I have enough to worry about just keeping myself alive...

Last night I became a television shouter-atter, something I have been threatening to do for some time but have never officially engaged in. The event that prompted the shouting, and the actual flinging of a remote control was a Dove deoderant ad that told me that in order to have soft, silky armpits I should use their roll on. I am going to let that last sentence sink in, and for those of you whose heads are not imploding on the circuitous logic of having to combat shaving... rash? dryness? with a whole other product in order to be seen as sexy, I will explain.

First of all, I should admit that I love Dove soap. I especially love their 'green tea and cucumber' flavour (because, yes, it makes me edible). And I am all for having a one quarter moisturising cream in my soap. Rock on one quart moisturising cream! Woo! What I don't love is the fact that their ingenious brand managers have cottoned on to this whole 'beauty' thing. You know, that whole thing where they go around telling women to feel beautiful even though they are old, or fat, or wrinkley, or, I don't know... dry. Because that's what they are saying. Whenever they say that 'real women have real curves' and then try to sell me firming lotion, they are telling me that real women have real curves that need to be fought with their firmfucking lotion.

What gets me is that they think I am stupid enough to be fooled by their trickery. And the irony is that I find a Dove ad infinitely more offensive than, say, and Oil of Olay ad. Because at least the Oil of Olay ad is upfront about the problem: You're looking like shite! Buy this!

See? It's easier to spot. It's offensive, yes, but it's honest. And I don't end up chucking remotes at the television (although I have been known to rip a magazine in half and dance about the room naked, shaking my hands above my head, raindance style).

I was wondering the other day whether or not it would be possible to sue the makers of these beauty ads for defamation of character, or at the very least harassment? After all, what could be more defaming that presuming I am a moron, or, even worse, an ugly moron.

My only regret is that if I did manage to get them all the way to the courthouse, in order to maintain credibility I would then have to face them au naturale; no makeup, no hair balm, my real face.

The shame is enough to make me recant all my previous grumblings. And frankly, thats what I hate most of all.

Thou Shalt Not

Engage in drunken sewing.

Rainbows & Unicorns, Pt2

Yo
I know I haven't updated in, um, weeks. And in the beginning it was because I was so fucking low that I couldn't bear to bore you with my complaints.
Then it was because my medication, Lamictin, started making me unable to concentrate and no matter how good my ideas for a post were, the words just wouldn't come. And no one wants to read a half formed idea, do they?

But now? Now, I'm so happy I could burst. I had a meeting with my extremely hot hot hot psychiatrist and told him when asked that my mood was between a six and seven. Out of ten. Previously it had been, oh, a three. So I am officially doubley happy happy than I was only a month and a half ago. In a month and a half, my life has changed. So if I'm not writing, you can safely assume that it's because I am drunk. Drunk with happiness.

And also, gin.

WTF?

This post may somewhat bemuse the male segment of my readership. And yet, it is something I feel needs to be expressed, lest it causes my head to explode.

Why is it that 99% of bras on the market at the moment are padded? I cannot find an unpadded bra anywhere. And I'm sorry, but I am not going to include those sad little flesh coloured drips of paper thin nylon in this category. Those make breasts look even more ludicrous than padding: it's all pointy triangles poking bizarrely out of ones chest. Is that sexy? I doubt it. But the alternative... Am I to understand that my breasts are not enough on their own? That they must be bigger, rounder and harder than they currently are? I just don't fucking get it.

It started innocuously enough with the advent of the Wonder Bra, and ever since it seems that bra manufacturers and designers have been subscribing to the bigger is better motto. I don't buy that motto. I don't believe it. And frankly, I am starting to seriously resent the fact that I am not allowed to express my small chested-ness with pride. It makes me so angry that I am finding it hard to think of a pun to put in this sentence.

Dammit. Small boobies of the world unite!

Skinny Jeans Update

Did you know that you cannot sit cross legged in skinny jeans?
Yeah. Neither did I.

Huh.

God Help Us All

I have bought skinny jeans.

What Would You Do?

So what would you do if some guy who went out of his way to make your life a misery in primary school started obliquely hitting on you via facebook?
I mean, seriously? This guy thought I was a witch. He asked me not to put a spell on him, and not in the sexy sense either.
This, bizarrely, comes on the tail of a couple of similar episodes. The first involved some of the 'popular' boys from my high school getting hammered at a club that I normally frequent (ooh, guess which one! Guess!) and profusely apologising for being total bastards to me for five years. And then throwing up. Next to Pauls car.
Classy.

The sad thing is that all through school I planned and plotted how one day I would be sooo great, and they would, like, sooo suck. And how they would totally, like, wish they had been nicer to me cos they turned out to be such losers.

Now that they have, I kind of feel sorry for them.