my shitty exflatmate broke into the house (aka, let himself in since he refuses to give back the key...) while I was home alone. I heard foot steps creaking quietly in the next room. In the middle of the day the chances of them belonging to any of the guys(flatmates) is pretty slim so I decided to check, to be sure. Sure, it wasn't them at all, it was fucking Matthew J. Goggin, standing in the effing kitchen. I ahemed. He ignored me and rifled through the mail. I stood by the door as he walked toward and then by me. I asked him what he was doing. "What are you doing" I said. He smiled smugly, thin hair trailing behind his ugly head .
"I'm getting my mail. Until you give me my deposit I have right of entry." smug smug smug bug. I laughed, disbelieving. "What a crock of fucking shit! what a bunch of made up shit! What shit! " I thought and should have said. Then he left.
We kicked him out over a month ago! He keeps emailing Dan condescening emails and setting deadlines for us he can't back up! He's threatened to take us to small claims tribunal over 80 dollars! He broke the oven door then refused to pick up the glass! He eats babies!
I wish the property managment company would give us an estimate already, so he'd fuck off.
I hope his stringy hair catches fire from a shitty oregano-filled blunt.

Some kind of guy

Cam was about a year older than me and my height, which is 5'4 most of the time, 5'5 on a tall day.Within the first few minutes I met him I wondered if he was the sort of guy who'd lie about his height. Would he meet my gaze, eyes level to each other, and declare himself 5'8? No matter how short a guy was, there was a certain kind of guy who'd lie so obviously. They dare you to challenge them. They defy height charts and doctor's exam reports. Because 5'8 is the minimum height men are allowed to be if they are truely men and if God did not touch upon your legs and make them grow then the best you can do is lie about it. I'd met guys like that before.
Was he one of the over-compensators? I was to be his trainee for the day at my new baking job. If ever there were a time to assert his smidgen power, this would be it. "Hey! You must be Madge" he smiled openly, I found myself smiling back, bathing in his cheer "just throw your stuff over there" he pointed to an open locker "and let skip on down to the chiller so I can show you where we keep everything." I did as I was told, then followed behind him as he skipped to the chiller.
He was some kind of man, but he was definitely not that kind of man.

Google Image Search: Mother

Happy Mothers Day!

I was watching a recording of Nirvanas rehearsal for Saturday Night Live when I noticed the drummer. "Jesus, Dave Grohl looks completely different in this video. And he's really throwing his head into the drums." This made me want to look at other pictures of Dave Grohl, to see the progression from a skinny long-haired lad playing drums to a dude with a stylish haircut and permanent goatee, fronting his own band. This led me to a website about one woman and her secret love with Dave Grohl. Enjoy Dave Grohl's best-kept secret

Work solutions

“God, I hate work. I just want to leave.” Sighed the dishwasher.

“Do you think if I shat my pants I would be able to go home?”

I looked up at him skeptically.

“I wonder if you shat your pants, would you be allowed back? Or” I said laughing,

“if you did come back, would anyone be able to look you in the eye?”

Pointing towards trouble

It was around 6 AM, I was alone at work, chopping spring onions hastily and obviously not paying much attention. I glanced down just as the knife nicked my finger. I was using a new, sharper knife that day and had underestimated it's finer points.
"Ah, shit." I said, unworried. Then I actually looked at my finger and noticed a sizeable piece missing.
I wheezed in surprise, a few thoughts went through my head in rapid succession as I tried to figure out what I should do:

• Oh shit, I've never cut my finger, this is the first real cut I've ever had.
• It's not bad enough to warrant a freaking out or calling anyone.
• It is bleeding rather profusely though, more than a bandaid could handle
• It really fucking stings!
• I should do something and not just stand here.
• I'll hold it over my head and get a napkin to stop it from running everywhere.
• and cut off the circulation.

So I did. It took a while and I ended up taping a fat napkin over my finger while it insistantly bled. Later, though, I realized that was a bad idea. The napkin had dried to my wound and peeling it off felt like a slow, zinging burn. "AHHHH" I said.

Later my flatmates and I sat around in the kitchen and shared stories of people we knew losing pieces of fingers.

Wooing

It was shortly after midnight and already the street was littered with drunk people who were just getting started. I was sober as a new born babe and walking home from a late movie. I’d just reached the homestretch, just a few more flights of stairs and I would be home.

“Oi, girly what’s your star sign?” Shouted a drunk scottishman behind me. I didn’t bother to turn around, just a few more flights to go.

“Baby, don’t ignore meeee” he whined.

I considered throwing my water bottle at him, or perhaps telling him to piss off, but nothing you do to a drunk person ever has good results.

“White shirt! Oi, white shirt don’t walk away! Come here!”

And then, when nothing came of that:

“Stupid whore!”

I laughed loudly, surprised and yet quite unsurprised. What a sweetheart.