Learning by Eggsample

FINALLY we have some fucking puns in this place. YOUR WELCOME


This July I am sorting my life out. I know I have said it before, and instead of actually keeping to the diet, I have in fact drank my weight in rum and smoked loads, all while wearing skinny jeans [and covered in hot sauce, I am a Hot Mess]. I did stick to the decaf tea thing, though, mostly, but it turns out that you can’t just have ten cups of decaf tea, eat a whole pile of burritos and call it a healthy lifestyle. Maybe Oprah is not such a good role model after all.

But I am taking it seriously now. So seriously I am going to retire my purple skinny jeans to the Great Wardrobe in the sky, just as soon as I can muster up the courage. I really love those pants, it’s actually ridiculous how much. We’ve been through a lot together. Plane rides, bus rides, bathroom rides- lesser denim would have given up, or at least ripped at the knee, but not these pants. Maybe I won’t retire them, maybe I will save them for formal wear. Like I will get married in them or something. My stomach is not invited to the ceremony. Also I probably will not be either if I insist on wearing really old purple jeans- sorry future wife. You can go ahead and try to change me if you want.


Anyway, I was pretty worried about being a healthy motherfucker,  because being healthy and cutting out loads of my favourite healthy foodstuffs seemed like trying to build a lego house out of play-doh. Except instead of just making a building that is structurally unsound you end up dying of malnourishment. Also because the last time I tried my diet I ate so much cheese it was ridiculous, I practically pasteurised myself. It wasn’t a good look. It was a pretty sweaty look.

But this time, I am pretty sure I have discovered the key to healthy eating. It is not, as I was told by my doctor, having a balanced diet. It has fuck all to do with pyramids. No, it’s much better than that. It is the kind of information you can only get in pamphlet form, and that is exactly how I dicovered it.

You guys- all we need are Quail Eggs.

I could paraphrase this pamphlet for you, but that would not be doing it justice. Quail eggs are fucking magic shit you guys. They might be almost as class as the Dragon Fruit, except probably everything I heard about that Bad Ass Mother Fucker is probably true, and I would be very surprised if this pamphlet isn’t at least half bullshit. But Imma live by it anyway. First thing tomorrow Imma buy a load of those little eggs and go fucking nuts. I think if I eat only Quail eggs and Dragon Fruit, I might actually evolve into Charizard.

I can’t see any other possibility.

Here, I present to you, with commentary- the most beautiful pamphlet god ever decided to write for the laugh. I am well aware my commentary is not gonna be half as funny as the actual text, but I can’t stop talking about these little bastards so you guys are screwed. Soz babes.

‘QUAIL EGGS- HEALTHY WAY OF LIFE, HEALTHY GOURMET TREATS’ is the title of this publication. Already your senses are blown. It says healthy twice, so they must be good for you, right? And gourmet- this shit is fancy. Nigella Lawson probably eats these things. She probably uses them every day, the saucepot. Incidentally, can we talk about her burkini, because I might be in love with it. Only Nigella would find a Lycra full body hoody with a peak built in and think ‘Hmm, that is perfect for holidays’. I hope it catches on, because I love it when I go to the beach and all the sexy ladies look like they are wearing the skin of a seal that has partially melted.

With a peaked cap- so practical! Add heels and you’re ready for a night on the town- it’s Daywear meets Nightwear!

Anyway, back to the pamphlet.  ‘Quail eggs are speckled pearls that nature gives us’. And here I always thought Pearls were the pearls that nature gave us. The more you know.  ‘Since ancient times, this delicacy has been prized as a dietary and healing food’. Right. Again, I thought all food was ‘dietary’, as in ‘part of a diet’. At this stage, the pamphlet has pretty much exploded most of my ideas about the world. Up is down and left is right you guys, but don’t worry- I’m pretty sure Quail eggs are still rad. In fact they definitely are, because what follows this statement is a paragraph where it is shown that even though Quail eggs only weigh 10-12g each, they also contain 140g of vitamin B1.

Quail eggs- possibly the TARDIS?

As well as that, if you give a kid two of them a day [which would be easy since they are about the size of a mini egg], your kid will be ‘less likely to suffer from infectious diseases’. Everybody out there with kids, if you are feeding that little dude one or less Quail eggs a day you should be ashamed of yourselves. Seriously, how do you sleep at night?

‘Now imagine all of these benifits in a colorful delicacy known for it’s 5- star elegance and cultural equisiteness.’ Please do imagine that. Please imagine the cultural exquisiteness of an egg. You’ll thank me later.

After that brilliant sentence comes the best part of any pamphlet- the part that is done in bullet points. Except the dudes who wrote this don’t understand bullet points, so every point is really a paragraph. The bullet points are supposed to represent the health benifits of eating a shit ton of tiny eggs every day, and I have a few favourites that I’m not even gonna comment on. They are perfect just the way they are:

-‘ Quail eggs are the low carbohydrate, low calorie food for keeping your blood sugar and cholesterol at a safe level. There may not yet be a diabetes cure, but including Quail eggs in your diet can help you live a life devoid of diabetes symptoms.’

– ‘Quail eggs can accelerate recuperation after blood stroke and help strengthen heart muscle’

And the best thing you’ll ever read in your life:

-‘Quail eggs contain natural vitamins and proteins that are proven to increase sexual performance. When incorporated into your daily diet, Quail eggs not only stimulate sexual desire and potency, they also give you energy. And unlike other sexual boosters like chocolate or pumpkin seeds, Quail eggs are low fat’

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, QUAIL EGGS!? First you tell me to feed my kids handfuls of you, then you tell me that eating them will make people awesome at sex? I am getting mixed messages over here- either Quail eggs are encouraging children to have sex, or Quail eggs are encouraging diabetic children with heart problems to have sex. With each other maybe. Either way, I’m not sure if it’s a message I can get behind. Or near.

I’m totally going to eat hundreds or them though- FOR SCIENCE. The pamphlet recommends eating them raw, or subsituting them for real eggs in recipes. It also says you can boil them for ‘1, 5 minutes’, but that is a very vague time to set an egg timer for, and also I am not convinced that you could dip any kind of soldier into a quail egg without ending up looking like you’ve just put a silly hat on your toast. Also I am pretty sure that an omlette made with Quail eggs would be unfulfilling, but I guess they get away with it because once you eat a couple eggs, you become immune to disease, heart conditions, diabetes and also you wanna ride everything.

Basically, lads, this whole blog has led up to one idea, and that idea is not even me running around immune to everything and boning everything else, though that idea is also pretty sweet. This is an idea that made me so excited I almost shut the fuck up for a minute. The idea is this:

Popeye could have been much more fucking exciting.



Warning Signs In General

Alright, so it might just be because I’ve spent the whole day searching for a job, but I’m pretty sure the world is actually fucked. Up is down and left is right you guys, and that is especially troublesome to me because I already have mild amounts of difficulty with left and right as it is. Don’t act like I’m the only one either, left and right is serious business sometimes, we have all been in a car with somebody yelling ‘WHICH MOTHERFUCKING WAY’, and we’ve all experienced that moment of total clarity when you realise that you actually don’t have a clue.

Helpful hint: Your index finger and thumb make an L shape on your left hand, when you look at the back of it. This blog can be a learning experience for us all.

Anyway, I am basically underqualified for being alive, is what I discovered today. But then, something even more upsetting than finding out for certain that I am totally useless happened. Something really Fucked Up. Today, I watched The Real L World [upset level: 3] and identified with Kelsey [upset level: 100000003].

Not because I am stoned all the time, or because I have a terrible relationship with a genuinely awful human [who won’t put out and then when she does eventually put out it makes you wish you were blind and also deaf], but because she said something about looking for a job that made me say ‘Preach’ [Also I talk like a lazy robot]. And you know life is not going according to plan when you say ‘Preach’ to anything you see on reality TV. Unless Snooki says it, obviously. Girlfriend is WISE.

At least I am not the only person who is definitely Doing It Wrong. Even people with really good jobs are fucked. Like today Ais went to hospital because her lungs stopped working, and the doctor told her she was suffering from ‘Abnormal Chest Pain’. Is it just me or is that the kind of thing that you could figure out for yourself?

‘Hey doctor, I have this really weird pain in my chest, what is it?’

‘That sounds like Abnormal chest pain to me.’


I wish everything was diagnosed like that. ‘Hey Doctor, I have this really weird hole in my side, what is it?’ ‘Why, that’s just a simple case of Abnormal Side Hole’

‘Excuse me, young man, but you seem to be suffering from Abnormal Leg Missing’

‘We need an ambulance over here, stat, this man has the worst case of Abnormal Face Eaten By Dogs I’ve ever seen!’

The best part is, when my mother was explaining what he said to me, she used the words ‘He said it was TOTALLY NORMAL Abnormal Chest Pain’. Now, I don’t wanna be anal here [except sexually], but there is something about that sentence that makes me think that is not what the doctor said. Because doctors are smart, and also busy, so it seems like he could have saved some time by just saying ‘You have chest pain’, if that’s what he meant.

Maybe that’s a job I can have. I can use my English degree to helpfully word vague medical conditions. The money will be great because I will be the only person doing it- market cornered!

The point is, the medical profession are pretty much phoning it in right now, and that is not comforting to me, especially since my stomach exploded. Somebody who is applying for less jobs than I am should get on that shit.

On a fantastic side note, someone in work yesterday was talking to me about how I am trying to move away, and he said that everyone who is brilliant went through a long period of being terrible beforehand. This seems like it would be an inspiring and life affirming thing to say, but actually thinking about it now I’m pretty sure he was insulting me. Last time I help that guy find soup.

Anyway, the real reason I wanted to write a blog today had nothing to do with my sisters lungs, finding a job or phrasing a sentence. It was much more important than that. I think I may have discovered something that the entire world needs to know. Something so important, god is right now sitting the fuck back down and recognizing the glory of what he has actually created.

You guys- All lesbians look much better in the 20’s. Even the fat ones.

I know what you’re thinking. ‘But Sinead’ you are saying [to who? I am probably not next to you you know], ‘Isn’t that just a stereotype, and also why is it important, I feel like my life is not enriched in any way after learning that?’ That my friends, is where you are wrong. Well, probably it is a stereotype, but fuck it, all stereotypes are based on a little bit of truth [I mean, who among us does not know a blonde girl who is way more fun?]. Anyway, the point is there are at least two reasons why this knowledge is really important for everyone in the world to know:

1: Finally trilbys are going to be worn by Rad People, who are Pulling It Off, instead of ridiculous boys who think that they look like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, but who actually look like an idiot with a hat on.

2: I own a trilby.

If I never ever update this thing ever again, we are all gonna know why. It’ll be because it is really difficult to type while being Covered In Bitches.

Or because another part of me has exploded. Judging by this morning, that shit might be genetic.


PS: This message was brought to you via the medium of Tallulah Bankhead and Free Time. Always a classy combination, and always the best voice to read anything with. Recommended by Danish people everywhere.

Just Got The Hang Of Thursdays

I spend a lot of time giving out about where I am from, you guys. I’m pretty harsh when it comes to Offaly. And you know, that’s not really fair of me, because no matter how much I complain, it’s still a pretty hilarious place to live. It’s kinda like my life in general really- I mean you wouldn’t choose it, but if you are stuck there, you start to see the funny side. And Banagher is pretty legendary in an ‘Oh My God Is This Real Life’ kind of way. I bet there is no other place in the world in which a guy in a wheelchair can lead a horse around town, and nobody bats an eyelid. Perfectly normal behaviour, right there. Not that it isn’t ok for dudes in wheelchairs to own horses- dudes in wheelchairs can own anything, capitalism is for everyone- but usually they leave the walking of the horse to other people. You know, people who can actually walk.

Anyway, basically what I’m saying is that I am from a strange place. Not only is it the gay capital of the midlands, but I’m pretty confidant that when those hilarious chaps sat down and decided to write father Ted, they really meant to set it here. Unfortunately they had to make up an island, since Banagher was copywrited [they had to wait to set a show here until they had a bigger budget, like they did with Pure Mule. What the hell was THAT show about, by the way? I never got it. I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be sexy, and that makes me so unbelievably sad when I think about what it was actually like. For shame, RTE, for shame.] or some shit, but they didn’t pull the wool over my eyes. You would not believe how hairy some of the babies here are, basically, is what I’m saying.

It’s kind of hard for me to describe how ridiculous this place is sometimes, while still being believed. Most people who I told about the infamous Unwed Mothers float for St. Patricks day a few years ago didn’t believe me until I had photographic evidence, so it is with some trepidition that I announce to all you dudes out ther that today is the greatest day in the history of Banagher- there is a monkey loose in the village.

A genuine, real life, no fooling CIRCUS MONKEY has apparently escaped it’s life of servitude and gone on the lam. In Banagher.

You couldn’t make it up.

At first, I was as incredulous as the next person, because I found out from an 8 year old, and usually those dudes are not great as news sources[Although Side Note: I found a notebook in work today that turned out to be a little kids diary and it was a fucking unbelievable read]. But then about an hour later a lady came into the shop looking pretty worried, and she asked if I’d seen a monkey, which: possibly the greatest customer service enquiry in the history of Supervalu. I hadn’t, so she asked me to keep an eye out, because they were missing one at the circus. Up until this point I had no idea there was a circus in town, so the awesome level of this conversation was pretty fucking high. Anyway, she was like ‘Chap, we pure need this monkey back though, for tricks and shit. If you see him, call us, adn we’ll give you a reward’. Which got me thinking two things:

1: If I found the monkey, I could be rich beyond my wildest dreams [circuses are secret cash cows, y’all]

2:If I found the monkey, I could have a fricking circus monkey in my house forever.

I think we all know which of these options I’m planning on taking, right? Imma be literally covered in bitches if I own a genuine circus monkey- that’s a monkey that can theoretically do magic tricks you guys. No brainer, right there.

Anyway, Imma catch this bad boy, so you guys can dick off this time, BUT I’m gonna show you how it is done, in case your life ever turns into a badly written sitcom where zany adventures are always just around the corner, like mine did. It’s really simple actually-


You will need-

-One tree house

My treehouse is obviously the best choice

Don’t you wish your treehouse was hot, like mine

-One Skipping Rope

Ability to skip: Unnecessary

Also a vague knowledge of how slipknots work is good, too.

– One Large Cardboard Box

Lol, I totally said box just now

There are so many jokes to go with here, pretend I made them all

-One Brick

Breaking down a wall is not encouraged [much]

If you're lame, you could just use a rock or something.

-Some Monkey Friends

The loveheart is just for us

If you don't have a stuffed monkey, why are you even reading this shit? Go home.

– Monkeybait

First a box joke, and now THIS?

Warning: Do not accidentally eat your monkeybait.


I see you monkey..in the middle distance.. in the middle distance

Warning: Objects in the binoculars may appear nearer than in reality. See above Fr. Ted reference

-Tea [optional]

Biscuits are also a solid life choice

Not Optional: More Tea

-Not Pictured: Way Too Much Time On Your Hands


– Place your monkey bait and monkey friends in an appealing pose in your treehouse.

– Tie your skipping rope to your box [this part is tricky depending on how your mind works]

– Lower your box/ skipping rope over your Monkeybait and Friends, like so

Those decoy monkeys look like they are having a good time

The angle is very important, it must be exactly Steep

-Tie your skipping rope in a slipknot, or in a loose ass knot for all you kids who never went to scouts/brownies or anything, call that a childhood do you? Pah! You guys are gonna find monkey catching harder than you thought.

-Put your brick behind the box, to stop it blowing around like a bastard.

Close up, what you have now looks like this:

Those decoy monkeys are looking seriously chilled

In real life, this will probably be more in focus. Probably.

-Go hide behind your box [Again, depending on how your mind works, this is either easily done or a mindblowing experience for everyone involved] and look out for monkeys using your binoculars.

The steering wheel is an allegory

Remember ladies: Covered In Bitches

-When you sight a monkey through your binoculars, entice it with your fantastic Monkey impressions. When it comes closer, it will become entranced with the tree house, as it will remind the monkey of his childhood, and also maybe the circus. Then it will see it’s monkey buddies having a picnic and chilling, and go join them, like a rad bastard.

-As soon as the monkey picks up the Monkeybait, pull the rope to drop the box. Then put the brick on top to keep him there. Once the monkey has fallen asleep from rage/ fear, take him out and break his spirit until you have a new BFF.

– Inform PETA accordingly [PSYCHE]

Foolproof plans are my specialty right now.

Hulking Out

I just accidentally told Mary Cleary a lie, which I kind of feel bad about because mostly she’s rad [You guys should read her blog too and check that shit out for yourselves http://bitterbeans.blogspot.com/ ]. I mean, I don’t feel all the way bad about it because she thinks twincest is hilarious so this could be pretty crappy revenge maybe?

The lie I told her was that I would write a blog post about being angry and embarrassing, and the sad fact is that anger very rarely makes me embarrassing. Not because I am class at it, more the exact opposite. I am super bad at anger, you guys, it’s a serious issue I have in my life.

You guys have probably read some other posts I made here, and you’d be forgiven for thinking ‘Why are you blowing smoke up my ass, chap, you seemed pretty good at anger those times you were angry back then. Clearly you are telling me lies now’. If only, guys. Imma lay some harsh truth on you right now:

I pretty much could not give a shit about what that dude said about Gay Marriage anymore.

That shit is old news to me, whatevs like. If he says it again, Imma be super pissed, but now that it’s already happened I couldn’t care less. Because my anger problem is not that I can’t get angry, it’s that I can’t stay angry.

I am actually incapable of giving a shit about anything for longer than a day or two, unless it’s a medical problem or I’ve fallen in love with it. Everything else falls off my radar wicked fast. It’s like serious issues that I really truly believe in keep accidentally putting on red shirts in the morning before they come visit me, and so what happens is they get hyper important for about half an hour, and then an alien shoots them and we all learn a lesson about Intergalactic politics or some shit.

Even right this second I am arguing with a dude on twitter [who is cool here? That’s right, I am. Salient arguments condensed into 140 characters right here, bitches] about racism [I’m personally against it], and the sad thing is that at some stage I am going to get SO BORED of him that even racism won’t be enough to make me wanna communicate anymore. I will pretty much lose interest after he goes to sleep and never speak of it again.  And that’s basically how I operate on every level most of the time. Which is kinda super embarrassing now that I think about it, because he’s probably not gonna forget that he’s a racist, but I am until the next time he says something racist, and then the whole thing will start all over again, and really, that’s bad enough in real life, but I’ll be double spamming everyone’s twitter feeds, and I just don’t need that guilt.

I’m pretty sure the only reason I keep updating this blog is that I keep getting reminded about it by gmail, so it’s fresh in my mind. Maybe I need a similar feature for ‘shit I’m supposed to be mad at’. Does google offer a ‘these people disagree with you morally’ add- on? They should. I could use that app.

It’s not just the big issues though, I pretty much forget that I’m mad at everyone in my life. That was wicked annoying as a teenager, when I’d do fantastic storming out of the sitting room, slamming doors, yelling all kinds of sweet- ass insults at my mother- and then after playing Grand Theft Auto for like five minutes, make her a cup of tea without even thinking. That’s why I never got my xbox, right there. Or a pony.

So I suppose I actually am, in a roundabout way, almost constantly embarrassed by my anger. I am constantly having conversations like:

PERSON: ‘Hey, you know Ignatio? Turns out he really DID eat that sandwich?’

ME: ‘NO WAY?!  Who and what are we talking about again?’

PERSON: ‘You know, yesterday, you had a sandwich, we starred in that Pedro Almodovar movie, suddenly you had no sandwich? You were pretty pissed about it? It was Chicken Salad? No?’

ME: *stares blankly into the distance thinking about Spain and also being transgendered* ‘Man, I am hungry, lets get some sandwiches or some shit..’

Is it just me that this happens to, or do you think Fred Phelps is like phoning it in some days? Like he actually woke up one day and was like ‘You know, I am actually not that mad at homos anymore, but we’re already at the funeral, at this stage it’s more hassle to cancel’, and ever since then he’s been caught up in his own steam? He  doesn’t want to be a homophobe anymore, but he has this whole career made out of it now, and he’s protesting everywhere just so he doesn’t lose face? Just in case, I think someone ought to ask him. Via the medium of partyboy.

Oh and something about Oprah. You’re right, Cleary, the lady has class. And probably has no embarrassing emotions at all, probably she gives out her emotions to the people in her audience who aren’t lucky enough to get a wicked car or something. ‘If everyone looks under their seats, you’ll find a free gift! That’s right, it’s a bottle of  ‘Oprah being inappropriately turned on while watching  Toy Story. HAVE A GREAT DAY’

Some people can paint

I don’t wanna sound big headed, but there are some things in this world that I excel at. Everyone has badass talents that nobody is as good at as them, and I am  no exception. Some of my fantastic abilities are1) Being able to keep my face really still for a long time. Like seriously, for HOURS [probably]. If people pretending to be statues didn’t creep me out in the extreme, I’d beat them so hard at that game. I could be the best busker ever. 2) Puns. Especially puns where puns are definitely not the appropriate response- that shit is my bread and butter. 3) Remembering the rude/sexy part of everything I’ve ever learned in my life [alright, hands up- that’s pretty much all there is to Classics, so maybe that isn’t a talent in itself. It was probably just ‘learning’.

Basically, my talents would be incredibly useful if I was a clown or a jester or some shit. The sad thing is I am not in fact that kind of creepy bastard, and so they are almost entirely useless.  This has started to bother me lately, because I’ve realised that I am ridiculously bad at other things. Other, useful things. Things like tying my laces, not falling over and finding a job.

I’m pretty much the worst at finding a job. I know, I know, you are sitting there thinking that is impossible. ‘How’, you are saying, ‘How can you be bad at getting a job? You have a degree in Latin and ancient sexy parties and reading books- THAT IS SO APPLICABLE TO LIFE!’ Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but you guys- when anyone in a TED talk says we need more people studying the humanities, they are talking out of their asses. The only thing I could ever be hired for with my credentials is Dinner Guest. I am amazing at dinner parties. I’m pretty sure nobody is interested in hiring a dinner guest, though. Even the very lonely are having a recession, like.

I’m still looking though. I spend all my free time pimping myself out on jobs.ie [not literally, I mean, it’s no craigslist, I do have standards like] and the like, but so far, no matter how amazing my cover letters are, everyone thinks I am a bit crap for work. Which I do not understand, because I have never not had a job. I guess maybe I’ve already reached my hiring quota. Still, hand out enough CVs and someone is bound to hire me, right? Right?

Below I have mapped out exactly how to hand out CVs if you are me:

1: Get The Little One to call you before she goes to work

2: Decide to not get up then because you have fallen asleep and that’s pretty rad. Set alarm for 11

3:Wake up at 1, disorientated and afraid of the future

4: Shower and put on clean and impressive clothes

5: Realise you don’t own grown up clothes [again. Resolve to remember this next time]

6: Spend some time playing Professor Leyton. Remember what you were supposed to do. Be disappointed in self.

7: Rebel against doctors by wearing skinny jeans. realise that not wearing them in a while means you have to stretch them a bit so you can move.

8: Do lunges

9: Have neighbour spot you doing lunges through your window.

10: Wave at neighbour.

11: Lose balance

12: Remember the point again. Look for CVs.

13: Fail to find CVs. Decide to print more out in town somewhere

14: Accidentally lock coat inside apartment. Curse.

15: Go into town

16: Find internet cafe

17: Print CVs. Congratulate self on grown up behaviour. Develop spring in step.

18: Leave internet cafe and walk towards Grafton street.

19: Notice it is drizzling

20: Notice it is in fact pouring rain.

21: No, actually, it is also hailstoning. And raining. Hard.

22: Try to keep CV’s dry in shirt.

23: Realise shirt is also soaking wet.

24: Take pulpy pile of CVs out of shirt

25: Scare passers by.

26: Give up and wait for bus

27: Develop chest infection.

Hey, maybe I can get a job at wikihow!

Also, I’m pretty much afraid of being alive right now. Steven Moffat has actually ruined any chance I ever had of being a normal human being. No spoilers, but just so you guys know- I’m pretty sure that

1) dude has a massive boner for blind people

2) His kids probably have nightmares like you wouldn’t believe.

Basically you guys, I’ve been wandering around scared out of my mind for a couple days now, not getting hired, and it’s really getting in the way of my life. You know, like whatever my life is. Supervalu, basically. But luckily for me, Supervalu has got my back sometimes. The dudes who are in charge of it got together this week and said ‘Yo guys, our supermarket chain is fine and everything, but it’s Pretty Dull. If only we could make it more exciting, like with lasers or some shit except less dangerous and costly’, and then one of them came up with the best idea ever. He was like ‘Chaps- I have the solution to our boring shopping experience. Something that is literally gonna make heads explode with the very idea of it. You guys, you know what we need?



SPINY RAVE FRUIT YOU GUYS! Who the hell looked at one of those things and said ‘I need to have that thing in my stomach like right this second’. Someone pretty rad, that’s who.

This fruit should not exist. It looks like a trippy pineapple. But not only is it a fucking real thing you can put in your stomach to create awesomeness, it’s frickin ridiculously good for you. If you eat this thing all the time, it will cure your asthma. This spiny motherfucker get’s all up in your lungs and makes them respect. Not good enough for you? It also is wicked useful if you are diabetic, it’s all like ‘Blood sugar GET IN LINE’ and your blood sugar totally does. And you know what else? It helps you lose weight.

Yeah, you heard.

Dragon Fruit [Also known as LADY OF THE FUCKING NIGHT[!]] is a badass, spine covered, bright pink kind of weightwatchers.

Based on this, I have set myself two life goals:

1: Get a job

2: Be as awesome as this fruit.

Life plans are the best.

An Open Letter

Dear Captain Morgan,

I think we need to break up.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and I’m just not sure our relationship is in my best interests anymore. We’ve had our laughs, don’t get me wrong, but I think we need to just slow down and have a serious think about what we are doing here. For both our sakes.

Firstly, I love how everytime we hang out together, I stop being the Most Awkward Thing and turn into a ledgebag. If it wasn’t for you, I would never be able to turn into a smoooooooooth criminal and be covered in bitches. Being covered in bitches is definitely a good thing. What I don’t like is how you sometimes make me cross the line from ‘winningly confident’ to ‘complete dickface’, and you don’t even warn me that it’s going to happen. You just give me the push, and sit back and wait for me to remember the next day. Not cool, Captain. Not Cool.

Good Idea: Go over to pretty ladies and start a conversation

Bad Idea: Go over to pretty ladies and start a conversation with the words ‘Have you met me? I’m CLASS’

I realise that the above statement might confuse you, seeing as how you don’t normally see any difference between good ideas and bad ones. Well, that’s a lie- the difference is that when I’m with you there are only good ideas and BETTER IDEAS. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, per say. Sometimes our ideas together are genuinely inspired. Like when we decided to buy two chicken satays that time after a night out, so there was one for breakfast- that was obviously a genius move. Less inspired was that time when we were in trouble, and we had that brilliant idea that the only way to get out of trouble was to take the mattresses of Ais’s bed and throw them around the room. Who exactly did you think that was going to help, Captain? We broke a pipe.

Another problem within our relationship is that whenever I’m in your company, I forget how to convert my thoughts into speech properly. As in, I will say everything I am thinking instead of just the socially acceptable things. And sometimes, I don’t even say things I’m thinking, I am saying things that YOU are thinking. Hey Captain, take your offensive words out of my mouth will you, jeez. It is not OK to tell someone to stop talking because they are really boring, if they are not talking to you. It is also not cool to yell ‘YOUR TRANS? THAT IS FUCKING HOT’ and then try to make out with that person loads. Mostly people are not into that.

I also would like to point out that giving me a hangover is pretty low, coming from you. All night long, you’re like ‘Hey Sinead, you want some of this? Yeah you do’, and then the next day you disappear, and my body can’t cope with the loss so it tries to reject me. And just when I’m starting to cope with that, you drop little memory bombs, like you’re rubbing it in. ‘Hey Sinead, look what we did last night. Looks like fun, doesn’t it? You had a good time? BOOM- you also got banned from the toilet. And the stage. And Heaven. Soz babes!’

Basically Captain, I just don’t think you’re worth it anymore. You used to be cool, after a bottle of you the world was a much better place, with strange new colours and shiny lights and also maybe the ride later. That is still the case, but now the new colours are mainly in the vomit I have done on the side of a bank somewhere, the lights are in fact signs of a serious concussion and the ride later was either a complete mentaller or deeply, deeply unattractive. I’ve changed, Captain. I’ve sorted my life out, and you are holding me back from achieving my goal- namely, to Stop Exploding.

What I’m trying to say here is that you are turning me into a Dickhead All My Life, and that is pretty harsh, yo. So you can take your shiny pirate torch and amazing warm belly-cold belly sensation and take the next dick out of here.

Yours Shakingly,


PS: If you are on offer next weekend I swear to God, bitches are getting cut.

HOW Embarrassing

I think it’s time I came out. I just don’t think I can keep it a secret anymore. I’m sure most of you have guessed at this stage. God knows that no matter how hard I try to hide it, tell- tale signs just keep on breaking through. I hope I’m not disappointing too many of you, and I especially hope we can all still be friends. You have to know- I’m still the same person I was before, this is just part of who I am, too, and I hope you are all OK with that. I can’t pretend to be something that I am not any more, so here goes-

You guys, I am SUCH a girl. And I hate it.

Phew. It feels good to get that off my chest.

When I say being a girl, I don’t mean in the whole ‘identifying as female’  kind of way. I am pretty happy that a have a vagina, it’s pretty rad as far as I’m concerned. No, I mean emotionally. I am not coming out as a lady, I am coming out as the silliest of Jane Austen’s many Silly Girls. If this ‘Being A Girl’ thing isn’t monitored carefully, I am afraid I will grow up to be a very queer Mrs. Bennett.

Nobody wants a queer Mrs. Bennett.

Usually I have a handle on the silliest part of my nature. I have gotten the whole thing under control to such an extent that sometimes even I forget that centipedes are pretty gross. I do not squeal when there are tiny puppies in the room, even though I would like to sometimes, I acknowledge their adorability in a socially acceptable way. I can even open loads of types of jars, without having to run them under hot taps or jam them in doors or anything. All in all, on an everyday basis, I am a totally functioning, non- ridiculous human being.

Unless you put a film on, that is.

I am pretty much useless at Not Crying During Movies. It’s pretty embarrassing. I mean, crying during Toy Story 3 is totally fine. Crying during Up is genuinely encouraged, I don’t even feel a little bad about that. I’m not dead inside like. Crying at the end of The Notebook is embarrassing only inasmuch as it requires you to admit you’ve watched The Notebook. But for me, alas, it does not stop there.

I cried when Haldir died in the Battle Of Helms Deep, even though he was a) an elf who was a billion years old and b) A fucking Elf in a Lord Of The Rings movie, and not even an elf who died in the books so the whole scene was Not A Big Deal At All. That one was kind of embarrassing, but if you play your nerd card, you get away with that kind of thing. The tears I shed when Beethoven was being brought to the vet were harder to explain. It’s not like everyone doesn’t know that he is not euthanized, like. There is a whole series of Beethoven movies, for gods sake. But that’s not even the most embarrassing. Last year, I had a serious battle holding back the tears during Madagascar 2.

Even the guys who MADE Madagascar 2 didn’t give a shit about it. Poor form from me there.

The worst is yet to come. A a direct result of my new diet [which is what I am blaming for everything bad in the world now, by the way. Want to halt Global warming? Let me have a cigarette. Problem fucking solved], I have lost almost all control over my girlish tendencies, and I really hate them. How am I supposed to be badass when there is a Giant Spider at work that I can’t stop looking at in case it moves suddenly and then I have to get one of the guys to kill it for me?  It’s pretty much impossible. This is due to a lack of courage [i.e. hot sauce] in my diet.

Another annoyingly girly thing I’ve taken up is being fucking OBSESSED with chocolate. This is bad enough, but you guys, I don’t even like chocolate. I just want it all of the time, apparently. My day at work is spent looking at Easter eggs and really wanting one, even though I will definitely not enjoy eating it. I feel like a junkie. Someday, Imma be found hiding behind the express counter, weeping into a giant bag of minstrils and hating both myself and the mingling flavours of chocolate and shame that will be in my mouth. And then I’ll get wicked heartburn and my stomach will explode again and it won’t even have been worth it. Being a girl is pretty terrible, you guys.

The worst thing is, there isn’t anything I can do about it. I am already on the all- too slippery slope to becoming one of those fat women who sit in the front row by themselves in the cinema, looking like they have eaten the person that came with them and they feel pretty bad about that. Unless I discover a diet way to regain my bad-assness, such as it ever was, Imma be a dickhead all my life. The bad kind, too. Proof of this? Just before I started typing this blog post, I was playing Pokemon Pearl. It’s a pretty badass game. I was chasing Team Galactic around the place, catching Pokemon and generally being pretty fly, when I arrived at the lake and it turned out Team Galactic had made it explode. Instead of water I could surf on, catching far too many tentacruel, there was mud, Team Galactic members, and Magikarp. In puddles. Flopping about. And you know what I did?

I welled up.

Because of Magikarp.

Thank you and goodnight.