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Mar. 17th, 2007 @ 01:44 am
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I got into Concordia's Writing Program! Holy shit. They actually like my portfolio. Wowee.
(thanks for the mad scanning Erica. you're a *)
Double major in creative writing and french translation.
and I'll add some chinese courses if I have time.
Casey, I'm coming!
Smiley fridge, I'm coming.
Annoying Victoria scenesters who relocated....I'm coming.
Tonight was absolutely wicked. Met my favourite living celebrity.
I'm so not down with having to miss a pillow fight flash mob in London tomorrow. Stupid work.feeling:  geeky noise: rnb :( |
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Mar. 14th, 2007 @ 12:36 am
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Uhh, I feel so shit about this, Im writing my resignation letter and currently it's like a morbid game of fill in the blank. My _________ is dying of______ and I need to spend my days at the _______ Hospital which is too far for my commute to work.
But because of ____________ I can still work the week until ______ is admitted on Wednesday. (aka I wanna work tons now that I make mad tips, plz). "I feel it would be unfair to go on indefinite compassionate leave when I am still a new member of the team and you are in need of dependable staff."
I am going straight to hell. I don't know who to nominate for death, as I don't want to jinx anyone's health when me and my family have a penchant for disease. I figure I'll say someone who's already dead so if I run into a coworker and they ask how _____ is, I can say that _________ died with a straight face and have a perfectly good reason to not come back to work.
Man Im actually going to seriously miss London. Tonight, a block from work, there was a massive red carpet premiere of some likely to be shit Sienna Miller movie and it's so cool to think I could just head over if I actually gave a shit and didnt opt for Doritos and flicking past it on tv. I'm wasted on London's celebrity culture. Britain is the worst for having people who are famous for doing shit all.
LAWL---> http://youmakemetouchyourhandsforstupidreasons.ytmnd.com/
In other breaking news, I really want to hate-rape Harry Potter, tearing his invisibility cloak and breaking his glasses. Let's look at this picture from my last post again.
Like, damn. Harry is totally my type too, I have a bizarre magnetism to tortured boys with insane family problems. Stupid fucking wizard boy, I want to pin him into that haystack and just have my violent way with him and write a graphic erotic story about the literally magical shit we'd do.
I need a cold shower.noise: does the spice girls make anyone else sad? |
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Mar. 12th, 2007 @ 11:46 pm
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I'm living Final Destination lately. Last night I took Joanna to Soho. We figured sleazy strip clubs were in order as she's never been in one. After various sketchy soho experiences, we paid £10 to get into a supposed strip club. "You just need to buy one drink," says the doorgirl. We got in and went down a dark stairway to find an empty basement, with some chairs, velvet drapery and a gross lady with cellulite talking to a man who was obviously paying for friendship in the corner. The menu said cocktails were £40 each, $100, and a glass of water was $10. A mousy girl in a cheap dress approaches our table and says we must pay her a £35 ($90) hostess fee for a joy or her intellectual conversation. We flat out told her that was the dumbest thing we had ever heard and Joanna asked if we could get an entry refund. "NO," she spat, "there are girls down here in their underwear who don't even get tips and need the hostess fee!" So much wrath. There were no girls in underwear. I'm not entirely sure strippers work there. Mouse girl and Cellulite were the only ones there, and both could have passed for male anyway. She demanded our money, which we didnt even have anyway, and realising we were totally about to be robbed in a dark basement, we fled the scene to be chased by sleazy pimpesque men down the streets, screaming after us that we owe them.
I love my city.
So then we ended up partying with old french people in an Irish pub that had giant trees growing inside. I suddenly got an ominous intuitive feeling and told Joanna I was upset. By the time she asked why, I had drunkenly forgotten what I was talking about and just said I had a bad feeling, like something was going to happen.
So this morning, I miss my train, then am not looking and let my bus go by. I ran into work to find everyone was sick and they needed me to work 11 hours. I figured whatever, as my job is basically paid clubbing and way too much fun, but as soon as it hit the hours I wasnt scheduled for, it was like Clerks in a disasterous "Im not even supposed to be here" way. I was cleaning glasses in the glass washer, and ran off to do some tables and came back. The bar worker went to use it and it electrocuted him, freezing him to the machine and making him drop two towers of glass to the floor. They exploded into my legs, as they would, as I have to wear a mini for work. I got the manager who called the ambulance as the poor boy's heart was out of control, and then my coworkers helped me pick glass out of my legs. I cleaned my blood off my shoes and went back to work, figuring I'd stick to something non-electrical. Cutlery's safe. So as I bend down, a tray of knives and forkers fall onto me, cutting my hands open. Which wasnt cool as I was cutting lemons after. Meanwhile, bar boy was hospitalised. It was supposed to be me! And being a frail small girl, I probably would have just dropped dead. Luckily I didnt get raped walking home, but the bad feeling hasnt subsided so Im going to drink and dull the throb of anxiety.
Joanna and I are going to see Harry Potter fucking horses in the west end play he's in, Equus.
Daniel Radcliffe actually gets naked and fucks a fake horse on stage before killing it. Apparently. I'm sure thats an exaggeration though. According to the tickets site, he just stabs their eyes out. It would just make me so smug to see that as I hate Harry Potter.
Harry, stop being creepy, I find that attractive.
ugh another unlucky thing, the club I was outside of when Joanna was inside saturday night (I wasnt "on the list" and talked my way on only to not be able to afford the door nevermind), today Im reading the paper on the train and there's an article about the drunk celebrities who were carried out just after I left. I missed it! I only got to see one or two and there were more! bullocks. I love when people who spend their lives making an image for themself really bullocks it up with drunken nights without underwear in Mayfair.
But turns out my doorman friend Sena, who will hunt and kill anyone by request can make calls to get me into literally any exclusive London club I want. Too bad I dont want. Sena and his friend were talking about the haunting feeling that follows after you kill someone as we were eating in the staff room the other day.
um, awesome. I mean, bad. Killing people, bad. But could I have even madder meaner connections if I tried?
Im getting laid in fifteen days.feeling:  worried noise: 90's |
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