The few friends that I do actually have, know one thing about me that is not hidden from the world at all.  That one thing is: My complete, 100% devotion and loyalty to my laptop.  With anything.  I’m talking Internet, with the writing of my book, with all of my University work, and playing my games.  Unfortunately for me, I have this awful habit of over-using and mistreating my laptops when to the best of my ability, I try to treat them like they were my baby.  Well, no, but close enough.

This isn’t the first time this has happened.  It happened with my last laptop.  Her name was Toby.  It started out with the charger just drifting in and out of actually charging.  Then it just stopped turning on.   Truth be told, Toby had been close to death for about 6 or 7 months prior to this event.  I decided it was just the charger, and to get a new charger.  I got a new charger for a whopping, rip-off price of $100.00, and she worked for the next couple of months.  But then, the same thing started happening, and eventually, once again, she refused to wake up.  There was nothing else I could do.  I had a freak out, and then got myself another laptop, because let’s face it, a University student needs her laptop.  Well, doesn’t NEED one, but it sure makes life a whole lot easier when you don’t have to walk back and forth to the library to finish up a 6,000 word story due by the end of the month.

So I got my new laptop.  And it’s the one I have now.  Larry.  Beautiful Larry.  After a couple of months of owning Larry, him working perfectly, my boyfriend comes over, and sees my old laptop.

“So what actually happened with this?”

“Oh, it stopped turning on.”

“Really?  How long had you had it?”

“About two years”

“I can try and fix it for you”

“I tell you what, you fix it, you keep it.  Consider it an early birthday present”.

So what did he do?  He got Toby to turn on.  And even though she was on, she was causing issues.  She was being slow, Firefox was barely loading, and actually, long ago, it got to a point where Internet Explorer just wouldn’t work at all.  I would get pop ups non-stop even though I had pop-up blocker, and everytime I signed onto World of Warcraft and had an internet site open, Toby would freeze, make a funny noise, and then shut down.

“Have you ever used a virus scanner?”

“No”

He just looked at me like he couldn’t believe he was actually dating the most stupid girl in the world.  I think he had to re-think our relationship for a minute.  What kind of computer/internet addict, DOESN’T run a virus scan, at least once every two to three days.  So Toby, miraclously  (I know the spelling is completely off), allowed us to download AVG Virus Scanner after about 30 minutes of configuring a way to even get onto the site.  So we ran the virus scanner.

After about 5 minutes, it had already found about 10 viruses.  And not just any virus, but the fucking Trojan virus.  I may be a computer lover, but I don’t know much about them, but what I do know, through the grapevine is that the Trojan virus is probably one of the worst virus’s your computer can get.

By the time we finished the scan, and all of my files, and my whole computer actually had been examined by Dr. AVG, we had 2,000 Trojan Virus’s.

…

Let that marinate for just a minute.

Two – Thousand Trojan Virus’s.

It was no wonder that Toby had shut down.  In fact, it was a shock that Toby didn’t die earlier.

My boyfriend again, looked at me as if it was time to have a serious discussion about my intellegence and where this relationship with the lack thereof.

So the moment that happened, I downloaded AVG onto Larry, and he has been working like a dream.  I know that Larry has no virus’s.  He has started drifting in an out of charging my battery.  This concerns me.

I have to somehow manuveur a way for the charger to actually charge Larry.  And sometimes he just won’t.  It’s been about a week or so since I have been able to properly use him.  I’m currently using him now because I have the iPhone delivery box, that’s being held down by a full, unopened bottle that belongs to my boyfriend of Peregrine Porter beer, up against the charger.  I’m assuming the weight is helping.  Luckily for me, my boyfriend’s step-father is a proper expert on computers.

I took Larry down desparately hoping he could help when it first started happening. Sometimes, he won’t turn on unless he’s fully charged.He’s not fully charged now and he’s decided to help a girl out.  Good Larry, Good.  So his step-dad takes a look at it, and tells me that it’s either the charger or the battery because if I run a virus scan (which I do everyday) then it can’t be a virus.

I looked up some things on the internet as well via George’s computer and it told me that a way to test it is to take out the battery, but plug in the charger.  If it doesn’t turn on, it’s the charger.  And it didn’t turn on.  It’s the charger.

But oh, how lucky I can be sometimes because instead of having to get another charger for $100.00, I was able to get one for simply £10.00.  And it’s legit.  How excited am I?

So hopefully, I’ll be able to continue on blogging through a laptop and not my iPhone.  I was going to write about my trip to Wales, and how beautiful/rainy it was, but I felt that I needed to vent about my laptop.

I really fucking want Sushi.  It’s like my chocolate.  When people are stressed, they want chocolate.  Larry’s pending death is beginning to stress me out.  And I want Sushi.

Since I moved to London, I’ve been absolutely dead broke.  Even when I had a steady job, I had all these other bills to pay, as any other young woman aspiring to be independent would(this coming from a girl who lived in a dorm then a flat living on her loan.  SO INDEPENDENT!).  Regardless, I knew that I didn’t have time, or money to go shopping for mysel

Then there was good two years where I just wasn’t inspired to work.  I was focused on my studies, and on my father.  So I couldn’t really spend any money, because I literally, didn’t have any.  I relied on my loans, but even then, I had to pay £365.00 per month for the flat I was living in, plus the electric bill, and the water bill, and the gas bill, and my phone bill.  And let’s not even get started on the school tuition.  No.  Money.

And then Will’s family invited me to move in with them, seeing as after I graduated, I had issues finding a place to live, what with the recession and all.  I was ecstatic.  It was an opportunity to see how strong mine and Will’s relationship was, as well as it was an all inclusive very cheap price of £150.00 a month.  It was an offer that could not be refused.

It was then that I started doing the math.  Realising, I no longer have to pay the student tuition, the home that I reside in now is such a low price, all inclusive(and that’s even food), and at the current moment, no phone bill to pay…I couldn’t help but notice that I now have a little extra money to shell out on a couple of things that I would like to purchase.  Like shoes, or sunglasses, or shirts, or dresses, or boots, or DVDs, or ANYTHING.  It’s exciting!

But regardless, because of the years that I have had with no money, I still can’t help but be cheap.  I’m not even joking.  I saw a shirt, that I actually quite liked, and I didn’t buy because it was £15.00.  Too much for a shirt.  I’m all about the charity shopping.

It was pretty cool.  Rugby is a small town located in the West Midlands of England.  It’s secluded, it’s spread out, it’s nice.  They have a town center, in which every couple of days, they put a market, where they sell (sometimes) cheap dresses, all kinds of fruit, vegetables, and meat.  They have vendors where they sell fast, junky, covered in oil food which is great to eat after a night of drinking, and even painting stands, and jewlerey.  I love shopping here.  They have the most interesting things on sale, that seem to be unique.

So I walked to one of the carts that was selling make up.  I had just run out of powder, and low and behold, they indeed sell powder.  For £2.50.  Bargain.  So I buy myself one.

My friend Samantha, always used to tell me that even though I was cheap, there are certain things that I should always shell out for.  I didn’t believe her, and because of my disbelief, I paid the price.

I didn’t wear the make up very often because I never really had a reason to put any effort.  But so, one day, I decide, “I wouldn’t mind putting in some effort and making myself look half decent for the day”.  So I put on some make up including the cheap powder.  I went out for a night, chilled out, came home, went to sleep.  No problems at all.

The next morning, my face is a bit itchy.  And its itchier, and itchier.  So it gets to a point where I am literally scratching the hell out of my face, and it’s just intolerable, so I think to myself what it could possibly be.  I’ve been using my foundation for months, so it can’t be that.  Same with my eyeliner, mascara, lip stuff.  It has to be the powder.  So I promptly wash my face, because my un-hygenic self didn’t do it the night before, and it felt soooooo much better.

Until a couple of minutes later.  Now, it just burns.  My face is swollen, its all red, and it’s painful.  Noticeably.  George came home, and saw me looking in the mirror with my stress-face on, and asks.

“What’s wrong?…..Ohhh…”

It was awful.  And the face got worse, and worse.  I kept lotioning it, and every single time I did, it just burned even more, but it obviously needed to be done.  It got so dry that it eventually started peeling.  It even had a strange texture to it.  NOT FUN.

But I gotta tell ya.  It’s just now going away, I no longer have bits of skin falling off, and it doesn’t feel strange anymore.  But my face?  Which is always dry even without the horrendous rash getting in the way?  Smooth as anything.  I mean, I’m talking I haven’t had this soft and this smooth a face without make up in YEARS.  I guess all that lotioning paid off.  And now?  All I want to do is keep lotioning.

There was no real point in my story.  I just thought I might gross anyone out who reads this.  Enjoy.

I would never curse in front of a customer…anymore.  Back in my first year, working at the Whistle and Flute, to some people, you kind of had to.  They didn’t seem to understand the words “Sorry, we’re closed now….No, no, we’re not serving anymore drinks…No the music is off because we’re closed, so I can’t turn it back on for you….I’m sorry, I can’t make an exception just for you, it would be unfair….Sir…will you please not take our chairs when leaving the pub? Yes, I am American, but you still need to leave.”

Sometimes, you didn’t really have much of a choice.  There were time when people would be so rude to you that you had to be rude back.  To be fair, I did always get in trouble for it.  So I started showing attitude instead.

Now, the reason I tell you this is because in the past two years of un-employment (excluding the job at Ambika that I had for about a month), I’ve changed, and I’ve grown up, and I’ve learned how to keep a positive attitude, even when the customers are being arrogant and annoying.  I may be criticised for this later but the customer, actually, is not always right  In fact, most of the time, they are wrong.  If they worked in a kitchen at a pub, or a restaurant or if they worked as a barmaid in a busy bar, then I would understand.  But a lot of the time, when asked “Have you ever worked in a pub or a kitchen?”  I always get the response “NO! So what if I haven’t?!? It’s still not fucking hard!!”.  But I don’t let that side of me come out anymore because it IS a lack of professionalism, and it IS bad sportsmenship.  Although, I can’t say that I didn’t feel the Ol’ Lily building up when a customer was yelling at one of our waitresses because FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER ORDERING A WELL DONE STEAK (when the steak is pretty much done) HE DECIDES THAT ACTUALLY HE WANTS A FISH AND CHIPS! I’m talking proper yelling.  And bless her, she’s 16 years old, and she handled it very well.  Did I mention that I have a 16 year old as my superior?  But I’m so glad that no one knows about it because that might have been embarassing.  Just kidding, I actually really do adore her.  She’s wicked.

ANYWAY.  So I’ve learned not to show attitude, or curse in front of or towards the customers.  Until yesterday.  I screamed “FUCK OFF!” in front of a customer, to which I promptly walked away, and then returned to apologise for my language.  He was very gratious, and said it was fine, and he understood.

Now, you’d think that I was screaming “FUCK OFF!” to someone.  Maybe someone pissed me off?  Maybe my boyfriend and I got into a fight?  Maybe my mother decided to throw a bunch of different career choices at me at the same time and tell me TO DO ALL OF THEM RIGHT NOW?  No.

The answer: Wasps.

No joke.

Let me explain something about myself.  I have never been stung by a wasp, or a bee.  I’ve never been hurt by one, I’ve never stepped on one.  And would you like to know why I’ve never been stung by one?  Because I out-run the motherfuckers.  I’m not even kidding.  I run as quickly as I can.  If a wasp is around, the next thing you’ll see if a blurry silouette, of what used to be me, because I am gone. I am absolutely petrified of wasps.  I can’t handle it.  Everyone always tells me to stand still, but I can’t.  The only time I’ve ever been able to do that is when I’ve closed my ears, and eyes and pretended it wasn’t there.  And when I tried it again ONE LANDED ON ME.

Yesterday was a particularly gorgeous day in Rugby.  The sun was out, it was perfectly warm, there was no humidity, and that brought customers in.  And when customers are brought in, let’s face it, they order lots of sweetened drinks, and lots of tasty, junky food, which I guess the wasps think is a nice time to score a couple of free meals.  This pub that I work at is a lot bigger than the Whistle and Flute.  There’s a huge garden out back with a kids play area, and the kitchen is much bigger.  The kitchen has a backdoor in which they throw ALL of their garbage.  That includes rotten food, or wasted food, or bits and pieces of food that weren’t necessary for whatever meal they were cooking.

So WASPS WERE EVERYWHERE.  We had about 4 or 5 people come up to us and tell they were switching tables outside because there were too many wasps.  And LUCKILY FOR ME, I was put on setting tables, which is fine, it’s just that I had to watch my step or else I would have stepped on a wasp, and then his little friends would come and seek their revenge, and I would no longer have a face.

All fine and dandy.  A couple of wasps flew into the actual bar, and I controlled myself.  I would kind of run, but then I would also kindly walk into the kitchen and ask one of the boys, in a calm manner “willyoupleasefortheloveofallthatisholygetridofthatwaspbeforeishitmyself?”  And they would.  Nice boys.

So finally, it was time to clear up the glasses.  One of the biggest pet peeves is people stuffing tissues in the glasses.  But I can’t stop it, and I understand why people do it.  Hey, I’m sure I’ve done it about a bajillion times, so really, I can’t criticise.   So I’m clearing up glasses, and putting them into the dishwasher.  I put a tray in, and I walk out and back into the bar.  As I go to collect the extra glasses along the bar, one of my co-workers, Holly (who is absolutely stunning) comes up to me, and very sweetly says to me, Charlotte, and Hannah:

“You guys know how people stuff the tissues into their glasses?”

“Yeah.  I hate that.”

“Yeah, be careful today.”

“Why?”

“Because apparently, the reason they are being stuffed in there is to get rid of wasps.  So some of them have like 10 wasps trapped in them, so when you take the tissue out, they all get released.”

And that is when I screamed “FUCK OFF!”  and walked away.  I refused to go back into the glass room where all the dirty glasses were in case the wasps were waiting for me after they’ve planned their attack, and I refused to go outside because apparently, there were 20 wasps chillin’ around one glass.

I was not impressed.

I felt so guilty for cursing, but everytime I tell people that they have to understand, that I have an actual, real-life phobia that could probably be diagnosed as such, of pretty much any bug that has a yellow and black striped pattern on its exoskeleton, they tend to laugh and forgive me.

But my God, I hate fucking wasps.

I haven’t really been going out much since I moved to Rugby.  Truth is, I have George and I have Will as my friends.  Granted, there’s Tony, Barney, Zay, and all of their friends.  But that’s just the thing: THEIR FRIENDS.  Not mine.  I don’t mind, really.  It’s just weird not having people living right next to me that I could go visit whenever I wanted.  So you can imagine how eager I was to go out with George when she invited me to tag along on meeting an old friend she used to hang out with.

I was excited.  I dolled myself up, with the hair, the new dress my dear mother sent me, and my make up.  I had had a drink before we left, including a dreadful shot of tequila.  I was not drunk, I was not tipsy, but I was happy.  We head on down there, and as we start walking to the pub called The Paddox, George informs me that tonight is Karoke night.  “I’m not singing” I said to her.  “No, don’t worry, neither am I!”

That was the plan! We were to go to the Paddox, meet up with her friend and her fiance, and have a couple of drinks WITHOUT GETTING DRUNK, and not singing Karoke.

But we did get drunk.  And yes.  We did sing.  Horrendously.  We sang.  George, Kate and I sang Mamma Mia, and granted, the whole pub was singing along with us, and we were clapped at, and we had a wicked time.  It was when I sat down that I realised that I had just done something I would never ever ever do in my whole life.

But because of my case of intoxication, I not only sang Mamma Mia.  Kate ended up saying no more to the microphone, but George and I were all sorts of about the lyrics box in front of us.  So we what did we do?  We butchered, and I mean butchered, Lady Marmalade.  And it was THEN, that I realised how much of a fool I looked like.  I sat back down, red in the face, and embarassment overcome.  I’m pretty sure this was around the time I thought I should probably go to bed, and completely forget about the fact that 100 some-odd people heard me and treacherous singing voice.

After taking three years at Roehampton University as an English Literature and Creative Writing student, I finally, for the first time in an extremely long time, got the inspiration (Lord knows where it came from) to write a story.  I would call it a book, since I plan on finishing it and sending it off to get publishd (fingers crossed), but I don’t feel quite right calling it that just yet.

I’m on Chapter 7, and I was originally planning on posting it on here to see if any of my friends would read and let me know what they think.  But I changed my mind rapidly considering that it’s not the safest idea to post an idea you might have.

ANYWAY, I’m beginning to realise how irritating and frustrating writing a full on story is.  I’ve always lost track of any other story I’ve decided to write, and given up on the idea because they tended to come out a bit appalling.  I actually plan to follow this one all the way through, to the end, with the quite sum-up on the back of the cover anyway, with the beautiful cursive letters as a title on the front, and a picture of a mask below it with green straps as ties.  Oh yes folks, I’ve planned out the COVER.  But that’s fine.  That’s completely fine, right?  I mean, that’s what writers do.

But going back towards the frustration and irritation.  When I first started writing it, I just wanted to get to the first major event of the story.  And now that I’ve gotten there, I thought it would feel relieving to be there, but it wasn’t.  Then I wanted to think up of a perfect conversation to be held, and I thought hopefully, THAT would make me feel better, but it didn’t.  So now, the second major event is happening, and I’m stuck as to what the conversation should be between the protagonist and her friends.

Most of my characters have been based off of people I know.  One of my character’s name is Jam, short for Jamie, as a combination between my friend Samantha and my friend Jeanette.  Thank Samantha for the oh-so-very creative name.  And regardless,  I’ve already given her the personality of both, as in the energetic, sweet, and drunk-enough-to-be-the-only-one-dancing-on-table-tops (that’s for the name Sam), I can’t seem to picture a conversation that she would hold with someone who is put in the situation that my main is put in.

Then there is a girl named Constance.  Constance is based off of my boyfriends sister, and also very, very good friend of mine, George.  She was given the name Constance because George happens to like that name.  And her personality fits her perfectly.  She is very hippie-esque, and she certainly brought out my dormant hippie that’s been in hiding for the past 10 years.  But I am in the same situation that I am with Jam.  I can’t seem to figure out a conversation to be held.

I guess it’s the same way with shopping for me.  I just never figured it would be the same way with writing.  When I shop (which for the record hasn’t been done since I moved to England), I don’t just pick something up and think “Yeah I could see myself wearing that” and then buy it.  No, no.  It HAS to scream my name.  It has to let me know how perfect it is.  It has to inform me that our lives were meant to be intertwined together, and that there is absolutely nothing wrong with the way it was done.

Welp, apparently, my writing does the same thing.  If the conversation isn’t perfect, I will spend hours deleting it, re-writing it, deleting it, re-writing it, deleting it, re-writing it, and I’m assuming you can figure out what happens for the REST OF THE EVENING.

I think at the end of the day, I just really need to go shopping.

—————————————————————————-

Since December of 2008, I’ve, unfortunately, been un-employed.  I had a very brief job at Ambika Estate Agents, but oh-so-very luckily for me, the recession got the best of me, and I was let go for their lack of funds to provide for my travelling 45 minutes to get there every morning at 8 until 7 P.M.  So, you can imagine my excitement when my boyfriend so kindly decided he would have a chat with a friend of his who worked at the bar across the street.  And I am officially a barmaid.

I know it’s not the most glamorous of jobs, and quite frankly, I was very much hoping for a job in the reception of administration area.  But I suppose when the whole country is in a financial downfall, it’s a bit difficult to find somewhere that is willing to pay you £9.00 an hour to simply type the things into a computer.

Anyway, the point is, I have a job.  I am getting paid £5.75 an hour, for doing half the work I did in my first year at the Whistle and Flute pub, which was extremely busy every other day.

Now, ages ago, my mother and I had a discussion about me returning back to the contract phone world.  To be fair, my latest track record wasn’t exactly appealing to the idea.  The difference between then and now, is that NOW, I have a job to keep me going with it.  So, what phone shall I get?  How about an awesome iPhone?!  I think so!

It would be much easier for me to keep in contact with people back home because of the UNLIMITED FREE INTERNET that I get with it.  When my mother is at work, if I e-mail her, a little notification box pops up at the corner of her screen, saying who e-mailed.  And since she calls me from work, I could just e-mail her.  Not to mention, the next time I am bored on the train ride to London, I could just surf the internet and watch things on youtube, such as Ray William Johnson.  I know, it sounds like such a petty reason to get an iPhone, but I can’t help but be the spoiled little brat and WANT ONE SO BAD.

So I told myself, as motivation to myself, that when I get a job, I would get an iPhone, since the contract is only £34.50 a month, or so, with unlimited internet, 600 minutes, and 500 texts.  Quite frankly, I think that’s a bargain with all the other interesting gadgets that it seems to come with.

I got the job.  I got a job as a barmaid, and I am able to go into the O2 store, and get myself an iPhone.  So I go in there, and tell them I would like to get an iPhone.  And they take down my information, blah blah blah, and they even get the iPhone.  There it is.  Just sitting right there in front of my, within my grasp.  I am so close, I am so close to having it in my posession.  Until they ask me for a debit card number.  Now, I do have an debit card, but it is not registered in the U.K., but the U.S.  I tell them I have a Cashcard from Nationwide that IS able to get direct debit because that was how I paid for the internet last year.  No.  Unacceptable.  It needs to be a debit card.

That’s when it hits me.  When I first started working at the Whistle and Flute, I applied at Nationwide for a bank account, and they set me up with that cash card, and told me with a friendly tone that I am able to return in 6 months, if still in employment, and receive a debit card.  BARGAIN.  So I come back not 6 months later, but a year later, giving me time to raise my credit rating.  No.  Not debit card for Lily.  I understand if I go in there now and ask for a upgrade because I’ve been unemployed for so long.  But I was still employed for a long time when I asked last time.  I tell my boyfriend this, and he tells me that it’s no surprise.  I ask why.  He says that his friend, who was with Nationwide for longer than I, and employed for longer than I, was also unable to get one.

Quite frankly, the iPhone is not the only reason I want a debit card.  I would really like to have a debit card for other uses.  For instance, being able to go out with no cash in hand, but not having to stop by a cash machine every block.  I would like to be able to find something rare online, that are not sold in stores, and be able to order it.  I would like to pay for things that need to be paid for online, rather then locate the nearest store that’s 15 miles away, and pay cash.

I remember when I first went into Nationwide, got my bank account open, and told my friend Carlene.  Her response?  “Congratulation! You’ve just applied to the worst bank EVER.”  Her assumption was absolutely correct.  They actually have bojangled me about a lot, including losing £200 of mine when it was supposed to be sent to my mother.

So I tell George, and she tells me to go into her bank, HSBC and they will give me a debit card no problem, within 5-7 days.  Awesome.  I can wait a week.  I go into HSBC, and fair enough, they ask me for an I.D., and a proof of address.  So I bring a letter that Nationwide sent me, and my passport.  My passport was approved, blah, blah, blah, but my proof of address wasn’t.  They needed a bank statement.  Which is fine.  That’s completely understandable.  Unfortunately, every bank statement that I have is actually with a different address.  Only recently has my address been changed at Nationwide.  But hold on, easy enough, I’ll go into Nationwide right next door, and ask for a bank statement.  Most banks would be able to print one out, and give me one.  NOPE.  I have to wait a week to get that, as well.  So I go back to HSBC and tell them the situation, and they understand, (even though the woman I spoke to suddenly turned into uber-moody-cow when I told her I was not interested in paying £9.99 per month for life insurance with the card, car insurance, and free of charge withdrawals in other countries), and I make an appointment to meet with her on Friday at 10 A.M.

And I thought my life would become less stressful with a job.

SO.

I started jogging.  I mean, actual jogging.  Well to be fair, what else could I mean?  Granted, I don’t jog for very long, but I have to find some way of making myself feel accomplished for the day.  After all, feeling accomplished is the second best feeling in the world.

Truth is, I love living in Rugby.  The problem is that I have yet to find employment anywhere.  I remember when I first moved to London, and within the first two weeks of my Job Hunting Adventure, I was able to acquire work at a local pub in Putney.  But now, the economy has reached such lows, that it’s becoming pretty much impossible to find the job I want/need.  I’ve actually even searched for work that I would hate doing, but 5 years of administration work is still not good enough anywhere.

My boyfriend’s sister and I went to Rugby Town Centre today.  To get there, we had to walk to a Co-Op and get a bus from there to town.  On the way up there, I mentioned to her that I missed London sometimes.  Roehampton has fucked me about many a time, but I can’t help but miss it.  I just read Samantha’s blog, and I completely agree with her when it comes to just having your friends 10 feet, if that, away.  My third year wasn’t the greatest of years.  Granted, academically, it’s been one of my best years, but socially, I was pretty much cooped up in my room with no money, no job, and no plans for the weekend.  Not once did I attend a Bop.  Not once did I attend ANY University event.  And for some odd reason, I was content with that.  All I needed was to be able to go to Samantha’s flat and chill with her when she was in, do a Vlog, or even just catch the giggles even though there was no illegal substance around to cause it.  If Samantha wasn’t home, Lord knows her freshers seemed more than happy to keep me entertained for the time being.

And even walking down to Shaw House to go see Carlene, Fiona and Santos.  I never had a group of friends where I considered so close in my life.  And I know that these people are going to be the people I will know for the rest of my life.  Those are the stories I will be telling my grandchildren about “This one time, when I was at college, my friends and I got so wasted on my 21st birthday that….”

Unfortunately, those times are gone.  For now.

This is the part where Roehampton has fucked me about.  The truth is, that in my first year, whilst it was recommended you passed with 120 credits, you could pass with 90.  In fact, when this was the case for me, they had informed me that “Don’t worry.  You can pass with 90 credits.  This will not affect your graduation.”

Here’s the kicker.  IT DID.  Because I only passed with 90 credits in my first year, I am now missing a couple of credits, and am in need of taking more courses throughout the autumn term, in order to graduate in MARCH.  Even though my graduation was to be held in June.  AWEFUCKINGSOME.

On a brighter note.  I find it amusing and ironic that my boyfriend and I fought so much more when we were not living with each other.  He’s been extremely sweet to me since I’ve moved in, and very respecting.  He is currently, asleep on the couch because, bless him, he works nights at the new ASDA that has opened up.  Oh My God ASDA has opened up in Rugby.  How ecstatic am I?  UBER.

Right, to be honest, there was nothing of true significance for me to write about.  I was quite bored, aaaaaaaaaaand yeah.  That’s it.

In my previous post, I spoke of the Great Michael Jackson. That’s right, I said Great.

So, when the news finally confirmed his death, rather than his coma, truth be told, it really affected me.  And the only part that made me feel better about it was the fact I had friends who messaged me making sure I was okay.

I know it sounds dramatic, but in the 22 years that I’ve been alive, this is the only celebrity that has died that has had such a huge affect on me.  As you may remember, I wrote about people who used to bully me because of my loyalty to Jacko.  So, please excuse me if I get upset that a childhood idol of mine has finally left us.

My boyfriend works night shifts at a supermarket.  This week, he’s worked 62 hours.  Let that sink for a little bit.  62 hours. Usually, his schedule is Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, 10 P.M. to 6 A.M. and then Sunday 5 P.M. to 8 P.M.  So his weekend is pretty much free.  Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, he’s just chillin’ at home.   And to be fair, that was how it was.  But this week, bless him, he’s offered to work over time because he’s the only person on produce, and new people have come on, and needed training.  Because of his generous offer, he’s gotten a lot of recognition from the managers and higher powers of the company, which is fine.  But he’s worked from Sunday of last week til Friday of this week, 10 P.M. until 8 or 9 P.M.  Nearly 12 hour shifts every night for 6 days.

The day Michael Jackson died, I refused to show how much it actually affected me, because truth be told, any of my friends know this about me, I hate showing how upset things can make me.  Especially about things such as a celebrity, who I never once met in my life, or got to know, just another random person in the world, had his life taken away.

But so he comes home, and makes a little joke.  I’ve just woken up, and I’m actually, truthfully, upset about his death.  I flip out.  I didn’t mean to.  I start rambling on about “the little respect he has for me” and how he “never listens to anything I say”, which quite frankly, is a load of bollocks.  He actually, had no idea why I was so pissed off over a little joke, that was bound to be made.

So I walked outside and had a cigarette, with my eyes starting to well up.  He comes outside to join me, and I start trying to have a go at him, and this is what he said, with every point well made.

“I make jokes all the time, Lily.  I’ve said some really dark jokes.  I’ve made jokes about Madaleine McCann before.  But do you really, really, honestly think that I think it’s funny and okay, that a four year old girl was taken from her home and probably killed?  So do you really, really think that I think it’s funny that one of the greatest musicians and performers of our time has died?”

And he was right, and I just broke down.  I started bawling my eyes out, embarassingly. I was so embarassed that I was crying so much because a celebrity died.  I never knew him personally.  It’s not like my father died all over again.  But even though my boyfriend can be openly judgemental, he was sweet.  He told me while I was crying; “I can guaruntee that you are not the only fan of Michael Jackson that will be crying today.”

I understand that it’s a dramatic overreaction that I’m feeling.

Different emotions run when people die.  But even when you don’t know someone, and yet admired them for the something they did, or said, there’s always one feeling that sticks.  It’s just that feeling of knowledge that someone who made an impact on your life died.

I still think it is so silly and dramatic and stupid that his death made such and impact on me.  I feel stupid and over-dramatic even as I write this.

But one of the greatest performers of our time IS dead.  And he will never perform again.  And maybe, that’s exactly what he wanted at the end of the day.

May Michael Jackson finally get the rest and peace he’s always desired.

Ranging from the ages of 11-13, I was absolutely obsessed with Michael Jackson.  Both my mother and I disregarded all the court cases he had under-gone concerning the child molestation cases.  We’re one of the people that, to this day, don’t believe he did it.

I was so inspired, and loving of him and his performances, that I was eventually even “bullied” about it in school.  I would be made fun of, constantly for it, and even to this day, if I see someone who I went to school with and say something like “Oh remember me?  We went to school together?”  It’s shortly followed by a “….OOOOHH you’re the Michael Jackson girl!”

I grew up with Michael Jackson in my life.  Michael Jackson, Queen, and ABBA.  Freddie Mercury is already dead, and I was too young to understand what his death meant, and at that point, I think I was too young to even know who he was.  ABBA, every member is still alive.  Michael Jackson, however?

Just today, not even an hour ago, Michael Jackson suffered a cardiac arrest and was taken to the hospital.  They performed CPR, and TMZ (which in my opinion is not the most reliable of sources) has said that he has died.  Now, I’m sure there are bigger fans than I.  In fact, I’m 100% positive that there are.  But at the same time, but I, too, am a huge fan.  And yes, as dramatic as it sounds, his death will affect me.  I can’t help it.  I’ve loved that man for as long as I can remember.

It felt nice to come to England and have people agree with me in being a fan.  Back home, people were very quick to criticize and judge me.

His concert was planned for sometime in July, and they even say that if he comes out of this, this will be his last concert.  I don’t think there should be any concert.

The news reports have confirmed that the King of Pop is not actually dead, which is a relief.  He is, however, in a coma.

If he is to die, then out of all the celebrities that have died in the past 22 years that I have been alive, he is the one that I have been a huge fan of.  He is the one that actually, might make me cry.

But I must mention the fact that when I was being bullied in school for it, and made fun of constantly, and listening to others constantly bad mouth him every chance they got, I always knew, and always said that the moment Michael Jackson were to die, the public would make him into a saint.  Because that’s how society rolls.  And it’s happening already, and he’s in a coma.

I don’t pray very often.  But I am praying for his recovery, lengthy or swift.  I just hope he gets out of this.

So to all the Michael Jackson fans out there, I am all sorts of with you, and I am all sorts of praying we can see still the great Michael Jackson, alive and well, on the news.

SO, about two months ago, I started a new type of contraceptive.  I had tried combined pills in the past, and I personally felt that the mood swings it caused were just annoying, unjust, and quite frankly, bang out of order.  And after constant conversations with my boyfriend that went along the lines of this:

“Hey sweetie, I am just running up to the shop, do you want a bar of chocolate, or a drink or anything?”

“…why the hell would I want chocolate?  You know I’m trying to lose weight.”

“..I know, I was just trying to be thoughtful”

“I DON’T CARE”

I thought it’s about that time to probably switch.  I had heard of the coil, which I thought would be perfect.   No mood swings, just a metal bit inside of you (as far as I know) that prevents babies for the time being.  Cool.  Awesome.  But then, my wonderful and good friend Samantha decided to tell me a horror story involving the coil, which I won’t be sharing with anyone who reads this, so that idea was very quickly and swiftly thrown out the window for someone else to catch.

Of course, there was always the patch.  To be quite honest, I was always a bit skeptical with the patch.  You change it every month, which is fine.  But, so what?  You just keep a patch on?  What about when you shower?  Doesn’t the water seem through the creases and make it more difficult to stay on?  Once again, maybe it doesn’t, and I honestly don’t know that much about it, so I can’t speak like I know everything, BUT I can’t help but have my fear of it falling off whilst I’m bathing running through my head.  That, and you know when you keep a sticker on your skin for too long, and the skin starts to feel irritated?  Yeah, I can only imagine.

Then of course, the shot.  The shot, the shot, the shot.  What a splendid idea, except for I’m trying to escape mood swings, and from what I’ve heard, and read, if a girl like me can’t seem to handle estrogen, then I doubt a whoopla of a bunch injected into me would be very good.  In fact, I am almost positive that the next time he offers me chocolate, I would throw his T.V. at him, then jump on it a couple of times.  But once again, it’s probably diffierent for many people.  Samantha had it done a couple of months ago, and it hasn’t caused her any problems.

So what is a girl like myself supposed to do?  I know! The doctor recommended Progestogen pill! (or POP)  It doesn’t actually have estrogen in it, so it can’t cause some of the mood swings, and it works like a normal pill does, but you don’t stop taking it when you get your period, and you start taking it the day you start your period.

SO I’ve been on that.  And honestly, it’s been great.  But it was a mistake for me to believe that there is a form of contraception with NO catches.

This might become slightly graphic, so brace yourselves.

I’ve noticed a slight increase on my menstruation.  And by that, I mean I’M BLEEDING ALL THE TIME.  This worried me quite a bit, so I researched medical sites because that’s what people do nowadays.  Google = a solution to dying. No more paying for doctors.  All you need is the internet.  Or at least that’s what the public eye seems to believe.

Anyway, I looked it up and apparently, the main problem with this pill specifically (Cerazette) is the constant irregularities in a period.  One of my other friends takes it, and apparently, she hasn’t had a period since, and she isn’t pregnant.  And some people do end up just stopping their period all together when on this pill.  But apparently, some people, like myself, can get it quite frequently.  Some people, even have 6 “Bleeding episodes” within a span of 90 days.  Two periods every month! A period every two weeks!  How awful!

Pretty damn awful because it seems I’m experiencing just that.  At the end of the day though, it’s getting the job done.  I’m not currently planning on getting pregnant anytime soon, and this pill is helping me achieve that goal.  But at the same time, how many women out there feel sexy when they are on their periods?  No wonder I’m not getting pregnant, because every two weeks, I’M TOO EMBARASSED TO HAVE SEX.

Luckily for me though, these periods aren’t heavy.  I mean, I can tell it’s my “real period” when it is slightly heavier then usual, and even last week I had undergone my third period in a span of 1.5 months, and it was extremely light.  Just slight spotting.  The time before that, the week AFTER my normal period, was just another period all over again.

But I guess I don’t have much of a choice but to just bear with it because, honestly, I think this is the best I’m going to get. Aren’t you excited that you’ve stumbled across my blog?!

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It’s officially summer vacation, and I’ve officially moved out of my halls at Roehampton for good.  I made myself emotionless when I said my goodbyes because quite frankly, I hate goodbyes.  But I hate goodbyes for the same reason everyone else does; Because I don’t want to say goodbye.  And I honestly didn’t.  I was emotionless when my boyfriend and his dad came to pick me up as well.  I stayed emotionless throughout my packing, to the time when we were finally packing my stuff in the car and just about ready to drive away.  I was still quite smiley and fine when I got into the car and started driving.  It was when we pulled up to the gates of Digby to leave, when I started to feel a tear or two well up in my eyes realising that this, this moment right here, is the last time I will see these gates as a student of Roehampton.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, hurt like a bitch.  It was right then and there where I silently said “goodbye” to everyone with more emotion than I had felt all week long.

And this is true.  I was honestly extremely sad and it took all my strength not to cry in the car because “I hate showing weakness and vulnerability”.

But then I felt silly because I’m coming back this upcoming Monday anyway to go talk to a tutor of mine.

I’ve moved in with my boyfriends family, and quite frankly, I feel a bit guilty because I’ve completely overtaken my boyfriends room.  My stuff is EVERYWHERE.  And he just walks into the room and gives me stink eye, and all I can do in response, is smile and shrug my shoulders innocently and sweetly as if I didn’t know how any of this stuff got here.

Watch, one day, he will leave for three days, and when he returns his room will be pink.  I hate the colour pink, but I’ll do it just for him.

Anyway, there was something much more entertaining that I wanted to write about, but I can’t remember for the life of what it was.  I just got caught up in the moment of talking about how much of a girl I can be when put in the situation of saying goodbye to people that I’ve known and loved for three years.

SO, this will be the end of this entry.

Yesterday was the day I could take a fat, red marker and cross off my calendar the day I had to turn in all of my final work.  3,500 words for a book proposal about a novel we haven’t written, and 2,500 words on why the concept of the short story is dead.  It may not sound like a whole lot of work, but with the research and phone calls involved to get the references, I’m just thankful it’s over.

Because I’ve worked my ass off this term, so far, and because I’ve finished it all with a streak of confidence and excitement, I’ve gotten myself in the mood “well if I can do this and that, then I can do anything!”  Well, this anything, just happens to be making sushi.

That’s right.  To celebrate this joyous occasion, I have decided to make sushi.  Now, please take into consideration, that I’m a simple girl.  I make simple food, such as chicken and potatoes, or pork chops, or even the simple jacket potatoe.  My boyfriend is constantly making fun of me because I have no cooking skills at all.  So what makes me think that I can actually make some sushi?  Nothing.  There is nothing in this world that says I will be successful in my mission today.

It took me AGES to get the ingredients for some of the things that I’m making, which I’m not even quite sure the name of.  California rolls, Salmon rolls, and Tuna rolls.  That’s all I know.  I might even make an avocado roll.  I had to go to a Thai Shop in Putney just to get a rolling mat and seaweed sheets (two of which I’ve already consumed because I can’t seem to deny the call of seaweed).

But of course, although excited that I ight actually make a decent meal out of all the raw fish I’ve just purchased, I’m also terrified that I’m going to fuck it up.  My flatmate, Holly, just came into my kitchen, and when I told her I was attempting to be a sushi chef for the evening, she shot me a look that sent chills up my spine.  “It’s kind of an art form.  My mother had to take a course on it”.  Wicked.  Bollocks to all the websites I’ve been looking at the help me, apparently, I need an effing course.

I still have faith.  At least I won’t be the only one being poisoned by my mad-sushi-making skills.  I have my friend Samantha, coming up to join me with a jug of soy sauce, just in case the I cooked the rice wrong, or the bit of salmon is too thick to eat.  At least we’ll have something to drown our taste buds in.

I just can’t seem to help it.  She and I went out a couple of days ago to get some sushi, because quite frankly, in the three years that we’ve been living here, we’ve discussed this event, but we’ve never seen it happen.  So, we decided to go.  And we did.  And it was amazingly delicious.  Now, I have the urge to make it because hey! It’s probably cheaper!

Step one is done.  I was already intimidated when I realised my rice might not be sticky enough to actually use.  But recently checking on it in the fridge, it seems just fine.  My biggest fear, is rolling it incorrectly.  It’s all going to fall apart in the mat, and I’m going to look like a fool.  Will[my boyfriend] is certainly a lucky man not to be here, because a) he hates sushi, and b) he might be a bit more disgusted in my attempt to do if he were actually here to witness the debauchery.

Oh my, my.  What will I do?