Writing about writing. How very post modern.

My friend Bex and I were sat in her bedroom last night, burning Nag Champa and doing various hippie dealings, and I was prompted by a source that will remain nameless to work on some creative writing.

I've not really written anything of note since I graduated almost 2 years ago. My dissertation garnered a relatively good grade, not that I can remember what that was now. The cover of my dissertation currently serves as the thin card base of a hat I made for my burlesque routine Tin Soldier. I could pretend that I did this to make a statement about my status as an educated and articulate woman who chooses to strip. However in reality I simply had the impulse to make the hat right away and that was the only item I could find to serve as the base at the time. Though it is fun to show fellow dancers backstage the inside of the hat where the title 'Violence and Perceived Violence in Pornography' can be seen, if a bit hidden by bits of fake fur.

I haven't read my dissertation as one whole piece of work, I simply proof-read after finishing each chapter and handed that damn thing in as I just wanted it to be over. I spend 5 years doing my degree and I'd had enough of being a film studies student. Not that being a film studies graduate is much better, though I do have a full time job now. A job that has nothing to do with my degree whatsoever. Well done me.

I've had a fair few interesting discussions about my dissertation, which would then tend to meander onto the subject of sexuality in general. Mostly these occur in pub gardens. I remember shouting loudly over the drinkers in The Prince of Wales pub on Gloucester Road to my friend Charlie about it. And animatedly discussing it with a man I'd met just a couple of hours before in the garden of The Bell in Stokes Croft, while the two of us and the entire patronage of the pub were dressed as zombies, stopping only to swig from a bottle of chocolate sauce based fake blood before pretending to vomit said substance down my chest whilst stood knock-kneed in slashed clothing.

My previous housemate, Stephen, came to the conclusion that I am a 'sex person' (Lynn!). I could try and refute this fact...but that would be pointless.

At work nobody can hear you scream

Man: I just want to say, your benches outside aren't very good. The gaps between the planks are so big that my glass tipped over and I lost half my drink.
There is about half an inch gap between the planks.
Me: *not taking any shit* Oh! I'm so sorry about that.
 I carry on with what I'm doing. A few minutes later.
Man: Are you going to do anything about the drink I lost?
Me: Sir, it's not my responsibility to refill your glass if you spill your drink.
Man: But your tables made it spill.
Me: I've never had any other complaints or heard of anyone else losing drink because of our tables.
Man: But...your tables.
Me: I'm not going to refill your pint motherfucker.
Ok, I didn't say motherfucker. But I wanted to.


Fuck you and your orange tshirt. 

 Everyone loves Futurism!

Irrational hatred #34

Online platformer games that use the space bar as 'jump' rather than the up cursor key.

Maria Bamford rocks.

Maria Bamford's One-Hour Homemade Christmas Special! from Maria Bamford on Vimeo.

You know what's awesome

It's great when you realise your quilt is FAR TOO DAMN HOT so you pile it down to the end of the bed and grab your spare quilt cover only to find that you must have put it away a little damp because it smells fucking weird.

I live in a drug den!

Actually, the title of this post is a lie. I do not live in a drug den, though I'm sure somepeople think I do.

I'm now living in a rather bohemian area of town known as Montpelier. Although most people, and I would agree, would say I ACTUALLY live in a rather scum filled area of town known as Stokes Croft. This generally means avoiding being accosted by the homeless, or the mentally ill, or alcoholics, or drug addicts, or arts students or all of the above while trying to buy toilet roll. I have since learned to just look ahead and carry on. It also means that walking into town requires walking through the affectionately named 'Bear Pit' or James Barton Rounabout subway. This is where strange people come together and drink White Ace and swear a lot. Mostly, it's not as bad as it seems.

I live with two men (I say men, one is just 20 years old. 20! He's a child!) and a cat named Mr Spoon.

Rich and I have been split up for a little over a month now. Though I've only been moved out a week. We are still friends, and not in that way where 'still friends' means just not wanting to kill the other party. We're actually still getting on. Though check back with me later on that one, as I've tried 'we can still be friends' before and it didn't work.

I'm also off on a few jollies over the next few months, doing shows about the place. Liverpool in 3 weeks. Swansea, West Brom and Weston Super Mare after the summer...oh yes, the big time. Didn't win 2nd Place Best UK Newcomer for nuttin'. Though I do get to perform at the show I've spent many a night running around stage-handing for, as last. That's Coco Boudoir at Chapel Arts in Bath, in October.

I will soon be organising some form of gathering at my new place to celebrate living here now. Though I don't know when.