Does the Queen call herself 'My Majesty'?

My boyfriend's grads ball is coming up. He repeated but never went to his first one so he decided to not be a dope this time and make his mother happy. I have a lovely dress and now need shoes, a bag and perhaps a hat or headpiece like this



or this



or this



I've been thinking about my own Debs night as a result of all this. It was all going according to plan for me up until five days before the night, when the aforementioned boyfriend decided to break up with me. I luckily had a good friend who acted as my back up date, but as I was so busy I never really even thought about the fact that I was now 'going through a break-up'. Consequently, my debs night was basically me in a full length Roland Mouret ball gown, pissed on gin, smoking and insulting people. The same 3,000 euro ball gown later fell apart on the dance floor, turning it into a see through mini-dress.
''It's supposed to be like that'' I slurred at my sober friends.
Thankfully I bought the dress for just 150 euro. It still hangs limp and sad in two pieces in my wardrobe as a reminder of what not to do on your Debs night.

To add to the humiliation, I woke up in my ex-boyfriend's house the next morning. Me and his sister had decided to have a sleepover for old time's sake apparently.

Ah the Debs. A great Irish institution. I'm incredibly glad I have a second chance.

In Memoriam...

...of Fanta Claws. Some idiot mowed her down outside my house.

It's been a testing week. Along with this, an ongoing and messy relationship just got messier and to top it all off I failed an interview for a job I really wanted, plus the job I have at the moment is fucking me around.

Such is life. Things could be a lot worse, at least I still have all my limbs.

I sincerely hope I didn't just jinx myself.

Two ratty days followed by a not so ratty day.

Job.

Our American went missing there yesterday, but thankfully she's been found again.
Was quite scary as she's in Italy at the moment, having arrived at midnight in Genoa the night before last. She had nowhere to go, no Italian and no information about the city. Before she got off the phone with my brother however, she decided to tell him that she, ya know, might just SLEEP ON THE BEACH if she couldn't find a hostel.
What a moron. Genoa. On the beach. Cute little American girl.
Honestly.

My poor brother had to live through yesterday not having a clue what the hell happened as her phone was switched off. It became clear yesterday how much he actually cares about her too. He said to me 'I have this weird, sick feeling in my stomach'. Says a lot really, that's the type of person he is, he couldn't identify his own anxiety.

Moral of the story - don't act like an idiot if you're fending for yourself in a foreign country.
She's getting slaps when I catch her.

It's been a long time coming...

...and I think you know it too, Cheeseburger. I'll miss you, but I just can't do it anymore. I feel guilty and dirty everytime we're together.
I'm sick of you seducing me with you're cheesy deliciousness, I feel so pathetic everytime I give into you're greasy allure. And sure, I know that no summer day will ever be the same again without you, we'll probably bump into each other at barbeques but...
It's over, I'm sorry.







Blame Banksy.

Another thing what i learned this week...

....is that under your duvet is a really bad place to hide naggans of Jack Daniels and packets of Marlboro reds. I keep forgetting that I no longer have the freedom that I had in Dublin, and that those kind of items will get me into trouble down here. It all ended quite well though, this spell in the bad books. My dad asked me for a fag after it all simmered down.
In other news, I have a new found dislike for bouncers from Cork. Last Saturday night, the production of my fake I.D was met with a smug laugh, and even more laughter when I tried to protest that indeed it was my passport and that special U.V. light thingy must be wrong! It all ended well though with me sprawled on the couch of a friend of a friend saying, ''No..no..can't move, I'll get sick'', followed by a jaunty walk home for more of the aforementioned Jack Daniels. All in all a pretty good night, but I still haven't forgiven those mean bouncers for making me miss the gig to end all gigs.

Something what I learned this week...

... Don't ever spend your rent money on drink, or clothes, or drink, or general faffing about. Your parents will find out, and despise you. I found that out the hard way, and let me tell you, it was hard. I'm now stuck to the confines of my mother's little shop of horrors for the next 6 months until I can escape to Dublin again. I didn't overspend that much, but I'm still up to my oxters in shit, and the worst thing is, it wasn't even worth it. I mean, I definitely could have lived without Vogue, or that pitcher of Fosters, or that Chinese. That's the thing, I can't even really remember what I spent the money on, which is another reason why I'm in so much trouble. They keep asking me what I actually spent my money on, and all I can do is shrug my shoulders and say 'ehh dunno really'. I think that they think I'm on drugs.

Oh well, a lesson well learned.

In other news, my dad asked me if I was pregnant today. I think he was calling me fat. I'm not by the way. Pregnant that is.