Irrational fear....of foxes?

I don't like flying, but I'm not afraid of aeroplanes. I don't like travelling along the motorway, but have no fear of cars or speed. I have an irrational fear of mash potato, but I really, really, really like chips.

Foxes are something I not only dislike but am also stupidly scared of. Doing a google image search for a photo of a fox I can appreciate they are very lovely looking animals. In a rural environment with the backdrop of luscious green fields and woodland area. Urban foxes are foul, usually covered in mange, and shit in my back garden. But more than that, they're not afraid of me anymore. Me or my border collie, Jack.

In recent months it has got so bad I don't like walking my dog after dark. This is something of a problem when I don't get home from work until seven most days and then you have to take into account some sit down time, Hollyoaks and food. So by the time I'm ready for Jack to don his collar and lead, the foxes are out there.

Walking my neighbourhood streets, I'm on my guard. I'm looking everywhere, spying into front gardens, down alleyways, behind me, around corners and underneath cars. Then, when I see one, because I will see one, I freeze. I don't know what to do. The fox doesn't run away. It never fucking runs away! It will sit itself down and stare at Jack, and then stare at me. Sometimes I'm twenty feet away, sometimes I'm two. And each time it happens I don't know what to do. I won't take my eyes off the fox for fear it will attack my useless lump of a dog who does nothing but pull on his lead a bit because he's growing impatient as I slowly pull him back with me as I retrace my steps, never looking away from the fox. Playing a game of stareouts with a fucking fox.

Inevitably, despite being the human being complete with opposable thumbs, I will take a different route and flee the fox. I don't run though. Running makes it harder to look around and check if the fox is chasing.

Poor Jack's walks are becoming something of a nightmare. For me because of the foxes, and for him because I keep cutting the length and number of times a week they happen.

Obviously I need to Man Up and deal with this. But, fuck me, foxes are scary.

I do snot want to be ill

There's something wrong with me. Everything aches. I can't sit up straight. My nose and ears are running. Yes, my ears. I have bits of tissue stuffed in them at the moment. My head hurts and I'm fighting a losing battle with my eyes to keep them open.

I hate feeling like this. I hate being so weak and useless. So instead of curling up into a ball and sleeping it off I drag my sorry arse into work, trying to prove a point to illness or something. Martyr is me.

I think I might go and have a nap in the toilet now.

That Girl's An Indie Cindy

Club NME is something that seems like a good idea until you get there and your clothes begin to stick to your body from the sweat (please see photo to the left I took that night for sweaty faces and armpits), your shoes get wrecked because everyone is jumping on them, you get hit on the head by beer cans because people think throwing them down from the balcony is amusing and fail to see any of the bands that are playing because you find yourself trapped inside a violent mosh that is actually quite terrifying because the kids who are so desperate to "rock out, man!" have no idea how to control it.

I much prefer the gigs where I can stand on two feet, swaying back and forth, able to sip my beer without spilling it over myself or others and have a clear view of the band. I will never be cool.

But fuck it. I'm here to see Hadouken! (who I hate with a burning passion) and I'm wearing head to toe neon - for fun, obviously. It wasn't until I was sat in The Crescent sporting white hoodie with neon blobs all over it, stripey skirt, green tights and pink shoes that I realised dressing like the kids is not really mocking the kids sufficiently, because the kids won't get it. They'll just think we're one of them. We should have gone as goths. That would have been awesome.

But back to the mosh. I generally avoid them. They scare me. I don't like it. Too many people getting too close. I don't understand how injuring yourself can be considered fun. How can you know if you're enjoying the music if you're too busy getting battered? But I get myself involved anyway. And it was fucking horrid. I shit myself. I pushed everyone away from me because I was genuinely scared and they just pushed me back! I couldn't get out of it once I was in it because people assumed I was still "getting involved" and they couldn't hear me shout "fuck off!" because the music was so loud and they didn't care anyway. They're moshing to Hadouken!, man! It was a neon Hell pit lit with a thousand glosticks.

I wasn't even aware of Hadouken! leaving the stage, and the rest of the night drifted past in a whirl of mobile phone and money loss, more sweat, more drink, slightly more sedate dancing and getting the nightbus home in my neon get-up sitting with three girls who'd been partying at China White feeling utterly scummy and ridiculous. GOOD TIMES. < Really. Good times. I can't wait to go again.

eStalk

I have a dirty secret.

I stalk boys.

On the internet.

Facebook has taken over my life, and aside from adding nearly every friend I've ever had with the aid of the search function, I also have one or several boys I've made the sex with. Although to be fair to myself, I did delete a few the other day because I no longer care enough to be updated with their hourly status.

But now there's one boy. One boy that I F5 my page every ten minutes or so for because I desperately want to know who he's writing messages to. It's becoming an addiction. A horrible addiction. I read messages from his mates who happen to be girls and have this overpowering need to know if he returned their kisses. But they've got their profiles set to bloody private so I torture myself with "oh noes he's definitely shagging her" and leaving her x's.

I also get a pedantic pleasure from judging people by their spelling and grammar. Call me a Nazi, but these things are important. And I am infinitely superior to any girl that can't even leave a three line message without the use of one comma, full stop, capital letter or apostrophe. Oh yes I am. He should stop shagging them and shag me some more. I am best.

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

Bloggers Block

I haven't blogged in such a long time. Partly because I don't pimp this blog anywhere, so am fully aware that posting is mostly a waste of time. But also because I never know what to say. I don't want to be full of woe with my words, but at the same time how many times can I say I'm happy? My moods are so erratic, one day I'm up the next I'm down. There is no consistency, which I know is much the same for everyone but I don't generally have any reasons for why I'm swinging back, forth up and down.

Recently, my life seems to have taken a path I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with. It's not a massive change, but big enough for me to look at myself and question if I'm happy with the way I'm behaving.

I'm repeating a cycle. Over and over. It never breaks. And although I can lay as much blame on those who help me get myself into these situations, only I alone can at any point say "no", but I don't. I go with it. Because for a short while I'm completely happy and relaxed and enjoying myself.

I blog about my best friend and the mistakes she makes time and time again, yet I'm just as bad. Except my mistakes don't last as long as hers. They are brief and quickly forgotten. Until I do it again and spend four days beating myself up over being so silly and niave.

In a time when it's supposedly okay for women to do what they want when they want as long as they aren't harming themselves or others, you still have to reach a point where you're okay with it yourself. And I don't think I am.

Only I can sort this out. I need to think before I act. Put a bit more effort into thinking long-term and not just chasing after a fleeting glimpse of something I don't even know where to find.

The Internet Is Dead

And I am lonely.

My ears are a victim

Why is Kate Nash everywhere? Why are people twice my age recommending her to me? Why are so many blogs pimping her songs? I genuinely want to know. Her music is a whole new level of Lily Allen inspired awful dolled up in a Pipette's dress and I cannot listen to her stage school taught over-pronounciation without feeling like my ears are being raped.

The ex Brit School student clearly suffers from a case of the class frauditus as well and I can't bear to hear her spitting out "killah, killah, killah". It properly infuriates me. I have a problem with artists commoning themselves up. It's insulting to the class they are and the class they aspire to be. Pete Doherty is an excellent example of this. He sings songs like Killamangiro, but what does he actually know of being on the dole and living hand to mouth in a council flat? He can spray blood up as many bedsit walls as he pleases, but at the end of the day he will always have the safety net of a wealthy family, friends and girlfriend to cushion his life now and when he finally gets his act together. There is no romance in being working class. But, because they don't live the life they see it through rose tinted glasses and perceive it to have a certain charm and playing at being poor is probably fun for a while.

It's okay to be middle, upper middle and upper class! You're still allowed to make music, you know. Just stop pissing pretending you're something you're not. You look and, more importantly, sound like a cunt. Music shouldn't and generally isn't defined by the status of an artists background, but poor is apparently cool, in more well off circles, right now, so we have to suffer the likes of Kate Nash and her put on accent. Marvellous.

I refuse to link a Kate Nash mp3, but here is the excellent and also ex Brit School attendee Adele singing the beautiful Daydreamer.