fat Man is basically like THE MAN only bigger and balder with even less teeth. Together, the pair of them look like some crazed, medieval nightmare. Every day the two of them sit around making the same bad jokes, staring lustfully at women and brainlessly positioning colorful stickers over the expiration dates of their expired produce. Their lives seem super fun.

About a week ago I paid a visit to THE MAN’s stall to buy a can of diet Coke. (He sells them for half the price of your average store, which is great if you don’t mind picking off the small pieces of mouse poop which normally line the rim). I was wearing a white lace negligee with a black slip underneath to prevent it from being see-through. I wouldn’t consider this outfit to be particularly slutty, but it seemed to get the THE MAN’s attention. This is the conversation that ensued.

THE MAN: Girl, what are you wearing?

Me: Who me? (Remember it’s difficult to tell if he’s looking at you or not because his crazy eye is always wiggling around all over the place.)

THE MAN: Yeah you! You shouldn’t be leavin’ the house lookin’ like that!

Me: It’s just a dress.

The Fat Man: If you call that a dress, I’d like to see what isn’t a dress. (They both laugh hysterically as if this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard in their pathetic lives.)

Me: What the fuck do you know about fashion you fat bastard?

The Fat Man: Clearly more than you do if you walk around lookin’ like that! (More laughs)

At this point I considered retaliating, but stopped myself after experiencing a moment of clarity in which I realized there’s no point in having an argument about fashion with the 500lb bald ogre who makes a living selling rotten hot-dogs on the side of the road. End scene.

A few days later, after consciously avoiding the stall, I ran into The Fat Man at a nearby bus stop. This time, however, he is out of his element (i.e. not surrounded by garbage) and appeared slightly less confident. This is how the conversation went the second time round.

The Fat Man: (Shyly) So, umm, do you go out much?

Me: Yeah, sometimes.

The Fat Man: Like, to clubs?

Me: Sometimes.

The Fat Man: …because I know this really kickin’ club in Croydon.

My brain: Did he just say “kickin’?” My mouth: Oh really?

The Fat Man: Yeah, my friend Roy DJ’s there sometimes. (Fact: Being friends with a DJ is cool.) He plays all the good stuff.

Me: What’s the good stuff?

The Fat Man: (Staring at my boobs) Well, do you know Michael Jackson?

Me: (Staring at his boobs) Yeah I think I’ve head of him.

The Fat Man: So, yeah, Michael Jackson, and… umm… you know Barbara Streisand?

Me: Uh, yeah.

The Fat Man: Yeah, like Michael Jackson, Barbara Streisand, Whitney Houston. You know, all the good stuff.

I nod. This is surreal.

The Fat Man: So, what kind of music are you into?

Me: Well, I like some dance music, some indie…

The Fat Man: (Shaking his head in dismay) Nah, nah! See, now I don’t get that. I just don’t think you can truly understand indie music unless you’re from India.

Me: (As there is no response to this statement that could make this conversation any less hellish, I resign to just smiling and nodding continuously. This technique works in nearly every uncomfortable situation.) Uh-huh…

The Fat Man: But I mean, Roy’s got loads of records. He might have something you like. I’ll check it out.

Me: You do that.

We’ve yet to fuck…

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.

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.

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.