...Whether I like it or not. I'm here, Mum and Dad are both here. My two uncles are still on the Gold Coast. My father is a very upsetting human being since he turned sixty a few days ago. He keeps saying things like, "I'm old, I might be dead tomorrow!" and "Nobody wants an old man around, I'm just gonna go rot!" I find these things very distressing. Last night he came out with about five similar things in a row. I burst into tears; he then berated my mother for upsetting me. In a wet, puddly mess I went into the room he'd skulked off to to tell him my mother had not, in fact, upset me, he had upset me. He yelled out to my mother, asking her why she'd made me lie about who upset me. I'll be 23 next month, I believe (although, I have been wrong before) that I am now old enough to know how I feel without being told, and in fact have been old enough to know how I feel without being told for oh, 22 and a half years!
This situation has elevated my father from "stupid potato" to "Giant Retarded Butt-Monkey"!!!
Thank you for your time,
Signed with love,
The Pretty Kitty
Showing posts with label giant retarded butt-monkey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label giant retarded butt-monkey. Show all posts
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
And now I just want macaroni
A few weeks ago, ex-boyfriend told me he was moving to Tasmania. No plan. No reason. Just going. Fine then. I don't need you anyway.
Few days ago I got a phone call from a Queensland phone number I couldn't place. It was ex-boyfriend. It was his parent's phone number. Ex-boyfriend explained that he really was in Tasmania, but he had had his calls routed through his parent's phone number.
During the call, however, he spoke to his dog (which is at his parent's house). He later admitted that he was at his parent's house at the time of the call, but "couldn't see the point of telling me the truth". Now I'm dead inside once again. I'm only worth lying to. Thanks for that, butt-monkey.
Pretty Kitty.
Few days ago I got a phone call from a Queensland phone number I couldn't place. It was ex-boyfriend. It was his parent's phone number. Ex-boyfriend explained that he really was in Tasmania, but he had had his calls routed through his parent's phone number.
During the call, however, he spoke to his dog (which is at his parent's house). He later admitted that he was at his parent's house at the time of the call, but "couldn't see the point of telling me the truth". Now I'm dead inside once again. I'm only worth lying to. Thanks for that, butt-monkey.
Pretty Kitty.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Some prople are just plain odd.
Seriously.
I felt a sudden urge today to put on my blogging shoes and tell you all about someone I almost worked with. It will explain itself, promise!
One of my many, many hats is that of a freelance photographic model. Great, when people need one of those. Less great when they don't. I posted an ad on a website to try to find people who did.
One person who answered my ad was Fishface. His first message to me was "Hi! I'm a model too but I've just started out as a photographer. I'm looking for models. Would you like to meet up next week, just for a chat?" Seems fine so far. We arranged a time, and a public meeting place, with a plan to go for coffee.
The day we were meant to meet, I got a text message an hour before "Where are you? I'm already here" It's an hour earlier than we're meant to be meeting, but I figure I'll do a rush job to get ready, I can be there in half an hour. I tell him this. The reply: "I'm here now" Very good. Do you know any big-boy words?
I get dressed (OK, so I was still in my nightie at midday) brush my hair and walk down town as fast as my unusually long legs can carry me. During this process I get three more messages from Fishface, "Where are you? I'm already here" I send replies, quiet, calm, and complete with over-use of smiley faces, "20 mins. :-)", "10 mins. :-)", "I'm on my way, OK!?! :-)"... I arrive, and find Fishface, looking disheveled and in the process of texting me again.
"G'day, I'm Blossy." I say, nice as pie (nice as nice pie, not like, kidney and brain pie) "Yeah, fuck, wow, hi!" Says Fishface. Great start. We begin to walk towards the cafe. He starts scratching his head like he has nits. Him: "So, um, you're a model?" Me: Yes. "Do you do much work?" Not as much as I'd like, but every few weeks I have a shoot "Fuck. Um... Would it be rude if I bailed? This is too weird. I gotta go. I gotta go home." Sure honey. Whatever. And I've never seen anyone scamper off faster. That night, I check my emails. A message from Fishface: "Sorry about today, but I thought you were a cop and I was going to be arrested"
I replied: "OK. I've never had that before. Wanna try again?" We decided to meet up again, and then go to his studio for a photo shoot. He then asks me questions like "Do you shave your legs?" Well, when I have a shoot I do. Mostly. I tell him I do, anyway. He asks me not to. He tells me he wants to do a transgender shoot with me, because I have "very masculine features"!!!!! I tell him where he can stick this idea. He asks if I've ever needed to do a poo during a shoot. I ask what the fuck this has to do with anything ever and he says it's important and I have to answer. I stop responding to his text messages and emails.
After a month or so, Fishface saw some pictures of me on the international-computer-webby thing. He retracts his comment about my "masculine" features, but asks if I've ever considered breast implants, informing me that sex workers can claim them back on tax, so they'd end up free, anyway. I try not to answer, but can't help it. I tell him "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY BODY AS IT IS! I HAVE NEVER CONSIDERED GETTING IT SURGICALLY MUTILATED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" just like that, but in bold and with more exclamation marks. He didn't answer.
Months pass again, and he calls me. "I can't talk." I say. "I'm at work in a childcare centre. I need to devote my full attention to what I'm doing." It was true. "I wanna talk to you about a shoot." he says. "Can you meet me in Surfers Paradise on your way home, tonight?"
"OK, but now I've really got to go!"
I check my phone on my lunch break. Five messages from Fishface, "Are you off work yet?" "Where are you?" and three times, "text me when you're on the bus, ok?"
I text when I'm on the bus. "On the bus. Will be about 50 mins. :-)"
Him: Where are you?
Me: Currumbin. 50 mins.
Where are you?
Palm Beach. 45 mins.
He seriously text me every five minutes. If I didn't answer, he called me. "I'm on the fucking bus, mate! I'm not sure when I'll get there, I can't control it!"
I got to Surfers Paradise, and text him to say I was finally off the bus. He sent back an abusive message accusing me of promising to get off the bus, but then staying on the bus. I didn't answer. He called me.
I told him I was standing in Surfers, waiting for him right then. He didn't believe me. After fifteen minutes I convinced him I really was in Surfers.
Now he asked me if I had enough money for a drink for me AND one for him. "Honey," I begin, "I've got my bus fare for tomorrow, plus about four dollars!" He then abuses me again, saying that since I said yes to the meeting, it's my responsibility to have enough money for a drink for both of us, and not to waste his time, he even threw in the line, "I may look like mister money bags, but I'm not, I'm broke this week and you're supposed to buy me a drink!" I told him to go fuck himself and hung up. I got on the next bus home. When I got home I emailed the prick. I told him that my average weekly expenditure was $270, my income varied depending on modelling opportunities, but had a tendency to be nothing. I told him to pull his head out of his arse, and I summed everything up with "Never contact me again, you demoralizing piece of shit!"
So that's what's been on my mind. :-)
Signed with Love,
The Pretty Kitty.
I felt a sudden urge today to put on my blogging shoes and tell you all about someone I almost worked with. It will explain itself, promise!
One of my many, many hats is that of a freelance photographic model. Great, when people need one of those. Less great when they don't. I posted an ad on a website to try to find people who did.
One person who answered my ad was Fishface. His first message to me was "Hi! I'm a model too but I've just started out as a photographer. I'm looking for models. Would you like to meet up next week, just for a chat?" Seems fine so far. We arranged a time, and a public meeting place, with a plan to go for coffee.
The day we were meant to meet, I got a text message an hour before "Where are you? I'm already here" It's an hour earlier than we're meant to be meeting, but I figure I'll do a rush job to get ready, I can be there in half an hour. I tell him this. The reply: "I'm here now" Very good. Do you know any big-boy words?
I get dressed (OK, so I was still in my nightie at midday) brush my hair and walk down town as fast as my unusually long legs can carry me. During this process I get three more messages from Fishface, "Where are you? I'm already here" I send replies, quiet, calm, and complete with over-use of smiley faces, "20 mins. :-)", "10 mins. :-)", "I'm on my way, OK!?! :-)"... I arrive, and find Fishface, looking disheveled and in the process of texting me again.
"G'day, I'm Blossy." I say, nice as pie (nice as nice pie, not like, kidney and brain pie) "Yeah, fuck, wow, hi!" Says Fishface. Great start. We begin to walk towards the cafe. He starts scratching his head like he has nits. Him: "So, um, you're a model?" Me: Yes. "Do you do much work?" Not as much as I'd like, but every few weeks I have a shoot "Fuck. Um... Would it be rude if I bailed? This is too weird. I gotta go. I gotta go home." Sure honey. Whatever. And I've never seen anyone scamper off faster. That night, I check my emails. A message from Fishface: "Sorry about today, but I thought you were a cop and I was going to be arrested"
I replied: "OK. I've never had that before. Wanna try again?" We decided to meet up again, and then go to his studio for a photo shoot. He then asks me questions like "Do you shave your legs?" Well, when I have a shoot I do. Mostly. I tell him I do, anyway. He asks me not to. He tells me he wants to do a transgender shoot with me, because I have "very masculine features"!!!!! I tell him where he can stick this idea. He asks if I've ever needed to do a poo during a shoot. I ask what the fuck this has to do with anything ever and he says it's important and I have to answer. I stop responding to his text messages and emails.
After a month or so, Fishface saw some pictures of me on the international-computer-webby thing. He retracts his comment about my "masculine" features, but asks if I've ever considered breast implants, informing me that sex workers can claim them back on tax, so they'd end up free, anyway. I try not to answer, but can't help it. I tell him "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY BODY AS IT IS! I HAVE NEVER CONSIDERED GETTING IT SURGICALLY MUTILATED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" just like that, but in bold and with more exclamation marks. He didn't answer.
Months pass again, and he calls me. "I can't talk." I say. "I'm at work in a childcare centre. I need to devote my full attention to what I'm doing." It was true. "I wanna talk to you about a shoot." he says. "Can you meet me in Surfers Paradise on your way home, tonight?"
"OK, but now I've really got to go!"
I check my phone on my lunch break. Five messages from Fishface, "Are you off work yet?" "Where are you?" and three times, "text me when you're on the bus, ok?"
I text when I'm on the bus. "On the bus. Will be about 50 mins. :-)"
Him: Where are you?
Me: Currumbin. 50 mins.
Where are you?
Palm Beach. 45 mins.
He seriously text me every five minutes. If I didn't answer, he called me. "I'm on the fucking bus, mate! I'm not sure when I'll get there, I can't control it!"
I got to Surfers Paradise, and text him to say I was finally off the bus. He sent back an abusive message accusing me of promising to get off the bus, but then staying on the bus. I didn't answer. He called me.
I told him I was standing in Surfers, waiting for him right then. He didn't believe me. After fifteen minutes I convinced him I really was in Surfers.
Now he asked me if I had enough money for a drink for me AND one for him. "Honey," I begin, "I've got my bus fare for tomorrow, plus about four dollars!" He then abuses me again, saying that since I said yes to the meeting, it's my responsibility to have enough money for a drink for both of us, and not to waste his time, he even threw in the line, "I may look like mister money bags, but I'm not, I'm broke this week and you're supposed to buy me a drink!" I told him to go fuck himself and hung up. I got on the next bus home. When I got home I emailed the prick. I told him that my average weekly expenditure was $270, my income varied depending on modelling opportunities, but had a tendency to be nothing. I told him to pull his head out of his arse, and I summed everything up with "Never contact me again, you demoralizing piece of shit!"
So that's what's been on my mind. :-)
Signed with Love,
The Pretty Kitty.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Letter to a very good friend
I'm sharing this letter here because I feel it will help people other than me and the addressee. If you have friends you feel could benefit from this, please refer them to it. If you have no friends, I'll be your friend and you can refer it to me if you want, but I have already seen it...
I'm going to say: To my Sweetheart,
because, under all the layers of asshole, you do have a sweet heart. So you may no longer be my sweetheart in the cute, 1950s "going steady" way, but my point still stands.
I miss you.
You know, since you went away, before we broke up, I've just wanted a kiss so bad. Just a kiss. I was telling myself, "Just a week or so. He'll be home. You'll get your kiss." But then disaster. You're stubborn and arrogant, I'm stubborn and have an absolutely flaming temper. With this combination, we're broken up, yet again, but this time for good. So I'm sitting here wondering if I'll ever be kissed again, you know I don't want to kiss someone I don't love.
Tempers cool. I stop swearing at you in every text message and every phone call, and you stop calling me names (most of which aren't even applicable, I don't do that!). You ask if you can be my friend, and I'm so glad you asked because it means I don't have to (it would have been embarrassing for me, after I told you to get the f'k out of my life... Sorry about that). That's what I wanted when I first met you, your friendship, with the future possibility of kisses.
You ask if you can call, and I say yes. You're so supportive and sweet. You build me up instead of tearing me down. You offer advice when I feel lost. Every time I talk to you, you're seeming more and more like the wonderful man I fell in love with. Good one, you giant retarded butt-monkey!!!!!
That message I sent you last night, please disregard. I was listening to stupid soppy love songs at the time, and they made me remember I miss you. I tried to fix it by listening to the "Dirty Dancing" soundtrack, but that just reminded me that people die, which made things worse. Sorry. I know we probably could get back together, and it would be beautiful for a while. We'd smile and laugh and love each other, we'd say and do nice and beautiful things, but one day I'd irritate you and you'd be a bastard and I'd end up ripping your lungs out and feeding them to my cat.
I think we both know I'll probably end up with a girl one day, anyway. Even you must have noticed by now, boys SUCK!
I can't write anymore for two reasons: 1) The tears in my eyes are making it hard to see and 2) I'm writing with a permanent marker, and the fumes are starting to make me dizzy.
I want to sign this "Love from your Blossom", but I can't.
I will say
Signed with love, in some way, for always,
The Pretty Kitty.
PS- I found my sewing kit and I'm still willing to sew up those pants for you. I can't find them. If you threw them out, you're a wanker, they were just torn, not ruined. If you didn't, disregard.
I'm going to say: To my Sweetheart,
because, under all the layers of asshole, you do have a sweet heart. So you may no longer be my sweetheart in the cute, 1950s "going steady" way, but my point still stands.
I miss you.
You know, since you went away, before we broke up, I've just wanted a kiss so bad. Just a kiss. I was telling myself, "Just a week or so. He'll be home. You'll get your kiss." But then disaster. You're stubborn and arrogant, I'm stubborn and have an absolutely flaming temper. With this combination, we're broken up, yet again, but this time for good. So I'm sitting here wondering if I'll ever be kissed again, you know I don't want to kiss someone I don't love.
Tempers cool. I stop swearing at you in every text message and every phone call, and you stop calling me names (most of which aren't even applicable, I don't do that!). You ask if you can be my friend, and I'm so glad you asked because it means I don't have to (it would have been embarrassing for me, after I told you to get the f'k out of my life... Sorry about that). That's what I wanted when I first met you, your friendship, with the future possibility of kisses.
You ask if you can call, and I say yes. You're so supportive and sweet. You build me up instead of tearing me down. You offer advice when I feel lost. Every time I talk to you, you're seeming more and more like the wonderful man I fell in love with. Good one, you giant retarded butt-monkey!!!!!
That message I sent you last night, please disregard. I was listening to stupid soppy love songs at the time, and they made me remember I miss you. I tried to fix it by listening to the "Dirty Dancing" soundtrack, but that just reminded me that people die, which made things worse. Sorry. I know we probably could get back together, and it would be beautiful for a while. We'd smile and laugh and love each other, we'd say and do nice and beautiful things, but one day I'd irritate you and you'd be a bastard and I'd end up ripping your lungs out and feeding them to my cat.
I think we both know I'll probably end up with a girl one day, anyway. Even you must have noticed by now, boys SUCK!
I can't write anymore for two reasons: 1) The tears in my eyes are making it hard to see and 2) I'm writing with a permanent marker, and the fumes are starting to make me dizzy.
I want to sign this "Love from your Blossom", but I can't.
I will say
Signed with love, in some way, for always,
The Pretty Kitty.
PS- I found my sewing kit and I'm still willing to sew up those pants for you. I can't find them. If you threw them out, you're a wanker, they were just torn, not ruined. If you didn't, disregard.
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