Ah yes, the word ‘but’. It’s an amazing word. It instantly negates the statement preceeding it. You know what I mean. “I’m not a racist…but” or “Well I’m a feminist……but”. I think most people have had conversations along those lines.
So screw ‘but’ (ooer), I am complaining, pure and simple. I’m fed up, pissed off and sniffing the air for the whiff of steaming shit. I can feel that the bag of depression that I carry is a little heavier* than usual but I’m mindful of it and putting the mood down to a few bits of bad news and unfortunate events over the last couple of weeks. The positive energetic me knows I’ve got food in my belly, a roof over my head, clothes on my back, love in my life, access to money, health care and more equal rights than most of the female world can ever dream of so it’s more than likely just a reaction to the joys of modern life. I might want to change my reading matter as well. After a month of listening to and reading historic tales of hanging, drawing, quartering and ritual burning of heretics I might need to lift the mood with something a bit more jolly. Before anyone screams “go out and get some fresh air”. How much fucking fresher does it need to be? I’ve been walking the dogs in 50mph winds with sleet coming at me like the knives of a million tiny assassins. There is only so much sodding fresh air I can take before I want to stand in the middle of an ankle deep bog and yell ‘FUCK OFF’ at the sky.
So, what to do?
Well I could go petrol bomb the surveyor’s house who effectively told our buyers that they’re buying into a house which was built by the first little pig. Although I don’t think doing time for that sniffling, short arsed prune faced weasel dick would be the most sensible decision I’ve ever made in life. I wouldn’t last five minutes in prison and although I don’t currently have any addictions, beyond obsessively fantasizing about slow painful deaths of building surveyors, I know that on release from the big house I’d be rattling like the characters from ‘Trainspotting’.
I should have known the surveyor was a cocksnot when he demanded that the dogs were locked outside during his inspection. Poor little Fred froze his nadgerless bits off and Holly’s face at the backdoor was one of bewilderment and abject misery. I mean why was this hairless monkey locking them out of the house, its not like they’d eaten any boots, tea-towels or bedding recently. Never trust someone who doesn’t like dogs and more importantly never trust a surveyor whose opening statement is (after he’s sneezed and coughed in your face, well I say face, he was a vertically challenged person so his phlegm shot in the direction of my boobs), “Yeh well this place is going to need a full engineering report I can tell you now” before marching around the place like a North Korean despot. This is a man who has never had a decent blowjob in his entire life. And NO, I wouldn’t, not even for money or a 100% perfect survey report. The result of this ‘Home Buyer’s Survey’? The buyers are no longer buying. After nearly a year on the market we’re changing Estate Agent, preferably for one who doesn’t allow someone viewing to smash a cellar door and think we wouldn’t notice and then attempt to deny any knowledge of the damage, also we want an Estate Agent who doesn’t send prospective buyers who can only afford around 80% of the asking price. I know our love nest isn’t perfect but come on, it’s hardly a pissed stained cesspit in the woods.
What else to lift the mood? Alcohol and a night out with friends (yeh I know, alcohol the known depressant). Tried that, failed on an epic scale. After supporting my lovely Mr Trish through Dry January I got utterly plastered with some friends and suffered the consequences for 2 full days and half of another. Sod that then. My body has decided to rebel at the suggestion of partying and it’s defense seems to be going on strike as if making a formal complaint at an unauthorized change of working practices and conditions. Apparently it’s bed by 10pm, slippers and Miss Marple for me. Woo hoo ain’t middle age great. I can whole heartedly accept certain aspects of the menopausal years. It’s terrific that my foof doesn’t need trimming as often as it did; no I don’t trim and neaten my foof fur to please others or conform to a sexist agenda, I do it because I just don’t like looking as if a zombie rat is trying to eat it’s way out of my bikini bottoms thank you very much. I also love that for no apparent reason I get central heating from the feet up, this is very handy on a cold day. I can even tolerate playing ‘menstruation roulette’; round and round the months they go, when she bleeds nobody knows! What’s life for if not to have a little jeopardy? I have loved the greying process too; I have embraced the grey and ditched the hair dye. The hair dye was a pointless exercise anyway, being a bit of a ginge every single hair dye just dyed it a different shade of ginger. The one thing I cannot accept about the creeping ivy of geriatric life is having a 3-day reaction for 1 night’s party? FUCK OFF to that as well.
Fred and Holly have taken to laying low. They’re either perceptive little beings or they’re in a bad mood as well. Fred’s far from impressed with northeast winters and Holly is just sick to death of being thrown in the river at the end of our walk. Of course if she didn’t have orgasmic rolls in deer shit she wouldn’t need to be plunged into ice-cold rivers. It’s proving difficult enough to sell our house without it stinking like the shitty end of a herd of deer.
I’m sure I’ll be in a better mood next week, if not, keep your eyes and ears alert for news reports of a tall tattooed woman running amok with a homebuyer’s survey in her hands screaming “FUCK OFF AND DIE” whilst throwing homemade exploding dog shit grenades at Chartered Surveyor’s Offices.
*See previous Blog,The Black Dog and The Big Steaming Pile of Shit*