Sunday, May 29, 2005

happy 6 months to me...

*counts on fingers*

December, January, February, March, April, May. Hey! I've been a blogger for 6 months. I feel... bloggish.

*****

It was a weekend of much partying. Saturday night was Sarah's (my best friend from school) 18th birthday party, so a bunch of us went along together. Odd. Everyone's changed during college. We are all very different to how we were, so old school friends are kind of a surprise. That's all I'll say about that.

Aside from rolling over on the grass without putting my drink down, thus spilling purple Reef all over myself, the grass, and other people, it was a good night. Terrible music though. Had a horrific flashback when the bloke on the CD said "if you wanna hear Hixxy and Styles, gimme yo whistles!!!!" and I realised that, not only do I know who Hixxy and Styles are, I used to listen to them all the time.

I forgot I used to be into Happy Hardcore. Oh good lord, save me.

*****

On Saturday night, after work, we drove to MaccyDs so I could get dinner and laugh at Phil. He wasn't there. I was not pleased.

The exciting thing here is that once we'd picked everyone up (6 people in a two door, C-reg, one litre Fiesta. It's scary how often we do that) we went to the AGINCOURT. I've been there twice before, once for a party, once for a gig, but never to the big, bad over 18s rock night on a Saturday.

Loud rock music, sticky floors and more goths than you can shake a jewel-encrusted ebony sceptre with a goat's head on top at? Who wouldn't be excited!

Am also very proud that I got in without getting IDed. I didn't even have to pull the my-friend-Emily-is-dating-the-guy-who-helps-run-the-place card. Sweet.

Proceeded to dance like a maniac until 2am (which was fun but seriously hurt the morning after), tasted my first Snakebite (which was fun but could easily be the kind of drink I will regret) and ended up buying £10 worth of charity roses, which I gave to Liz, my ex, a man known only to me as Big Gay Dan, a girl in a car who almost ran us over and Mr Headbanger (I blame the snakebite).

£10? A tenner. A whole tenner on roses which I then gave away. Oh well, at least I made some friends. Big Gay Dan's definitely a keeper.

Oh yeah, and my ex was there. Luckily his new girlfriend wasn't, but seriously, they could have been making babies right there on the floor in front of me and it wouldn't have mattered. Don't think anything could have made that particular evening any more painful.

We've seen each other about three times since we broke up in December, meaning that the ol' wounds are still nice and raw. We don't know how to act around each other, we haven't figured out how to be 'just friends'.

I didn't realise how much I miss that tiny Italian stoner. He knows me better than anyone, I'm one best friend short at the moment. Haha. Short.

*****

Then, today, Liz, Paul and I were driving around and I decided it was about time they met Phil. So, away we go to Farnborough Gate, and LO AND BEHOLD, he's not there.

Big Scottish Julie tells me that Phil has left early. The effects of this are twofold.

1) I am beginning to doubt whether Phil actually has a job at all.

2) My friends are beginning to doubt whether 'this Phil bloke' actually exists at all.

So, Phil, Flip, Burger-Flip, if you will, if that is in fact your real name. DO SOME WORK, DAMMIT, IF I HAVE TO CHAIN YOU TO THAT DEEP FAT FRIER.

Also, Big Scottish Julie likes your accent. Your accent? Has she HEARD HERSELF SPEAK?!

*****

Oh and Emilie, searching for cocktails, I found this.

I like number 7.

Apparently a university sandwich bar also banned sandwiches named the 'Fat Dyke' and the 'Fat Bitch'. Can't think why.

I've put a list of the cocktails that sum me up on the Listings page. Hands up if you didn't know the listings page existed.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

2am

same as we should trust, live, love - our handwriting should be that of children.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

getting serious

Playing piano is not something I ever put much effort into.

I started getting lessons at junior school, when I was about 7. I wasn't exactly a natural. I tried, really hard, I wanted so badly to be as good as the other kids who'd been playing since they could walk, who seemed so much better than me. Well, they were so much better than me. The problem was that, after my initial enthusiasm where I played all the time when I sat and did my exercises (I am C, middle C, I can now play mi-ddle C!) until my parents were on the verge of nervous breakdown, I still wasn't any good. And because I didn't get my instant results, I got de-motivated, I stopped trying, and still didn't get any better.

My shameful secret? I didn't get to Grade 1 until I was 13. That's 6 years after I started playing. If you're not familiar with musical grading, that's an appalling amount of time to achieve nothing in. By that time, kids my age were 4 or 5 grades ahead of me, and I felt crap. The worse I got, the less I tried and vice versa.

I swapped to a new teacher, my boyfriend-at-the-time's older sister, Vicky, and came on in leaps and bounds. I did grade 1 and 2, skipped a grade and was getting ready to do the big number 4 when college commitments and lack of time meant that I had to give up. What did I learn? The same damn thing that any music student with half a brain cell learns (a lot quicker than I did) - you can't get better unless you work at it. You have to take it seriously, or you'll go nowhere.

The thing is, that rule hadn't applied to me before. Without sounding too much like an egomaniac, I found school easy, because I was just good at it. I came out on top in things, tests and exams, because it's just my thing. I'm a very academic person, over the years I've even come to like it. I am a geek. I embrace it. I am no longer ashamed. The thing is, I was used to doing well with the minimum amount of effort. I never tried particularly hard, it just happened. It's the way I've always done things.

Guys, I have to be honest with you, I'm a fluke. I'm secretly terrified that someday someone's gonna figure me out and take my good grades away from me because I don't try hard enough to deserve them. That sounds awful, but it's true. I'm just lucky in that respect. But, my lord, I appreciate it.

Here's the point (yes, I have one. yes, it's about god, gasps of surprise all round, deal with it).

I spoke at St Mary's on Wednesday about Bible study, and how having a good solid knowledge of the bible and an actual understanding of what your faith is about will help you so much when life gets tough. What I wanted to say, but didn't, is that there's no point in even being a Christian unless you're prepared to be serious about it.

If there's one thing I've learnt, it's that a commitment to God actually means something. It's not lip service, it's something real. It's agreeing to change your life to fit with what God wants, obeying him and serving him. Jesus Christ carried a cross, he didn't say we were forgiven, he showed us, he made a sacrifice that was actual, tangible. It was real.

It's so easy when new people come to Church to skirt around stuff like bible study and obedience, because it's not attractive. Two salesmen are trying to make a deal.

Salesman 1: Hello there madam, would you like to come to church? You'll have to make a life-changing commitment, spend some good solid hours with your nose in that there book and learn to be obedient. That's right, just like at Sunday school!

Salesman 2: Hello there madam, would you like to come to church? You'll get the security of God's love, a whole new social circle, some cool music and the opportunity to show off your talents and, if you're clever, you won't have to make any effort at all! Don't be silly, you don't have to be obedient, that's so traditionalist...

Ok, so that's a harsh view of it, but it is, sadly, accurate. It's so tempting to skip out the boring stuff, the stuff that no one wants to hear because you don't want to scare people away from church. You figure, once they've known God, the stuff about the bible and all that, the serious stuff will just come naturally.

So, I'm 16 years old, and I'm a Christian. Let's just say, I chose Salesman 2. Faith like a scrap of paper that flew away the minute the wind blew, the minute there was a boy around, the minute something more exciting than church came along.

That's the problem. Bubblegum, popcorn Christianity is all very well for getting young people into church and keeping it 'hip', but by acting like all there is to life with God is youth group and Soul Survivor once a year, we're denying people something so important. If new Christians aren't encouraged to get serious about their faith, to get some biblical roots down, to become spiritually mature, the minute the wind blows, they'll be gone. They'll never know how awesome it feels to know that your life is truly in God's hands, they'll never understand how deep this relationship can go. Personally, it's only since last summer, when I decided to 'get serious', that I've really figured out what this God thing is about. It's so much better, so much more fulfilling than I thought life could be before.

It makes me so sad to think that people can come so close to being whole with God, only to miss out because they never understood that, like a marriage or a friendship, you have to work at living a life for God.

I like to think of it as being a challenge rather than an invitation. Forget salesmen, there's no deals to be made with God. No special offers, give this life, get the next one free (ha!). No money off, taking down the price to make the offer sweeter.

Not a bargain, a challenge. Picture a ringleader, a fitness instructor, whatever floats your boat. It's difficult, it's dangerous, it's no picnic in the park. It's giving everything you've got, it's giving your whole life back to the one who gave his for you. It's something serious, and you have to take it seriously or you won't ever get anywhere and then, what's the point?

Monday, May 23, 2005

awkward questions part 1

So, here I am, chilling out on this fine specimen of a Monday evening, eating nectarines and cream and sipping some of 'dat demon Pepsi.

I've discovered this site where atheists get together to talk about religion. I say talk. I say atheists. The majority of atheists I've met in my natural have been as personable as you like, and very tolerant of other's beliefs. These guys have dedicated a website to their intense hatred of religion, mainly Christianity. I started reading, for shits and giggles, and found myself so furious I had to get involved. It's the generalisations that piss me off.

Anyone who believes in Christianity can't think very much... stupid Christians who regurgitate whatever their pastors tell them without even considering why... gay-bashing, abortionist-bombing fundies taking over the world...

Seriously. Give me a break.

So, I went to the comments page, left a comment disagreeing with something one of the site's creators had said about Easter. No one replied, although they did reply to something someone else said ("fucking Christian dumbass!"). I leave another comment. Something to the effect of "come on guys, i'm waiting, prove me wrong, come destroy my faith why don't you?".

Now I'm embroiled in a vicious debate about whether it's possible to disprove the existence of god, whether religious experience can count as objective proof. It's making my head hurt. I think I'm holding my corner, but it's difficult to tell when the person you're arguing with would rather tell you to 'fuck off and die' then tell you if you've made a point. Thus, I can't actally tell if I'm making sense or not, because they'll never concede that I've made sense.

I only went on the site to see how I could hold up under atheist attack. Why can't I get into arguments with grown-ups?

(I put my homepage down, I'm waiting for one of them to come find me here and rip me to shreds.)

The other interesting thing on this site is a questionairre for Christians that poses the nastiest most awkward questions this guy could think of and gives Christians a chance to fill in the boxes and... make their defence, as it were, so to speak. I gave it a try and it was interesting actually, a real challenge. Atheists ask the kind of awful questions that other Christians tend not to, some of it was stuff I'd never had to think about it before.

Again, I think I explained how I see it, I didn't resort to "um woteva jsus luvs you and i'll pray for til you find da lord in yur life!", so they might even take me seriously. Again, I got the horrible feeling I was being tested.

Thought I'd throw this one open, it's the one I took the longest time to think of a response to:

Jesus apparently died for us, facing god's wrath in our place. Why did he have to do this? Why couldn't god forgive us anyway? Why does god - a perfect being - have negative, human-based emotions like anger and wrath? Is not the whole concept absurd?

My answer was something along the lines of - we needed to know a wrathful god before we could appreciate forgiveness.. anger itself is not a negative emotion, it's channeling that anger in the wrong way that's sinful.

I wasn't very clear about it though, because I'm... not very clear about it. So what do you think? Christians, atheists and Meffists alike - what's your opinion on all dat jazz?

Update: Should have posted this originally, the site is www.religionisbullshit.com, content belongs to them not me, any views expressed are theirs not mine... blah blah.

Friday, May 20, 2005

from velocity to violence

Oops. *waves goodbye to the moral highground*

Apparently crazy hippies are as bad as terrorists.

It's a nice way for people to tar an entire group with one big brush. Forget Greenpeace, forget real eco-warriors, it's crazy motherfuckers who use violence against violence that people take notice of. Why do they always have to pick on the extreme groups and assume that they're the rule rather than the exception.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

media commentary of the slightly deranged

I did a sketch in drama yesterday, mask work, archetypal characters and all that. It was COMEDY GOLD. No one laughed.
I was like, come on guys, I'm wearing a harlequin mask and smoking a rubber chicken - how could that NOT be funny?

******

I would like the whole world to know how completely and utterly un-excited I am by the new Star Wars film. I'm trying so hard to avoid it, because George Lucas is officially on my shitlist for being such a money hungry splodge. As is Ewan Macgregor for growing a beard and covering up almost a third of his lovely lovely face.

*****

I would also like to express concern over the release of It's All Gone Pete Tong. As interesting as the posters look, any film that's been described as 'excellent' and 'the best British film of the year' by publications such as Zoo and Nuts has got to be shite and should probably not be allowed to exist.

Snob? Myself?

*****

While I'm dissing what I don't know, I'd also like to express some healthy hatred toward Celebrity Love Island. Over tanned chavs who have done nothing, but nothing, to ever warrant the public's attention gathering on an island to drink lots of free booze and get laid by near strangers.

As fun as it does sound... is this really why they invented TV?

*****

I've decided to take matters into my own hands. In English on Tuesday my teacher, Jane, had a furious rant about Heat magazine and celebrity worship culture. Caroline and I kept it up all the way back to Sociology, why do they appeal to the lowert common denominator, why do they assume we've got nothing better to do than discuss Victoria Beckham's cellulite, who gives a damn about who's got fake tits??

So, we're making our own magazine. It's called Pompous Pussy. It's written solely for the more civilised lady of the times, with articles, reviews, no breasts in sight and (most importantly) NO CHAV CELEBRITIES. It's snobby, pompous, so far up its own arse it can see daylight and will probably flop after the novelty wears off.

Not that we're ever going to write it, of course.

Monday, May 16, 2005

i am not but i know i am

I am so tired. I can't sleep and I am so tired. I am so nauseous, I am spinning, my head is spinning.

I am Joe's pulsing headache.

I am nothing but a pair of headphones with a pulse.

I am so worthless.

I am in love, completely utterly, with so many things. With learning, with talking, with writing, with knowing stuff and becoming wise. With God and with myself, with every single person around me. With words, quotes, books, songs, places and several teachers. Countless guys. What the hell am I?

I am weak and feeble, I am strong, but not strong enough. I am everything I know about and I am absolutely fuck all. I am tiny and confused and furious and bitter and whinging and childlike. I'm grown up, on good days, I'm almost a whole person.

Bad days I'm just a fraction.

I'm high on incense that smoked last night and gave me this goddamn headache. I am Joe's alcohol intolerance. I am indigestion and restlessness. I am constantly on the verge of vomitting. I'm so tense that my shoulders ache, my whole body aches all the time, I'm physically ill with nervousness. I'm terrified and paranoid.

So paranoid that I probably shouldn't even be considering adding weed to this equation. I am the crudest Christian this side of the black apostle in Dogma. I am Joe's occasional blasphemy.

I've started saying 'oh my goodness' instead of 'oh my god'. This morning I woke up with a headache so bad that I couldn't look at the light and I said 'oh my motherfucking goodness'. That's me, summed up in one curse.

Did I mention that I'm hopelessly in love? If I was over dramatic (which of course, I'm not) then I'd say that my entire life has been spent in a time of unrequitedness. I am unrequited. It's not that I don't get what I want because life is unfair or God is unfair, it's because the chances are there, the blessings are there but I miss out on them on account of my being so rubbish at noticing them.

I am Joe's unsent valentine.
I am Joe's dubious imagery.

Did I mention that I can feel again?

I decided to give my life back to God again at the weekend. I decided (as I tend to do) that feeling shit was an altogether rubbish way of living my life. I would spend one of my paltry 24 hours a day in prayer or in study, immersing my whole life in Christ and being healed, inspired and generally refreshed. It lasted til last night, when I stayed awake half the night coming to the slow realisation that it is not possible for one to turn one's life around so quickly, and that to trust in God so wholeheartedly requires a strength of mind that I don't seem to have.

It should be so easy, letting go.

I am Joe's white knuckles.

Whenever I try to surrender, I do it on my own back, because I have realised that I need God so I will let him into my life. Then, I realise that that's not surrender at all, so much as an educated decision. Logically, I know that life is God is better than any other kind of life I've tried, so I decide to try it again. God doesn't want me to give devotion a try, he just wants me to do it, permanently and for real.

Which leads me to think, if I'm still too stubborn to let God in, after all this time, after all this hassle, how much hassle is it gonna take? When the fuck am I gonna figure this out?

I am stupid. I am whinging. I am scared.
I am not very much at all, other than that I know I am.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

meat eaters? hypocrites? nah...

For all the people who have ever mistaken me for a vegetarian...



My conscience is clear. To Burger King, away!

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

the cool ratings

Emilie is cooler than me, because she's a quarter black. Never mind that she used to play the flute, or could fit in my pocket - nothing will ever detract from this unassailable ethnic coolness. Is that politically incorrect? If so, my bad. I just wish I was black.

So, anway, my point is, that I have to determine whether people are cooler than me. The Queen, for example, is cooler than me for having several palaces and hordes of corgis. Her cool factor is lessened by the fact that she spawned Prince Charles and does not dress pukka. My cool factor in comparison to her is in turn increased by the fact that I can wear jeans and swear in public, and don't look permanently startled.

Me and the Queen, therefore, are equally cool.

I decided to make use of my Listings blog (hands up if you didn't know there were other sections to this blog) to compile a list of reasons why Philip Duncalfe is very uncool. Now, as is my custom, it is therefore necessary for me to balance the scales with a list of reasons why he is also far cooler than I will ever be. Therefore, we will be equally cool. At least until he gets on my nerves again.

So.

Why Phil is cooler than me (to be read in conjunction with Why I am cooler than Phil)
1) He has an ace accent. The day I figure out what the accent actually is will be a day of much jubilation. It's not Welsh. Not Australian. Much. Any other guesses? I, in comparison, talk like a chav.

2) He has unconditional offers at universities.

3) He is not especially crude in everyday conversation.

4) He is exotic and well travelled. In the sense that he's visited more than one continent, but hell, anyone who's lived some place other than Yateley is exotic and well-travelled to me.

5) He has never worked for Tesco.

6) He doesn't sit like an upturned hedgehog.

7) He's a Duncalfe.

8) He was intelligent enough to figure out that the piles of coal by the sewage plant in Sandhurst were not, in fact, something else entirely less pleasant. Although I still maintain that my theory explained the smell a lot better.

9) He is able to drink beer without having projectile vomitting flashbacks.

10) He speaks pidgin.

11) He doesn't spend disproportionate amounts of time compiling lists of reasons why he is cool and uncool in comparison to his friends.

12) When I told him I had nightmares about lifts, he didn't laugh.

so

So, I go to Nikki's house, with the intention of baking some muffins and having a good old catch up.

I end up telling her everything.

I'm not sure how we made the transition from idle chit-chat about whether it's morally right for someone to copyright the recipe to banana and chocolate muffins, and whether psychology makes faith difficult (we decided that it can do) to me spilling my guts, but we did anyway. Oh deary me did I spill my guts.

I ended up telling her my story. A potted history of myself, the reasons why I think I am the way I am, the reasons why I was that way in the first place.

My story begins with the words "When I was 13, I met this guy." and is both punctuated by and finished with the phrase "I don't know what to do."

My story didn't really start when I was 13. Other things started earlier. Like my being afraid of death, which started when I was 7 and saw a thing on TV where this woman caught a virus that made her age and die in about 60 seconds.
"What's happening to her?"
"She's getting old."
"Why?"
"Because everybody does."
For months, maybe years, after that day, I thought about dying every day. Every night, particularly. I didn't want to sleep in case I didn't wake up.

The nightmares started when I was about 11, when I watched Scream at a friend's birthday party and suddenly, that guy in the mask was in every corner of every room. He was standing a the bottom of my bed in the morning, he was reflected in the mirror at night, he was behind the shower curtain. I dreamt about that mask for about two years. Scarecrows too. And lifts. I always dream about lifts.

I tell Nikki some of this. Mainly I just hint at it. She knows I'm afraid of a lot of things and she knows why. For the purposes of My Story, that's all she needs.

My Story - How I got from 13 to 18 in 5 easy years, doesn't take long to explain. Within its pages, two grandparents die, and I make a lot of bad decisions. I go through three relationships and become preoccupied with the way the first one hurt me, and the ways in which I hurt the second too. It's a riveting tale of sex, drugs and rock and roll, only I've never taken drugs.

Although, I've thought about it recently. My most recent ex is a stoner of the highest (ha!) kind and I know that the offer of being introduced to my subconscious via a quick smoke is always open. I've never even been tempted to try that before. No matter what people say, drugs change you. I've seen it happen and I have no wish to be changed in that way.

I do, however, have a very intense wish to feel something else other than what I'm feeling right now. It's getting harder and harder to feel nothing at all.

I talk an awful lot at Nikki's house. We cook two batches of muffins, they are the nicest muffins I think I've ever had any kind of involvement with and I feel a lot better. When I've talked for a very long time and am starting to lose steam, Nikki asks me a couple of questions and I start talking again.

I tell her about the bible verses I've been given recently, from Romans and Proverbs.
"Wisdom is like a woman shouting in the street."
"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

and the one that I would have tattooed on my heart if I thought it would fit:
"I am leading you in the way of wisdom,
I am guiding you on the right path.
Nothing will hold you back.
You will not be overwhelmed."

I tell Nikki all this, and she tells me to keep writing my thoughts down, to find some healthy ways of letting stuff out. Then she gives me the bowl of cake mix and the spoon to lick.

Friday, May 06, 2005

let's catch up - things that have pissed me off since last we spoke

Aloha. I'm back. And, surprise surprise, I'm angry about something.

The Daily Mail - for telling us to vote Tory.

The Sun - for telling us to vote Labour.

36% of the electorate - for listening to The Sun. As much as Michael Howard makes my skin crawl...
Now I know how America must have felt when George Bush got re-elected. I'm actually embarassed to be living in a country where the majority of the electorate (the majority of the portion of the electorate that can be arsed to vote) don't seem to either realise or care that TONY BLAIR IS A LIAR.

It's not just a conspiracy, it's fact. He's lied and lied and lied again. He's gone back on every promise he's ever made, he doesn't listen to his people, he lies to them, he thinks that we're idiots. Well, we've let him get away with it... so maybe he's right.

My family - for not telling me who they voted for. I can't imagine why, it's not like I'm bolshy and opinionated when it comes to politics.

Students at Oxford - for being stupid enough to jump off a very high bridge into 2ft of water. If that had been students at Skegness polytechnic, they would have been neanderthals and proles. Because they're at Oxford, it's youthful high spirits that went tragically wrong.

That made me laugh. The thing that pissed me off was my mum saying, "See, you could've gone to Oxford."

Is that her being pushy or calling me a brainless tosser?

School children at the matinee performance of Julius Caesar I saw yesterday - for being utter knobs. Not only did they burst out laughing every single time someone died (and a LOT of people died in this play), but they also talked, ate sweets and shouted "eurgh!" when two of the male characters hugged and kissed before going off into battle.

"I don't mind gays, there's nothing wrong with being gay, I just find it repulsive when people even hint at any kind of affection between men. That's minging that is! I'm twelve years old! I shouldn't be allowed to go to the theatre!"

Seriously. I believe that theatre should be for everyone. I also believe that everyone should shut the hell up when people are risking their necks to perform. More than the Hamiltons, the Blairs, the Beckhams, Eastenders, the Sun newspaper, the Daily Mail and Blu Cantrell rolled together in a big ball - I HATE PEOPLE WHO MAKE NOISE DURING PLAYS.

Myself - various, inc: Losing my passport, developing an inability to sleep, not enjoying the wonderful things that I should be enjoying, not doing ANY work, having stolen Straw Dogs off of Emilie and not plucking up the guts to watch it, not sending any writing to my old English teacher, sending too much to my old Drama teacher, not cutting my hair.

James Bond - for always, always getting the girl.

The women in James Bond films - for never, ever telling the greasy fucker where to get off the carousel. Pig. Hussies. You know where you can stick that License to Kill. How about a license to get the hell of my television and check yourself into a sexual health clinic?

Garnier Nutrisse Intense Light Copper Permanent Hair Colourant - for smelling so bad that within thirty seconds of putting the stuff on my hair I was retching like a cat with a hairball and swearing like a trooper. Also for still making my hair smell like crap after I'd washed it three times and sprayed half a can of hairspray on it.

Women's magazines - for showing nothing but anatomically impossible beauties with giant knockers, tiny waists, perfect hair and three inches of make-up on botoxed faces.

Men's magazines - for showing exactly the same thing but with the camera focussed distinctly downwards.

It's not just being annoyed that women's magazines assume that all we care about is how we look, it's the fact that the first thing you see in a newsagent's is row after row of tits and arses. Has it never occured to anyone that maybe a girl doesn't wanna see that when she's out buying chocolate?

The Full Monty - for making me cry in front of my film studies class.

My ex-boyfriend - for getting a new girlfriend while I'm still on my own, for making me care that I'm on my own, for being the person who knows me better than anyone else on the entire planet, for not being my boyfriend anymore.

Yes I know that's hypocritical and makes me a bitch because it's my fault but I'm lonely and I don't care.

Bailey's Minis - for being mini, and not... maxi, and therefore not containing nearly enough Bailey's.

People who say hello and goodbye in other languages - for sounding like pretentious twats.

Ciao.