***WARNING:: If you are feeling a bit miserable this post might tip you over the edge, so stop reading here.***
Somebody has put some photos up on Facebook from New Year's Eve and they are so bad that I have just been crying. I look so, so awful. We went to Devon for four days and by the fourth day I literally felt like a toxic cloud of soot, floating next to myself and following myself closely round the cottage.
There are a lot of photographs of me dancing with an inflatable sword, wearing a turban made from zebra-print leggings. I remember we all had one on our heads and we called them Lurbans. We called Katie, who did them all for us, Mother Lurban. We ran round the cottage looking for more leggings to wear on our heads.
I remember all this but I do not remember look so hideously disgusting.
I thought 'Maybe that's what I look like all the time' and then I started crying hysterically, so let's pretend that I don't look like that. Maybe that is only what I look like after four days of heavy Lurban-wearing, toxin-injesting and eating nothing but crisps and sausages.
We originally had a HUGE order of food and drink from Asda, that cost £500. But on the day we were supposed to go to the cottage, I woke up and OJ and TC's house and has just found out that the whole shop had been cancelled, because OJ's credit card company thought it might be a 'fraudulent transaction' and Asda hadn't said anything!
I used to LOVE Asda and now I LOATHE it.
Asda's fuck-up meant TC and I had to trail round the nearest Tesco when we got to Devon, filling THREE TROLLIES with booze, crisps and sausages. The lights in there were so weird that I got really dizzy and could barely read the shopping list on my cracked Crapberry.
I really want to blog but I have nothing to say, really. Living in London, you realise that nobody actually wants to listen to anything you have to say. I think I've started editing what I say so much that now there is nothing left.
When people at work ask me what I did over the weekend I tend to say 'oh just a few things really what about you?'. It might seem as though I am trying to be enigmatic, but I know that is only the response not to make me panic and stop halfway through, thinking 'Am I saying too much?'
Last night I went to an exhibition with Lauren at the V&A - Disobedient Objects. It's about objects that have been created and/or used for protesting.
Shields against the police made to look like giant books, so that riot police fighting back students protesting cuts to their university appeared to be attacking literature and learning - battering books with batons.
An amazing bank note from Burma, with a secret watermark of Aung San Suu Kyi - woman who won the election but was placed under house arrest by the military. The designer was told to put Aung San Suu Kyi's father on the note instead - General Aung San. But the watermark portrait had softer features and even though the face was wearing the General's hat, it was clearly supposed to be Aung San Suu Kyi. It was two months before the government noticed. Amazing.
There was also a video of protesters in California in the seventies, with their arms locked into those tube things and the police were grabbing their faces and rubbing pepper spray into their eyes. It really scared me.
There were a lot of objects in the exhibition from recent political protest movements - against the Spanish mortgage crisis, the trouble in Syria, pans turned into drums from Buenos Aires.
Lauren said the whole thing depressed her and it was really depressing. All these protests, increasing over the years and things get worse and worse.
We had to go into the gift shop to calm down - only consumerism can cheer me up, now that is depressing.
Fucking hell, sorry. I bet tomorrow I will be in a TIP TOP mood, bouncing off the walls and smiling. But for now I am just sitting on my bed, on a Saturday night, in a foul mood. My housemate has got people round and I know I'm being rude and, in a way, cutting my nose off to spite my face because she asked me if I wanted to go out with them and I said no even though I would probably cheer up if I just got dressed up and went out, but I don't want to speak to anyone.
What will cheer me up??
Lauren told me there is a nice series on iPlayer about old ladies who bitch about each other, I think. I might try and look for that.
Normally when I am feeling sad I listen to Mr Bombastic, but if I put it on now Mon and all her friends will hear it I think I am spending Saturday night in my bedroom, dancing to Shaggy in my bedroom.