Saturday, 13 November 2010

Dear Household Fish - Stop Reading Sylvia Plath!

Although my recent attempt at becoming an improved version of myself has actually been working out quite well, I have yet to get round to doing any washing whatsoever. Putting your shoes on takes a lot more time and a lot more effort when the only socks you have left are slipper socks or snow socks from your year thirteen skiing trip. As well as having no luck laundry wise, things have gone spectacularly downhill in regards to household pets. Given that it was bonfire night last week, me and Alex took it upon ourselves to go to the racecourse at the end of our road to watch the fireworks and have a look around the fair. Short story shorter, we won a fish on Hook-a-Duck. Alex, having never been allowed a fish as a child, got rather excited and insisted we went to buy it some food as once. After putting it in the vodka jelly punch bowl we used at the Hallowe'en party we arrived home from the shop only to find the fish had leapt out of its bowl to its untimely death on the kitchen floor. Or so we thought. After a lot of of screaming, the boys from next door ran over and put the fish back in its new home to find it started swimming around again as though nothing had happened. After noticing he was attempting the aquatic equivalent of a run up, we transferred him to a cocktail jug and proceeded to be on suicide watch for the rest of the night. He is now secured in a real tank (with a lid), but the other day I caught him reading The Bell Jar and eyeing up a bottle of sleeping pills from his tank, so I think it's fair to say I'm still a little worried...

As well as having a little fish drama this week I have also encountered a small amount of drama via Facebook. Growing up and going to school in Bradford, I have obviously come across my fair share of idiots, some of whom I, for some reason, am friends with on Facebook. One particular 'friend', I noticed, had joined a group named Muslims Burn Poppys, We Burn Muslims. Fair? in regards to the recent palava with poppy burning being all over the news. Usually, I tend to shy away from conflict, but this really pissed me off and I felt the need to say something about it. (Plus, I was secure in the knowledge that I was miles away from Bradford and wrapped up in my duvet, thus reducing my chances of being beaten up).  Anyway, I posted a little rant about how she was wrong and was generalising the entire Muslim population, most of whom are just as disgusted by certain individuals as anyone else is. Her intelligent reaction was to tell me to fuck off and go 'preach to someone who gives a shit', and then I was called a 'smart ass little cunt' by the daddy of her lucky, lucky baby. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my mum and dad for letting me go to a school that was full of small-minded little shit-heads like this. 

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