Fuerteventura 2K14

Day 1

have tokgo get on plan e in few hrs bu im still drumk lolololol

Managed to un-drunk myself a bit by downing a few litres of overpriced water before airport security- speaking of which, I hope I don’t get stopped. There is a rather cumbersome piece of metal in my left arm.

Phew, made it through. You’ll be pleased to know the security scanner was unresponsive to the barium in my upper body.

Come to think of it, the metal in my jeans didn’t set off the scanner either.

Or the zip of my hoodie. Wow, Gatwick needs to sort their shit out.

Mum’s yelling at me because I packed too many tampons and now they’re spillin’ out all over the place. Usually she yells at me because I don’t pack enough sanitary products. I’ve packed them properly now but there still might be a few roaming loose.

There are literally tampons overflowing out of my pockets.

I have to keep picking tampons up off of the floor and apologising to people.

We have to take swimwear and stuff out of our bags so that the concierge could lock our bags up because our room isn’t ready yet. When I opened my bag a bunch of panty liners just kind of… flew out. All over the hotel lobby. The look my mother is giving me right now isn’t too dissimilar from the one she gave me she saw my neknomination. Well, a cross between that and the look she had when she found out I kicked in the windscreen.

There are lots of old and/or fat people here wearing not very much. I suddenly feel a lot more secure about my body.

Mum just asked why I have a plaster on my arm so I said a drunk Year 11 girl wearing a knuckleduster punched me. She’s surprisingly convinced by this story.

I’m pretty sure I just got hit on by a twelve-year-old.

That’s not even the first time that’s happened. Never forget Halloween ‘13: I was Harley Quinn. He was a glow-in-the-dark skeleton. He said ‘You’re hot’ to me whilst he waited for his mum to come out the corner shop. I ignored him and probably tweeted something about prepubescent misogyny. It wasn’t meant to be.


Day 2

My cleavage got sunburned. Not the rest of my boobs, just my cleavage.

My stomach got sunburned as well. Also my arms.

Oh, no, just the tops of my arms. You’ll be pleased to know the backs still maintain that pasty white goodness.

I look like Ross in that Friends episode where he tries to get a tan but fails miserably and ends up half-black instead.

The Lobster Look is in this year, right? We’ve been here less than two days and already I am startlingly reminiscent of the cooked tomatoes I had for breakfast this morning.

My excessive sunburned-ness raises another question: Is there a chance of the plastic in my arm melting? What happens then? I hope get birth control-related superpowers. I want the ability to impregnate and un-impregnate people at will. And by ‘people’ I mean men and women.

Day 3

We left the hotel properly for the first time today to go to the beach, which was nice. I did not anticipate the sheer volume of nudist Germans, however. Sadie and Susannah would’ve felt right at home.


Day 4

My mum thought she saw a statue performer but it was just a Muslim woman.


Day 5


Fucksake the Cheese Museum was closed.


Day 6

Family holidays can be a little overwhelming so I’ve gone on an evening stroll. I walked as far as the path allowed and now I’ve found a nice, quiet bay with nobody else around. Is it bad that this is the highlight of my holiday? It’s not my fault I’m such good company for myself.

Actually, there is a single, solitary car parked some distance behind me but I think it’s been abandoned.

I just heard screaming coming from the car.

Oh God they’re fucking there are people in the car really loudly fucking I just saw a hand against the windscreen god dammit I thought this would be a calm quiet place relax but NOOOOOOOOOOOOPE there are car fuckers fucking in their fucking car they use for fucking ABORT ABORT ABORT ABORT


Day 7

Today was our lucky day- the salt museum was open! Did you know there are over 40 different types of edible salt?

I was carrying two plates of food and a bowl of pudding back to my table from the buffet and another guest stopped me to ask if I was a waitress. God dammit, why can’t I enjoy my starter in peace?


Day 8

We’re back now. My suitcase is still full of tampons seeing as not one was necessary the entire holiday.


Foreskins: The Mid-Season Finale

Quite a lot of shit has gone down in our lives recently. So much so, that we’ve decided to make a TV show about it! Given that we’re all broke as fuck we can’t actually fund a real TV show, but we have made a Facebook page. Anyway, the following passages meticulously detail what would be the mid-season finale of said TV show if said TV show really existed. 

Read if you dare.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV


'Lara why is there a massive crack on my windscreen' – Dad 2k14

OOPS I did it again, I royally fucked up, now I’m lost on a train.

The eighteenth of February was going to be the greatest day of 2014 so far. For an entire week, everything went according to plan. 

Then the flooding happened.

For reasons too complicated to detail here, the Project-X level house party my comrades and I had been meticulously organising went down the shitter, and now I find myself on the four-hour train journey to well-known party-central, Greater Malvern.

Apart from it’s not a four-hour train journey, it’s a seven-hour one.

At 14.42, there is a train from Reading to Oxford at platform 11b. At 14.37, there is a train from Reading to Paddington, also conveniently located at platform 11b. Every other train I have boarded today has arrived ten minutes early. 

Guess which train I got.

From Paddington, I had to beg the guard to let me through the barrier so I could get the 15.52 train straight to Malvern. I was just about to volunteer my body for sexual favours when he finally cracked and let me through, so now I sit on that very train with only two hours left and two percent battery on my phone.

The train I was meant to get pulled into Malvern thirty minutes ago.

The only reason I haven’t killed myself yet is because some old Irish guy on the Paddington train gave me a Yorkie when he saw how inept I was.

Ok, so I got to Malvern, but not without one more major fuckup!

I got off at the wrong platform on my final train. The train was from the paleozoic era so there wasn’t a display or a voice telling you what stop you were at, and by this point it was too dark to see jack shit. So, before I got off I asked some woman if this platform was Great Malvern, and she said yes, yes it was. So I got off.

It wasn’t Great Malvern.

It was Malvern Link.

I cried.

I was still crying when my dad finally picked me up. I cried some more when I realised I had forgotten my toothbrush and my dad made a detour to Waitrose to buy me one. I didn’t go into Waitrose myself because I was too busy, you know. Crying.

Dad, if you leave a PMT-ridden teenage girl who has just sat on a train for seven hours without proper human contact in the front of your car under a very judgemental windscreen wearing Doc Martens then you should know the answer to that question.

Tags: FML

#NoShame #ActuallyLotsOfShame

Some sound advice from Dr Seuss is what’s gonna get me through the day: ‘Those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind’.

Oh, I’d also like to take this opportunity to apologise for various offending statements in the video, namely ‘Here’s to hoping I don’t get raped’. It was meant to be humorous but I can see how it could easily be perceived as insensitive. I’d also like to apologise for overdoing the F-bombs.

Here’s why I did it:

1. I got nominated. I mean, I wasn’t NOT going to do my neknomination. Hopefully the whole trend will die out soon and no longer will I spend every waking hour worrying for the vulnerable few who are yet to be chosen.

2. For the likes. No point in lying, there’s something about getting likes on Facebook that gives me a pathetic false sense of approval. I’m pretty sure this the case with everybody, though.

3. ‘Why in a bath, you attention seeking slut?’ Excuse me, no slut shaming on my blog please. Even if that’s a valid accusation. I did it in the bath primarily, if not solely because, NOBODY ELSE HAD. If I saw one more person snort salt or eat a fucking egg… well, I would have tutted loudly and tweeted about it. But that’s not the point. The point is that I wanted to do something creative without consuming anything vomit-inducing.

My original idea was to fill the bath with beer, or have some kind of beer shower, but I had no means (nor the money) of acquiring that much alcohol. I suppose drinking out of a teapot would have been creative enough, but I really wanted to revolutionise the whole fad. Of course, things would be different if I didn’t have tits.

You didn’t think I’d make it through a whole blog post without getting feminism involved, did you?

The novelty of the nomination is the bath and the teapot. Not me. What I mean is, if a boy had done exactly the same thing as me- filmed himself getting pissed alone in a bath- the responses would be very different. I don’t know about the likes, but there certainly wouldn’t be references to masturbation in the comments and the word ‘slut’ wouldn’t have come into it. I’m not saying I necessarily mind this, I’m just noting that it would have been a very different scenario.

Also, I’d appreciate suggestions on how to do a neknomination in the bath, as a female, in a way that wouldn’t be construed as ‘slutty’. I wasn’t going to take a normal, naked bath, not least because that would LITERALLY be child porn, and I’m not exactly going to take a bath fully clothed, either. The bikini made sense. I don’t own a ‘less sexy’ bathing outfit (what would that even be, anyway? A swimsuit? A wetsuit? One of those full body suits that Muslim women wear? Yes, that’s a real thing. Google ‘burkini’…) and I’m not going to go out of my way to get one.

I actually wanted the bubbles to be higher, but the only bubble bath we had was a good five years old and wouldn’t fill up the tub properly.

Regardless, it’s NOT that sexy. If it’s sexy at all. The perspective of the camera makes me look pretty disproportionate; my hands look massive (though that’s probably because they are massive); my posture is terrible and, let’s face it, pretty mannish. The face isn’t great. My hair pretty much covers my boobs. Well, it was meant to.

I’m not trying to vent my insecurities, I don’t particularly care about these things and I’d say I’m pretty confident about my appearance, I’m just trying to highlight the fact that it WASN’T a sexual video. That wasn’t the intention, anyway, even if certain hormonal teenagers perceived it differently.

4. It was meant to be funny. That’s what I was hoping the redeeming quality would be. I would definitely hope that I myself have more redeeming qualities than what I look like- fuck it, EVERYONE should have more redeeming qualities than just their appearance.

I was trying to parody those swanky clichéd bath scenes you see in the media so much. Ideally, I would have had rose petals, and a bigger bath, and more bubbles, and even candles. Oh, and a cigar. 

Alas, I am too poor. Also I’m not cool enough to obtain a cigar.

I feel sorry for you if you didn’t get the humour element. I don’t mean that you should have found it funny personally, I just mean that if you dismissed the video as Drunk Slut In A Bath then you completely missed what I was trying to do. Bound 2 was playing in the background, for fuck’s sake. I used a time card from SPONGEBOB at one point.

God dammit, this is what I get for trying to be funny as a female. Everybody knows women can’t be funny.


Here’s why I regret it:

1. Despite the seemingly positive responses I did get, the lack of response is what worries me. A lot more people saw that video and didn’t ‘like’ it than those who did. I know that’s the case with most things on Facebook but, considering my attire (or lack thereof) and everything I just spoke about, that’s not a nice thought. I feel that the people who ‘liked’ it did so mainly because they ‘got’ my humour. 

Most of the friend requests I got afterwards were from people who didn’t ‘like’ the video, not just creepy and/or sexually frustrated teenage boys. I got friend requests from quite a few girls who didn’t press the ‘like’ button even though they could have done so without being my Facebook friend. Some of these girls I knew, sure, but some of them I had never spoken to or had even heard of. 

So why did they add me?

That’s not rhetorical. Please, help me understand. I would never feel compelled to add somebody just because their (arguably provocative) video came up on my newsfeed. I wouldn’t feel compelled to make sweeping judgements or indirect tweets, either.

Essentially, people who don’t know me very well now think I’m a total freak. This shouldn’t bother me but I like being liked and really dislike being disliked. I can guarantee that some of the people who saw that video have now decided, based simply on those four minutes, that they don’t like me, even though they don’t know me properly. At the very least, there are now people out there think I’m a total nutjob. Thing is, I wouldn’t get on with people who have this mindset anyway, but it’s still not exactly pleasant to think about. Maybe semi-naked bathtub videos don’t make for the best first impression.

2. My parents and my sister saw it.


So now they know I’ve smoked and publish ‘suggestive’ content publicly on the internet. They’ve also found my Twitter and potentially this blog. If you’re there, family, STOP STALKING MY SHIT. In the words of Regina George, why are you so obsessed with me?

Here’s to hoping they don’t find my /r/gonewild throwaway any time soon.

[Joke. That was a joke. I was joking. It’s a thing I do sometimes. That doesn’t mean I actually HAVE a /r/gonewild throwaway, funnily enough.]


'But Lara, if you don't want people to see things, then you shouldn't make them publicly available on the internet!'

True, but what worries me is that they WANTED to see the video, and my Twitter, and my Facebook account. They actively searched for these things as a result of some kind of morbid curiousity, even though the outcome could only be negative. If I had a teenage daughter I wouldn’t invade their privacy like that even if I had the ability to do so. That’s why I’m upset.

Also, I was quite happy being the perfect child. I haven’t been majorly punished or anything but I’m pretty annoyed that the positive image they’ve had of me for 16 years has been totally shat on.

If you Google my name the first thing that comes up is ‘Record GCSE Results’. I wonder how long it’ll be before that’s replaced by ‘underage vanilla amateur tubgirl goes viral’.


'Friends of Friends' was the setting, I believe. I have 182 Friends. Multiply that by every one of their friends… Oh God. I wouldn’t be surprised if, literally, thousands of people have seen it. The entire college. The entire city.

Only Friends can see it now (and even then there are probably plenty of people on my Friends list who I’d rather didn’t watch it) but originally, anyone could have seen it.

DID see it.

Including my sister, even though I thought I blocked her. That part’s on you, Zuckerberg.

Of course, we all know the reason why I made it public in the first place.

For the likes.

23/03/2014 edit: Everything still applies but I’ve decided I don’t actually regret it because it was bare jokes #yolo



Are you sitting comfortably? Then let’s begin. Wait, no, have you got a bucket ready? You should get a bucket. The tale I am about to tell you is the grossest one yet, and I don’t know if you’ve read my other blog posts, but that’s saying something. I am detailing this anecdote so that when it inevitably spreads around college like wildfire and I am shamed and I begin physically repelling people and somehow become even more virginal, at least I can say I tried to laugh it off. I only began college a couple of months ago and the little reputation I have garnered for myself is very quickly about to be completely and utterly anally raped.

Like, seriously, please don’t read this if you want to maintain whatever minuscule shred of respect you may still you have for me.

Last night I drank half a litre of vodka. Half a something of vodka, anyway. I don’t know whose. I make it through most of the night (arguably) without doing anything too outrageous. Then 4am comes along. I probably should have disclosed the following piece of information beforehand: it was That Time Of The Month. I had contained the situation within my underwear and luckily I’m so pure and frigid that there was no chance of anyone seeing the bomb site that was my crotchal region. But come 4am, I decide it would be a good idea to change my tampon.

I did not properly discard said tampon.

Said tampon DID, however, get stuck to my shoe and leave a nice red mess as I nonchalantly ambled my drunken self around the host’s kitchen. When I finally realised something was wrong, I eventually disposed of the tampon properly whilst Ming cleaned up after me and other partygoers watched in disgust.

I have no idea how you’re meant to repay someone for cleaning up your vagina blood.

The only memory I have of the incident is a flash of red on the floor, and the desperation and panic I felt in the morning when I forgot I took the tampon out and spent a minute trying to find it because I honestly thought it had got stuck and I didn’t fancy going to A&E to get it forcibly removed.

If you ignore the mortifying, repulsive and socially crippling aspects of that story, then it’s actually kind of funny. The image of me trying to be my hilarious drunken self whilst a short fat Chinese boy stumbles behind me trying to clean up some red crap materialising from my shoe is pretty amusing. I mean, it could have been worse. At least I didn’t take it out in front of people (which is what I originally thought happened). Or shit myself.

When Ming told me about the situation the next day and how there were a good five or so other people in the room, I did audibly gag and have an existential breakdown as I contemplated my new-found social status. Ming tried to comfort me with stories of worse shit that has happened at parties, but all I can think about is how in the remainder of my short-lived college days I will most likely be referred to as Tampon Shoe Girl or some other nickname that only some cruel teenager could conceive.

The worst part is that people will never bring it up to my face. I will never know if somebody I’m talking to knows what happened, I’ll just have to judge based on how weirdly they act around me. I’ll never have human contact again. I’ll never leave the house. 2014 looked like such a promising year; a fresh start- but of course I had to go and get a bloody tampon stuck to my shoe and parade around like I was in a pageant designed to appeal to those with a very particular fetish. I couldn’t have just sucked someone off or sent a Snapchat of my boobs or some other normal slutty thing, oh no, I had to take my used sanitary product on a fucking evening stroll.

I am going to kill myself.



We’re on the coach getting hyped to go ice skating at Ally Pally (because how could going ice skating at 1am possibly be considered a bad idea), only this adventure does not consist solely of the South Africa crew. In fact, only a few of the original Zulu Warriors are present, as several younger, Woodcrafters are with us, including some new kid we’ve never seen before.

This new kid is a bit odd.

She has been loudly playing her wanky emo rock for good 10 minutes now. I don’t mean loudly as in headphones are loud, I mean loudly as in the external speakers on her phone are Really Fucking Loud. I’m finding it very hard to hold down a conversation about Julian’s sex life with her shitey tunes blaring in the background.

Oh God now she’s fist pumping


It’s in fucking Japanese how

I cry

We had find other means to communicate because we thought it might be a bit rude to tell this girl how much we hated her to her face


Yes I’ve still got iOS6 fuck off


PC gone mad

Sometimes I’ll be in a social situation where I’m surrounded by girls and they’ll be talking about Etsy or boy bands or Disney- something typically ‘girly’ that I don’t relate to, essentially. Anyway, this will go on for a good ten minutes or so before I find myself coming to the following conclusion in my brain: God, I hate women. 

Then, I’ll be in a social situation where I’m surrounded by boys and they’ll be talking about ‘fingering some bird’ or their penises or MILFs- something typically ‘manly’ that I don’t relate to, essentially. Anyway, this will go on for a good ten minutes or so before I find myself coming to the following conclusion in my brain: God, I hate men. 

It’s so comforting to have both of these realisations! I’m not sexist, I just hate EVERYONE!

Similarly, I’ve found myself being grossed out by two women or two men making out in public- like, REALLY making out- so when I catch myself in the act of being grossed out my mind starts going Oh my God I’m homophobic ohgodohgodohgod I thought I was such a good person but I’m actually a massive homophobe OH GOD THE EDL IS GONNA RECRUIT ME OH GOD- that is, until I see a straight couple making out. In public. In the same overindulgent fashion. 

And guess what? I’m EQUALLY grossed out!

I’m not homophobic, I just hate other people’s happiness!


Don’t be a dick

When people make negative comments about an aspect of another’s appearance, do they not consider that that person is already perfectly aware of that flaw? Do they not think about the fact that this person probably has that insecurity perpetually plaguing their mind, praying that nobody notices it? This essay wasn’t sparked by any recent personal criticisms, by the way, but rather a tweet by YouTuber Emma Blackery, regarding the appearance-centric hate comments she sometimes gets on her videos.

When I was younger people sometimes made comments about certain physical features, to my face, and all I thought when they said this was how late they were to notice the thing that I myself noticed and hated every single day. Being the doormat that I am, upon someone rudely and unnecessarily making a cruel remark to do with my looks I would just smile meekly and say ‘Oh’, or some other single-syllable response to that effect.  But of course I didn’t want to just say ‘Oh’, what I wanted to do was stop being a doormat and start screaming ‘I KNOW! I KNOW! Don’t you see that I know? Don’t you realise that I think about it all the time? Don’t you understand that it’s a crippling insecurity of mine that I spend my life hoping nobody notices, hoping that it’s not that bad and the only reason I’m so troubled by it is because I think too much? Don’t you know how desperately I want someone to tell me that I’m exaggerating and it’s all in my head, and how much harder it is to rationally believe that when YOU point it out? Surely you don’t think I chose to look the way I do, that I can somehow help something as arbitrary as my appearance?’, as if saying these things would somehow diminish whatever the imperfection was and that whoever had made the comment would suddenly un-notice it.

I’m no exception to the millions upon millions of teenage girls- indeed, human beings- with low self-esteem and body image issues, but my perspective has changed a lot since I was twelve or thirteen, which I think is when kids are cruellest and when the majority of these petty comments were made to me. If somebody needlessly criticised the way I look now, and they had the audacity to do it so I could hear them, I certainly wouldn’t smile and say ‘Oh’. I might spout the rhetorical shitstorm in the previous paragraph, or I could insult them back, but honestly I think I would attack the quality of their character that made them think saying such a thing would be okay. My response, or at least the response of my ideal self, would be something along the lines of ‘Wow, that was really mean and unnecessary. You must feel embarrassed.’

I will freely (though shamefully) admit to critiquing someone’s bad teeth or acne or height or weight and probably a million other things, whether that be out loud or just as a thought in my head, but I would never dream of actually acknowledging whatever the flaw is to that person. Please, enlighten me if you’re the kind of individual who makes these comments: why do you think it’s ok to say to somebody ‘You know you’ve got a spot’ or ‘Aren’t you going to shave your legs?’ or ‘What’s that mole?’ or ‘You look ill’ or ‘Why is your face so red?’?


There’s also the old ‘You look miserable, smile for once’. This particularly pisses me off, especially when yelled out by strangers in the street- that’s a thing, by the way. I haven’t had it said to me personally, but it does beg the question of why you should smile if you’re alone and just going about your own business, and why some creep telling you to smile would make you more inclined to do so. If I crossed paths with someone alone yet aggressively smiling I’d think them a bit psychotic, especially if this happened in the UK. It’s just not British to smile for no reason. Of course, if you are a very smiley, very happy person, then good for you, but that’s definitely not the default.

I find myself searching for flaws in another’s appearance most when that person is undoubtedly very attractive, to counteract my envy. I’m aware that this isn’t healthy. When I do catch myself thinking things like She’s got good boobs but they don’t count if they’re fake or Selena Gomez isn’t THAT pretty, another voice in my head interrupts with Who the fuck cares, she’s still way hotter than you, stop being a jealous bitch. If you’ve discovered the balance between these two things and know how to appreciate the attractiveness of others without having your own self-esteem crushed, please, tell me your secret.

I’m finding that simply accepting that everybody’s different helps a lot, no matter how clichéd that sounds. There will always be somebody better in the measurable sense of intelligence or appearance or talent or whatever, but there’s not another you. The people who love you, love you despite, or even because of, whatever faults you happen to possess. They’re not going to trade you in for a better model any time soon. And in the grand scheme of things, who the fuck cares if you don’t look like Mila Kunis or Channing Tatum? Mila Kunis and Channing Tatum don’t even look like Mila Kunis or Channing Tatum. One thing I’ve come to learn recently is that people’s standards are a lot lower that the media makes them out to be. Really, I think that the majority of people are attractive, which is a far nicer mindset to be in than constantly nitpicking every single blemish on every last person. You could argue that boys who go around saying things like ‘She’d get it’ or ‘I’d tap that’ regarding every girl they see are crude, but at least they’re better than the ones making nasty comments like ‘She would be hot if her hair was a little longer’ or ‘I’d do her if she lost some weight’. Boys, continue being overly horny douchebags* if you must (honestly I’d be a bit worried if you weren’t), but do it positively.

In conclusion:
1. Don’t make cunty comments about things others can’t help, and if you do have the irresistible, unrestrainable urge to do so, at least make sure the person you’re talking about CAN’T HEAR YOU.
2. Try not to be jealous and understand that all people are people and are a lot more similar to you that you’d think.
3. Don’t compare yourself to others and instead try to be the best YOU that YOU can possibly be. 

I should probably try taking my own advice and stop being a huge hypocrite for once. Carrie Fletcher makes the point I’m trying to make far more eloquently: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80P6-TMVCs8

I know posts like these aren’t what this blog is about, so I’m sorry for sharing something personal that doesn’t involve self-deprecation or bodily fluids.

*If you’re asexual or simply in the minority of teenagers who don’t feel compelled to constantly remind everyone how aroused they are, that’s cool too, I’m just adhering to stereotypes


Vomit Comet

I passed out the other day. Not as a cool consequence of drinking more than I could handle or ‘blazing one too many’, but because of a reason far less enthralling.

The tale begins with me hurrying to Lauren’s house for Woodcraft, accompanied by Raquel (who I had forewarned of my impending collapse). When we knocked the door, our friend Hannah answered, who I calmly greeted with the following sentiment: ‘Hi! I’m about to pass out’.

Then I passed out.

I was only out for a few seconds, but I think Raquel saved me from the cold stone floor by placing her gloriously thick hipster jacket underneath my head after guiding me to the ground. I opened my eyes not long after, immediately declaring ‘I’M ALIVE EVERYTHING’S FINE’, before being told to lie down again. So I did, with the room still spinning around me and my face smushed against the stuffing of Raquel’s coat whilst simultaneously being engulfed by it. I heard voices around me, all trying to work out what the hell you’re meant to do in a situation like the one that had just occurred.

'Get Lauren!'
'Lauren, Lara just passed out'
'Lara passed out, where's your mum?'
'MUM, Lara just passed out'
'Lara passed out?'
'Yeah, she's on the floor'
'Lara passed out'
'At 8pm on a Wednesday night'
'And now she's on the floor?'

Then Lauren’s mum was kneeling beside me. The first thing she said was ‘Are you okay?’, to which I replied that yes, I was.

The second thing she said was ‘Have you been drinking?’ to which I replied that no, I hadn’t, and the reason for my (literal) downfall, I whimpered, was that ‘I ate too much pizza’. Which is exactly the kind of thing that somebody who had been drinking would have said.

Not long afterwards Prentice arrived and tiredly asked ‘Why is Lara on the floor?’

Raquel, the storyteller she is, explained what had happened. Then Julian, who had been at Lauren’s house the whole time but was somehow unaware of the situation, came in to ask if Lauren had any firelighters. Oh yeah, the context for this anecdote is that we were meant to be having a bonfire at Lauren’s. The reason that didn’t happen is because we suck at making bonfires. Not because of anything to do with me. I recovered pretty quickly, you may or may not be happy to know, though I’m pretty sure everyone now thinks I’m even more of an alcoholic that they thought before.

Anyway, Lauren did have firelighters, and someone gave me a glass of water and we eventually ended up having a grand old time around our ‘bonfire’.

This is the second time I have semi-publicly passed out after eating too much Italian food. The first time occurred over a year ago, in the ladies’ bathroom at the Odeon Cinema, shortly before I was meant to see The Dark Knight Rises. This first instance was a lot worse, though, a) because I puked on my Batman t-shirt, meaning I had to take it off, resulting in the dilemma of whether to wear my heavy denim jacket in the already-hot cinema, or simply to watch the film topless (I chose the former); b) because I nearly missed the movie, and c) because I was out for 10 minutes this time, meaning the whole toilet block had to be closed off- which is humiliating, to say the least. I remember awakening to an old Mexican man cleaning up my vomit, with the only thing I could think to say being ‘Sorry about that’.

The key difference between these two events, other than the barf, is that in what I affectionately refer to as ‘The Dark Knight Rises Incident’, I had eaten too much spinach and ricotta tortellini, whereas in what I shall henceforth call ‘That Time I Passed Out At Lauren’s House’, I ate- well, too much pizza. You just read it.

I didn’t get doctors involved on either of these occasions because I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me (at least, not regarding my digestive system). Both times I felt fine a few minutes later, so it never seemed necessary (and both times, Julian was present but not present-present, coincidentally). It’s pretty obvious what the issue is. It’s not that I eat too much. The issue is that I eat a lot after not eating much all day, then do exercise (i.e. walking fairly quickly for about thirty minutes) after not moving much all day, and apparently the consequence of this in my particular model of human is temporary unconsciousness.

The most bizarre thing about the whole phenomenon is that, despite all the drunken stupors I’ve found myself in over the past few years, never once have I passed out or even thrown up whilst under the influence. In that respect, I am an excellent drunk.

I’m just crap at being sober, apparently.



I’m pretty sure I have an abnormal amount of testosterone considering my genitalia. I am atrocious at being ‘a girl’. Or at least, I’m useless at all the things gender stereotypes say ‘girls’ conform to.

Firstly, I can’t bake. At least, not in a way that’s aesthetically pleasing. I’ve made some pretty good chocolate chip cookies in my time, but I can’t conjure up cutesy cupcakes or pretty, delicately-iced gingerbread men or mouth-watering chocolate fudge cake. As much as I strive to be Mary Berry or Betty Crocker, it seems that the magical touch I’m blessed with turns everything to shit, rather than something tasty and edible. Unless you’re into eating faeces, of course.

Secondly, I can do fuck all in the makeup department. It’s taken me sixteen years to get to the point where my foundation nearly matches my skin tone and sort of blends in, my eyelashes aren’t completely clumped, and my eyeliner only goes wrong every other day. It’ll probably take another lifetime before I even attempt contouring, and I don’t think lipstick and I are ever going to get on. You’d think I would have admitted defeat by now, but nope. It turns out the one quality I do have that’s vaguely feminine is crippling insecurity, so giving up putting slop on my face more or less every day isn’t an option at the moment.

I never got the memo on how to take good selfies, either. I have no idea how you’re meant to get the right balance of pouty lips/subtle cleavage/decent posture/Instagram-induced colour correction. I can boast a grand total of five likes on one of my Facebook profile pictures. The majority of girls I’m friends with seem to be averaging 50+. All the selfies I’ve ever taken- seven of them in total, I think- remain hidden in the depths of my disused iPod touch, hopefully never to surface again. Don’t even get me started on Snapchat.

I don’t entirely understand the girls-going-to-the-bathroom-together thing, either. I did this a lot in high school because I had so few friends that if we didn’t then we would probably lose each other so it was just more convenient to go as a group. But we didn’t have heart-to-hearts or talk about boys or whatever you’re ‘meant’ to do. The experience consisted mainly of me awkwardly trying to make small talk to tune out the sound of pissing/straining/zips being undone/tampons being unwrapped. I still don’t ‘get’ the concept of sneaking away in giggly pairs to- what? Defecate together? Maybe some day the magicial toilet fairy of womanhood will enlighten me.


Multitasking: I need a lie down if I do more than one thing for too long.

Shaving: I still have countless scars.

Wearing dresses: no

Hair: no

Going jogging: no

Buying fancy underwear: you can find me in Primark picking up a full brief multipack.

Being generally elegant/dainty/adorable/graceful/attractive: this morning, I nearly broke my neck tripping down the staircase, smashed a glass, sat on the TV remote, and dropped my phone on my face whilst lying in bed. Not because I was texting anyone, by the way, but because I was looking at horse masks on eBay as I thought that maybe people would like me more if my face was hidden behind a detached animal head.

Ha, you thought people texted me.

I might start some kind of Hot Messes Anonymous group so that everyone who feels this way can get together and talk about how much they suck at arranging flowers or flirting or whatever it is girls are ‘meant’ to be able to do. Knowing other people’s gender-specific failures would make me feel better, anyway.

I want GTA V so bad it hurts. Usually I’m perpetually disappointed when i purchase video games because I can never complete them (or get past the first save point, for that matter), but this time I’m even considering getting a job so I can afford it.

Considering, I said. I’ve been rejected so many times that I’m not sure I have the willpower to fill out another arduous application form or take another mind-numbing internet personality test. You have to take the mentality that ‘the customer is always right’, even when the customer is a mentally challenged impatient fuckwit who gives the sales staff shit because they were too dumb to read the return policy correctly.

I’m sorry, I get really passionate about the hypothetical thundercunts presented in these online job questionnaires.

Maybe it’s a good thing that no company will give me an interview.