Hermitude and a face transplant

I think it's fair to say that I'm feeling somewhat grumpy at the moment. Plagued with the ague (ok, a Cold),  a cross painted on the door and awaiting a kiss from the Angel of Death, I find myself in 3 day old pajamas stinking the joint up.  I've comfort eaten so much confectionery I'm surprised I haven't got diabetes.  Healthy stuff which might actually make me feel better holds no hope of consumption and slowly rots in the kitchen.  FUCK YOU BUTTERNUT SQUASH; I'd rather get Scurvy!   I've lain in my own crumb laden filth for days now, a smear of melted chocolate on the bed sheet looking suspiciously like I've shat myself in the night looks at me accusingly.  Hell, the outline of my body can clearly be seen on the under-sheet in what can only be described as 'Turin Shrouding' of the bedclothes.  In short, I am disgusting and, by over-sharing this information, have no hope of being seen as beautiful and mysterious to any potential beau.  I will die alone, rotted into the bed, covered in flies with my face partially eaten away by Derek the bald freak dog and Dr X the cat.  

....Feeling sorry for myself and further afflicted with 'over-dramatising-itis'.

So, other than my life-threatening Cold and lack of goodness, what else ails me? Well, my car is fucked to the tune of about 500 quid and the house has an underground burst water pipe which is going to cost a fortune to repair once they've pulled up the paved driveway and dug holes all over the place (waves fist at the Heavens).  I've decided that Hermitude is definitely the way to go.  I can't take much more of this being a 'real' person, I need to live in a cave in the woods.  I would say a hut in the woods but the sodding Council would STILL make me pay Council Tax for my shitty branch/mud/turd hut which means I'd still need to do something to earn money thus negating the whole 'being a hermit' plan.  I could advertise myself as a Wise Woman and allow people to come and ask my advice/take away potions of healing but then the sodding Inland Revenue bastards would want a chunk and I'd have to complete paperwork and submit income and expenditure forms.  Oh, and as we are now in litigious times, some arsehole would no doubt sue me for not curing their dog/causing a tiny rash on their elbow or something which means blokes would come and stamp on my turd hut when they realise I have no possessions to repossess. 

...ok, yeah so they used to burn people in the past so being sued shouldn't be something I should complain about.  I'm still going to; I'm on a roll.

So there is the cave option.  Again, there are financial implications there - fuck this being at one with nature,  I would need to get someone in to kill EVERY sodding insect in the vicinity. Not bees though. I listened to something on the radio about some bloke who washed the feet of some bees to fuck with the other bees who clearly knew which flowers had already been visited by smelling the stinky bee footprints of their colleagues.  That amused me and bees are important.  I think I could tolerate some ants and Ladybirds too. 

So yeah.  Apart from that I am back at the gym with my original Gym Buddy.  We enjoyed it and felt very proud of ourselves for the first two weeks but I know that personally I weep internal tears of anguish when I enter the building now.  The gym instructor woman was being helpful last Wednesday and advised us to do sit ups on the mat in the middle of the gym.  Fuck that!  Gym Buddy said she couldn't because her enormous tits would get in the way and I helpfully added that extreme flatulence would be an issue during any public sitting up activities   Gym Buddy and I had already discussed our need to clench throughout our work out.  

It wasn't ladylike to share that either was it?

Of course, being at a gym with time to think whilst peddling away my mind went it's usual way and I started to worry about lying on my back in the middle of the gym with my legs bent doing sit ups.  What if I DID accidentally fart the most enormous fart I've ever farted in front of everyone?  My unhelpful inner voice wasn't content with making me come over a bit dizzy at that thought.  It went on to imagine a sudden splat of diarrhoea appearing at my crotch.  Fuck me, that would be expensive.  I'd have to give up going to the gym, change my name, leave the country and set up somewhere else.  You can bet your bottom dollar there is no Extreme Humiliation Relocation Scheme which could be accessed either; those witnesses of serious violent crime get all the breaks. 

If I couldn't afford any of that I'd have to go with the whole name change via the internet and a cheap foreign face transplant.  I dunno, do places like Bulgaria or Romania do stuff like that for about 30 quid?  I imagine the whole thing stapled on over my existing face and  the edges hanging down between the rough stapling direct into my skull.  I'd return to the gym, holding up part of my face (which wouldn't be a good skin match.  Heck, it'd probably be a hairy Bulgarian man's face) whilst dramatically asking people who this Sketty is that they talk about and denying, despite still using my old gym membership card, that it was I who shat myself in front of everyone at the gym.

....I need to rest. I'm talking shit again

Dating

I guess most people are aware that I'm terminally single and although I bang on about it quite a lot, it really doesn't bother me.  To be honest, I'd lose a sizable chunk of my act if I met someone and do believe I genuinely have gone a bit wrong by now. 

I doubt having a bloke would work for me much any how. 

As I've said in my act (accidentally, the first time, after getting carried away and asking the audience if anyone was up for a shag, and then becoming scared by the overwhelming positive response), I'm probably all healed up now and wouldn't be good for anything.  I was discussing this with people at work today and revealed that, over the years, I have been able to collect a whole heap of hang ups and now, the only bloke I think I could relax with would have to be that kid who plays a mean pin ball (you know him, the deaf, dumb and blind one).

Of course, the sensible part of me says that I can't go on like this and that I need to have  word with myself.  I should slap myself until I beg myself for mercy but then I wouldn't GIVE myself mercy, I'd just keep on slapping until I cried, tears of pain mingling with confusion as to why I wasn't stopping with the auto self flagellation. 

Anyhoo, the bit of me that says I should change made me join a dating website a few months ago.  I decided to be totally honest and put on my profile that I'm a bit crap, my car tried to kill me, I'm prone to grumpiness and I don't want anyone who can only write their profile in text talk (morons), is needy, or soppy in any way.  I also said that until I was convinced any potential date wasn't a cannibal I would only be meeting them in a busy pub where they were free to feed me.  I didn't think I'd get any responses but bloody hell, the pile of emails frightened the bejesus outta me.  In horror, I promptly took my profile down.  The thing is, they kept sending me matches to look at so after about a week I decided to just go through these and see, in a no pressure environment, who they reckoned my perfect mates were.

CHRIST ON A BIKE!

No word of a lie, the first bloke had a tracheostomy - a bloody plastic pipe sticking out of his throat!  I got matched with a bloke who looked like he was 65, was propped up in a chair and had a sodding plastic tube sticking out of his neck!  Yeah, after everything I'd said about looking for a meeting of minds, wanting a bloke with wit and charm, I get a geriatric who was hanging onto life by a plastic tube.

The next bugger looked like he was about 50.  Not in age, in stones.  He was HUGE yet seemed to be wearing a toupee.  Looking closer it wasn't a toupee, I think his head had grown so big his hair had a shrunken look to it.  It was also cut in a Friar Tuck style.  Fuck me!

The third looked as if he'd posted a picture of himself from the 1970s.

The forth was the epitome of Paedophile Chic. 

The fifth had never had a job, had loads of kids and was looking for a 'special lady for fun and frolics'.  Piss off mate.

....I went through the list with growing dismay.  Bloody hell, who am I kidding any way?  What makes me think I've even GOT anything to offer anyone who was 'hanging the right way' in the first place.  Perhaps this was Fate telling me to stop thinking I could do any better than a bloke in an ill fitting suit with giant black framed glasses and a penchant for short women who could pass as being 12.  Gawd only knows what comments my photo and grumpy profile were getting.  I think most of it was made up with what I don't want and some vague nod towards my comedy.

Hell, I dipped my toe in the pool of real life and decided I preferred hermitude.  Hermitude, sweet hermitude, you don't judge me for wearing dinner stained pyjamas.....

Oh yeah, just a quickie.  Whilst typing this up I was summonsed upstairs by the Tidiness Nazi.  I could hear from the tone of her voice I was in trouble so I duly trouped up the stairs, my frightened face appearing slowly above the banister.  She was in the bathroom, her face set.

"Wha........?"

She didn't speak, she just silently pointed towards the shower.  I slowly entered the room and looked at the giant turd glistening in the cubicle.


"I'm not picking it up!" she huffed before leaving the room.


Honestly, I didn't do it.  We have a perfectly acceptable toilet in the same room!