Happy Birthday me!

Welcome to the right side of 30.
No need to fasten your seat belt.
It's a pretty steady ride from here on...
And no jokes allowed about that there last line

It's true too much masturbation is unhealthy

It has become necessary for me to express my distaste at this cold. I cannot ignore it any further.

Firstly a polar fucking bear has taken up residence underneath my desk, and secondly, there is a penguin nibbling on my right nipple – permanently. It’s just not on. My heater has packed up thanks to Nigel (the ghost in the aircon) getting up to his fucking tricks again. It literally coughed yesterday, let out a huge sigh. And died. No amount of remote control coaxing, pleading nor staring in disbelief is going to get this Panasonic piece of antique shite up and running again. *Sparing a thought: How are the homeless people going to survive this winter?*

Besides all this, getting into bed alllllllllllllooooooooooooonnnnnne at night fucking stinks.
Worse than a bucketful of rotting chicken livers. Honestly. I’m not exaggerating.

What is now exacerbating this here problem is the fact that there is a man. A guy. A boy. A Mr DoodleBits. A member of the opposite sex that talks about grabbing my arse, sucking my tits and engaging in conversation with my vajayjay. It’s the most marvelous thing ever.

Except for one teeny tiny rather signifikant detail. Which I’d very much like to divulge, but I have fear. Fear of the fact that my blog is now no longer anonymous (which blows) and if I was to spill my guts onto this page it would be inevitable that he may get to read it. So I am stuck between a rock and another rock – as evidently, there is no Hard Place.

Feckit. So this means that, whilst I would very much like to verbalize my frustrations at the whole situation and of course get all 3 necessary opinions (I say three because that generally is the amount of faithful readers I have – bless you all), I can’t. I can’t talk to my friends about this either as I don’t think any of them realize the magnitude of my frustrations. Neither do they take me seriously when I publicize the fact that I’ve gone completely Mom’n’Dad.

So instead of ranting about Boy in his Astronaut suit I am going to turn it around and rant about me instead.

Here goes…
Why was I born so obsessive? Why couldn’t I just be normal like everyone else? Why do I have to latch onto something and then think about it non-stop-24-hours-a-day-and-actually-lose-precious-sleep-over-it? Why can’t I just go out and do whatever - whatever whatever is? Why do I have an imagination that can control a morgue full of rotting dead brains? Why do I lie in bed thinking about what/where/when/how/if/why/would/could/can/did/now?
Why can I not just let it go and see what happens? Why do I hit the pause button waiting in anticipation for some form of anything? Why has this affected me like this? Where did hardcore little me go? What if I’m wrong about this?

That’s it right there.
WHAT.IF.I.AM.WRONG.ABOUT.ALL.THIS.BULLSHIT.CRAP.MANURE.SHITE.
Then what? Some may say so it’s not a big deal you’ll get over it. Yes I will……….maybe
But that’s not my worry. The worry is if I’m wrong then I could be wrong again…and again…and again….and again…….which means I might never actually be right. Or worse. It means I don’t have gut instinct.
Oh god. No gut instinct. Can you imagine?

Just a gutless instinctless blob, wandering around, bobbing in the flow (not even with it ‘coz that would require some form of intuition). A globule containing only the four senses (of which my hearing aint that sharp really). No ESP. No inner fecking guide. Not even so much as a hunch.

Fuck off now with this post. It’s a real crappy mad babbling post I know. Apologies. If I was still just Muddle then I’d offload the whole shpiel… I've probably said too much already...Told you I was losing it…

Birthday Hues

It is exactly two weeks till my birthday.

Feck.
It’s not that ageing freaks me out. Nor is it the fact that the big 30 is like sort of around the corner.On the contrary I don’t mind adding another digit on to the end of my age.

What bothers me is the increase in the need for random things and products that one didn’t need before:

1. Creams containing collagen – thanks to gravity certain body parts are in need of help umm raising their game.
2. Eye gels – to remove black circles and puffiness from under the eyes. When did this happen? When did I pass that mark of no matter how much sleep I get it’s never enough?
3. Cellulite massagers – no need to go into any further explanation
4. Fat pants. This bothers me. Immensely. I mean where did my metabolism emigrate to?
5. Cookbooks. Gone are the days when 2-minute noodles did the trick…
6. Heat pads. This freaks me out. Dancing in a club used to be par for the course – now I worry about how my neck may take it in the morning. C’mon!
7. A good pair of slippers. Once upon a time I had a pair of dragon-feet slippers. They were ridiculous. Gigantic black feet with red talons. Nowadays it’s a simple little slip-on or booty.
8. Did I just use the word booty in a totally non-Beyonce way?
9. Plants. When did keeping these alive become so important? I used to only be interested in one aspect of gardening – grass. Now it’s all sorts of bromelias and sanseverias….
10. Hair loss tablets, shampoos, conditioners, home-made remedies….
11. Echinacea tablets. These have replaced KGB. I cannot leave home without them.
12. Moisturising socks and gloves. My skin it seems has aged past the point of a regular moisturizer doing the trick. Not forgetting about the fact that I have night cream, day cream, extra moisturizing day cream, day cream with SPF, anti-wrinkle serum. The list is endless. Goodbye Nivea. Hello Guinot.
13. Shoes. Granted my fetish for this has not died down in any form. I admit I have a problem when it comes to shoes. And I love my problem. BUT! Gone are the days where I’d don an uncomfortable pair to work in the name of fashion. These days it must be life or death, make or break situations that call for the toe-squishing, heel cutting shoe.

It’s all just a little crazy. Where on earth did my flippant approach to life go? And when did I become sensible and practical? And well…. Boring? When did the need for a bookshelf replace the desire for a disco ball? When did love become more important than sex? YIKES when did taking the pill not become crucial? When did Ellen replace Eddie Murphy?
At what point did I say goodbye to Bubble-Yum and hello mint-flavoured dental floss? Surely this turning point was an event impossible to miss? I couldn’t have just quietly phased into it, I mean there must have been a pinnacle point. A single moment where I realized I was poised between a diamante thong and granny panties?

But nothing in my mind stands out. It just seems like BAM! I have a strelitzia. POOF! I own a casserole dish! SWOOSH! I carry tissues in my bag! And to be honest it’s just a little scary as I can’t help thinking – what will creep up on me next? Will I find myself baking hashless blueberry muffins for my daughters class? Will I find it acceptable to go out with grubby hand marks on my shirts? Or worse!! Will I start wearing a blouse? Will a good investment constitute a good pair of tummy tuck panty hose?

It all makes me want to vomit to be perfectly honest. So I will start to pray now that I am going to be a 45 year old woman who still listens to Snoop, lifts weights, wears a nose ring, shaves her legs and follows European fashion. Please God. Hear my plea. Do not turn me into someone who doesn’t bother with panty lines, pedicures or varicose veins. Keep me hip God.
I beg you. Let me remain in love with Mac and Guerlain and Bobby Brown. Let Marc Jacobs remain a guru in my eyes and Chanel an investment. Keep me away from Queenspark and Jet and MyFamily magazine. Never allow me to buy a one-piece bathing suit or a pair of GreenCross shoes. I implore you God – you may age me and wrinkle me and turn me grey. But please. Do not elasticate my pants.