Giant Flesh-Eating Pigs and Midget Celebrities

Why is it that on TV people always appear taller than they actually are, and animals appear smaller? I swear it’s true. Like, you always think that when you meet famous people they're going to be these statuesque, glowing gods that you have to physically look up to. As if. I saw Johnny Borrell in Smash and Grab last Thursday and I swear he was no more than an overgrown midget. What the fuck? What does that make Kirsten Dunst? An actual midget? Gross. It makes me a bit uneasy to think that a possible encounter with one of my heroes could be reduced to me accidentally stepping on their head. The wonders of deception...

But seriously, bringing it back to the animal thing, I have this new theory that the American government is concocting a plan to keep the world in the dark about the actual size of animals. This is so at the last minute they can whip out the giant, fur-covered monsters and use them as warriors in their battle for world domination. Crazy? Maybe. But I remember the first time I saw a pig in real life. It’s a moment that haunts my dreams to this very day. It was at the Hackney City Farm about a year ago. See, my friend Tommy and I have this belief that the farm magically cures even the worst of hangovers, so we always end up crawling in there drooling at about 3pm on Sundays. This, however, was my first time. There I was, having fun with the rabbits and the one-eyed rooster when I decided to have a look in the pigpen. And there, out of the corner of my half-open, glazed-over eye I saw the giant, black, hovering beast from hell with a head literally the size of a medium-sized car. I swear if I had a gun I would have shot it right then and there in the middle of its fat face. Scared out of my fucking mind, I ran out of the pen screaming some indecipherable babble about giant flesh-eating pigs. It wasn’t until Tommy explained that, on the contrary, they were actually just normal sized pigs and I had been fooled by a life of believing that Babe: Pig in the City and Charlotte’s Web were honourable sources as to the actual appearance of a pig. Eww. No wonder Jews don’t eat pork.

Similarly, this was also the day I saw my first cow. I wasn’t as scared, but I still screamed and had to hide behind a watering trough. Later on I found out it was actually just a calf that had been born five months ago.

What does it all mean? Why is the TV trying to convince me that giant, life-threatening farm animals don’t exist and that Tom Cruise is anything more than a psychopathic, slightly stretched-out baby? All I pray is that I never see a Moose. Or Shakira. I don’t think I could actually handle seeing that body-writhing, ass shaking gnome-person and live to tell the story.

Squallyoaks Wall Destruction

This video is a bit old now... maybe about 6 months or so. But I thought I'd put it up anyway for your viewing pleasure. Basically the back story is that we had a party in our infamous basement (a.k.a. The Squallyoaks Dungeon). Foals played. People got wasted. It was fun. However, despite all the happy/gurning faces around me, I couldn't help but think, "Fuck! This party would be so much more fun if that god-forsaken wall wasn't there!" So, at about 8 in the morning, we decided (or I decided and then other like-minded people joined in) that we should tare it down. Duh! I can't believe I didn't think of it earlier.

Hope you enjoy this more than the rest of the people I live with did... I think the quote my squat-mate Dom said the following morning was something along the lines of... "I want to rape your face with a cheese grater."

Insomnia Blows

Love of my life...

I think I’m finally feeling better. Slightly. I’m over my existential crisis anyway. Existentialism is for assholes. Stuttering is for assholes. Nosebleeds are for assholes (although I do still get them occasionally). But overall I think I’ve finally realized that things aren’t so bad. They could be a hell of a lot worse anyway. It’s like my mother always said whenever my little brother or I complained as children: “At least you still have your arms.” And she’s right, luckily for me, I do still have my arms. I’d probably appreciate them more if they were slightly slimmer, but I’m thankful for their existence nonetheless.

However, since getting over my existential crisis, I have developed a pretty serious case of insomnia. This is the fourth night in a row that I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve tried everything—reading, counting sheep, masturbation—nothing works. It’s 6:30am at the moment. I’ve just finished watching She’s the Man—a gem of modern cinema. All I want to do sleep. Ugh, I wish I had some valium, or any sleeping aid in the form of a pill… or powder… or liquid. I just need drugs. Drugs drugs drugs. Drugs solve everything. Drugs to make me happy. Drugs to cheer me up when the drugs that made me happy are making me feel sad. Drugs to go to sleep. Drugs to stay awake. Drugs to calm me down. Drugs for everything. This is what has been drilled into my head since before I can remember. No matter what’s wrong with me, there’s a pill out there somewhere that will make everything ok. Painless. If I get a headache, a pill will make it better. If I’m feeling depressed, some more pills will make it better. If I can’t concentrate, pills will solve the problem. I accidentally forget to wear a condom during sex, don’t worry, all it takes is a speedy trip down to the sex clinic for a baby-killing pill and everything is all better. I have been programmed.

These days, however, the variables have changed slightly. Instead of popping an ibuprofen to get rid of a migraine, I’m snorting lines of coke to keep from feeling fat, and pulling myself in a K hole to mute my constant feelings of depression and sadness.

But I guess what my point it (if I’m even making one), is that it’s not my fault that I’m this way. My recent surge in drug use reflects no weakness in character on my part. It’s the American way of life that’s to blame, not me. I’m the victim here people. A casualty of my own warped existence. Help me. Save me. Love me.

The thing is, though it kills me to admit it, I think at the root of all my recent sadness is my breakup with Blaine. And now, like salt in the wound, the bastard’s run off with his band to tour America for two months. So apparently I’m so repulsive that it’s necessary to put an entire ocean between us. Oh God, he’s probably having loads of rampant sex with hot fifteen year old groupies. He’s probably hanging out with someone really cool like, l don’t know, The Strokes or Matchbox 20 or whoever. He’s probably eating Tex Mex. I so hate my life right now.

My only solace in moments like these is Bridget Jones. I love Bridget. We have a real connection. I mean, she was a single, fat alcoholic until she was, what, like forty? And she ended up with Colin Firth. Maybe that’s what my life is going to be like. Maybe I’m going to be made to suffer until I’m middle aged and then magically one day I’ll meet Louis Theroux and we’ll fall madly in love and move into a flat in Primrose Hill and drink expensive wine and talk about smart people things and I’ll have lots of funny anecdotes about when I used to be young and poor and eat out of garbage bins and take ketamine recreationally. One can only hope…

I See the Future and it’s full of Lesbians and Nintendo 64

Vaginas unite.

So I think I’m finally feeling better. Slightly. I’m over my existential crisis anyway. Existentialism is for assholes. Stuttering is for assholes. Nosebleeds are for assholes (although I do still get them). But overall, I think I’ve finally realised that things aren’t so bad. They could be a hell of a lot worse anyway. It’s like my mom always said whenever me or my little brother would complain about stuff when we were kids: “At least you still have your arms.” And she’s right, luckily for me, I do still have my arms. I’d probably appreciate them more if they were slightly slimmer, but I’m thankful to have them nonetheless.

Why am I feeling better you ask? Well, my solution so far has been to never be alone or left with nothing to do, thus keeping my mind off of all of my over-bearing problems that I can’t be bothered to fix or face. Finding things to keep myself occupied has been an entirely new and exciting experience in itself. Over the past week I’ve played about 500 hours of Mario Cart, 500 more of Golden Eye, and roughly 5 million hours of Mario Party (which by the way isn’t even fun but my squat-mate Darren is obsessed with it and has a total psycho freak-out if anyone tries to touch the console when he’s in the midst of one of his 9 hours sessions). I’ve also spent an impressive amount of time playing charades. I had forgotten how fun that game can be. Try acting out “Lawrence of Arabia” when you’re stoned. It will keep you occupied for at least 45 minutes. Other activities have included watching every one of Britney Spear’s music videos chronologically all in one sitting… then doing the same with N’SYNC… then Mandy Moore, and so on and so on. I’ve picked up quite a few good dance moves along the way. I even went to the arcade… although that was a bit depressing as I suck at everything and the driving simulator thing made me feel nauseous. Sigh. If only I was an independent woman like Beyonce. Or Tyra. Or Oprah. Or any of those curvaceous, empowered black women. But no. I have the curves and none of the snappy, black-chick confidence to go along with them, so I’m just a frumpy, depressed white girl with a nosebleed problem. Boring.

In other news, all of my friends as lesbians. Literally. It’s beginning to freak me out. At first I thought it was cool because if we went out as a group any hot boy that paid us any attention would end up with me by default. Unfortunately for me, however, the honeymoon period is over and I think it’s about fucking time that the rest of my idiot friends started appreciating the male genitalia. It’s like, I wouldn’t mind so much if I wasn’t constantly burdened by the fear that I might catch it. (And by “it” I mean the burning desire to lick someone’s vagina.)

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking, “She’s so naive,” or “ What a homophobe! Gayness isn’t contagious.” Well let me tell you something: YES IT IS. Not even a year ago all my friends loved the cock. Actually, they were gagging for it. Fast forward to 2007 (Which by the way was the year that gave birth to GIRLCORE. Coincidence?) and everywhere you go feels like a girl-power fuelled pussy convention. It sucks. I asked my newly converted friend Maria about her thoughts on the lesbo revolution, and her response wasn’t that a case of the lesbi-friendliness was going around, but rather that girls are just starting to realise more and more that… you guessed it… guys are assholes. I decided to think long and hard about what she had said, and though I never thought so before, after a week of being treated like fucking shit by the male species, I’m starting to think that, gosh-darnet, these bull-dykes might be onto something. For example, if you’re out having a nice, relaxed drink with a guy and you lean in to kiss him and he responds by whacking you across the face with a newspaper- that’s the sign of an asshole. Or if it’s 9am and you’re all sat around doing laughing gas and he pops your very last balloon with his cigarette just to piss you off- that’s the sign of an asshole. Or if he invites you out for a drink and then brings you back to his house with the clear intention of fucking you, then has to has hide you in his bedroom like you’re 14 and his mommy is about to come home because his flat-mates aren’t allowed to know you’re there because he has a fucking girlfriend- that’s the sign of an asshole. Fuck this shit. Boys are for gays.

In 30 years time I’m going to look back on my life and realise that there were three main factors in the hideous and spiralling decline of me as a human being: Lesbians, Nintendo 64, and Dawson’s Creek. I resent them all.

My heroes

1. My black mother.

2. Whenever I'm feeling self-concious I try and "channel Tyra." In the words of my idol: "Back that booty up and make it fashion."

Existential Crisis

Drug induced happiness?

Fuck. Shit. Cunt. Whore. I'm having an existential crisis. Actually, according to my squatmate Dom what I’m suffering from is a “serious case of existentialities,” as we’ve discovered it’s contagious and now the whole of Squallyoaks seems to be infected. Our house is one massive mental breakdown waiting to happen. Dom has locked himself in his room and eats nothing but Pot Noodle. Hannah is convinced he has AIDS. Even Darren, who is normally the voice of reason, has shaved off his beard and now does nothing but wander around in a daze, jabbering about suffering from “post-beard fear.” This feels like the beginning of the end.

I'm in love with every boy. Literally. Lately it feels like I fall in love more often than I take a shower. I was at a dinner party the other evening at my friend Jack’s house, and during our conversation his mother asked me, "Have you experienced love yet Karley?" My immediate response was, "What... like today?"

This isn’t to say any of my loves result in any form of physical gratification. Rather I seem to be the epitome of repulsion to most of the men I desire. Oh yeah, by the way I broke up with my boyfriend of three years, Blaine, a couple weeks ago. Bad move. I mean, what was I thinking? He was perfect and I’m a fucking loser. I’ll never find anyone better. I mean yeah he’s disabled and he can’t realty walk and he’s got these weird dreads that sort of smell like dead cats, but I’m into that shit. Ugh, my life is a series of unfortunate events.

Another symptom of my existential crisis has been the recent development of a fake stutter. This is a desperate attempt on my part to make myself more attractive to the opposite sex (and just generally the entire population of the world), but provoking sympathy from those around me. D-d-d-d-do you think that’s a good idea? My squatmate Simon seems to think so as he’s jumped on the bandwagon as well. To be honest, though, my attempts thus far have been fleeting. For example, stuttering doesn’t seem to help when trying to get the Turkish man in the off-license to lower the price of Glen’s Vodka from £8.99 to £7.99. It also fails to persuade bus drivers to let you on the bus without a ticket. It has also yet to trick anyone into sleeping with me. (Apparently ‘p-p-please f-f-fuck me’ isn’t an uber sexy turn-on.) Still, I’m not giving up that easy. I’m going to hold out for a while longer. I have a f-f-f-feeling thing might take a turn for the b-b-better.

Yesterday I cried while making a salad. I just started sobbing, mid cucumber. No prior warning. It scares me to think that I’m the type of person who has vegetable induced emotional meltdowns.

In other news, my nose is going to rot off. Over the past few weeks I’ve put more shit up my nasal passage than I thought humanly possible. I am now suffering the repercussions of my actions. Most of my days are spent either wiping liquidy snot from above my upper lip or running to the bathroom to clean up a nosebleed. The worst was when I got a nosebleed on the first day of my new internship at Tank Magazine last week. Talk about embarrassing. Thankfully the head of editorial, Xerxes, is just as much of a wastoid as I am. When I returned clean-faced from the bathroom after the shameful episode, he looked at me sympathetically and said, “Don’t worry about it. I puked on a duck this morning.”

However, in between blowing my nose and not having sex, I’ve been spending most of my time trying to “figure it out.” And by that I mean I hired the book Introducing Existentialism from the library. I chose this particular book because of the quote on the cover that reads, “Feel smarter almost instantly.” Sounds good to me. Unfortunately, with every page I read I feel more and more like a fucking idiot. “Every step forward in reflection is a step back from immediacy.” “Subjective life can never be made the object of formally abstract knowledge.” Like, what? I’ve been reading this shit for days and the only conclusion I’ve come to is that I’m a retard. Amazing. Put a gun to my head and paint the walls with my brains. Actually, I take that back. If I’ve learned one thing from my studies it’s that suicide is not the answer (despite how glorious it may seem in my current state of self loathing). At least I think that’s what this God forsaken book is trying to tell me anyway. Sartre says this: “Suicide, as the last act of life, is denied the future and is therefore meaningless.” Looks like I’ll be s-s-sticking around for a w-w-w-while longer then.

More maddness:

1. Bestival, pre-brain damage.

2. GIRLCORE takes over Radio Bestival.

1. First squat party at the Toilet Factory. Amazing.

2. Mid party, lying in a pile of filth.