e Squared (27 page)

blogass.co.uk
Posted by
Tiga
15/01/09, 10.39 GMT

 

 

My mother has gone totally mad. It's official. She's pregnant (at 45!!) and obviously she's producing literally gallons of hormones that are affecting her sanity. Last night she went completely over the top. She wants to stick one of those electric ankle bracelets on me just because I've missed a few weeks of school (which is totally pointless and I tried telling her I get a much better education from hanging in the
Real World,
but you try making a mad woman listen to reason). My friend (can't name him for legal reasons) has a bracelet and it's actually quite cool, but it's part of his probation order and it was fitted by a qualified policeman,
not
by his
own mother.
The only reason she didn't actually put it on me last night is that my dad was supposed to bring it home with him but he didn't show up because he had to go to hospital with a head injury. When she found out where he was she went ballistic. She was screaming and shouting and calling him every vile name including
fucking cunt.
How do you think I felt hearing that? I mean, obviously he's a total twat, but he's still my dad.

 

Actually,
My Preggo Mum
is the subject for a whole other blog, which I will write as soon as I get a minute. I mean, isn't her mental behavior proof that it's clearly unsafe for a woman of her age to be knocked up? And what were her and my dad thinking? I mean, actually “doing it”! That shouldn't be allowed, not at their age and
not
when there are children in the house. I'm mentally scarred just by the thought of them huffing and puffing away. What
hell
would I be going through if I actually
walked in
on them and saw them at it?

 

Comment posted by
littleDinkDonv:
You think you got it bad, Tiga? My mom
still
hasn't let me out of my room. It's been
two weeks
now. She put me in here cos of my blue hair so I cut it all off and now she says I look “obscene” and that I can't come out till it's grown back. “How long do you want it, bitch?” I yelled. I have to yell cos it's through the door and she's got a sofa rammed up against the other side. Anyway, she didn't reply. She just shoved a picture of Cloe Bratz through the gap. It's gonna take months to grow that long, but she totally doesn't care. I'd make a break for it, but I'm too weak. She's feeding me on her crazy Hare Krishna diet which is totally yuck and also completely unhealthy. I need protein. And carbs. And sugar. Last night I begged her for a Wendy burger or Oreos or
anything
properly nutritious. I'm wasting away, down to 174 lbs. “How thin do you want me?” I asked her. She shoved a picture of Barbie through the door. Someone out there has to help me.
Please!!!!!

 

You sound like one horny teen, Tiga. I do like ‘em young and under the thumb of a “strict” mom. I'm rubbing myself now at the thought of your bondage games. Any chance of posting some jpegs of your sweet self, preferably with Mommy? Gotta go and “take care of business,” doll. Back soon.

blogass.co.uk
Posted by
Hornblower
15/01/09, 17:48 GMT

 

 

Après le dejeuner
I stumbled upon Papin
dans la cave.
He had opened my last bottle of Château d‘Yquem '89 and was settling down to a glass of this superlative sticky. I couldn't find it in myself to chastise him.
Le vieux paysan
surely hadn't the faintest clue that the case had cost me over €400—as far as he is concerned,
du vin c'est du vin c'est du vin.
I decided to join him and in the dank cool of the cellar we savored the finest dessert wine known to humanity.

 

“Pas la meilleure année, mais tu as du gout pour un trou du cul,” he opined. I thanked him for the compliment and then our thoughts turned to times past.

 

“Londres doit être plein de pauvres cons comme toi,” he observed. “Ca te manque tout ça?”

 

Do I miss London? Do I miss being at the epicenter of the
tourbillon creatif?
Do I miss the adrenal thrill of the quest for creative excellence,
l
'esprit
de competition amical
of the awards season, the parties replete with cocaine, supermodels and stars of popular music?

 

No, I told him firmly. London advertising was becoming staid and predictable when I left. “The Scene” may miss me, but I do not miss it.

 

“Putain de merde, si des enculés comme toi continuent à venir dans le Périgord, je vais devoir déménager à Londres,” he exclaimed.

 

Trust me, Papin, I told him, keep well away. London would eat an unworldly naïf like him alive.

 

“Au moins là-bas je pourrai brouter le cresson de ta femme. Elle va pas revenir, n'est-ce pas?” he said.

 

No, I ruefully agreed, Celine will not be returning. And as he drained the last of the bottle into his glass, I once again marveled at the preternatural insight of this
paysan rugueux.

blogass.co.uk
Posted by Desperate
15/01/09, 18.04 GMT

 

 

I'm blogging. I'm actually talking to complete strangers on the internet, but I have absolutely no one else to turn to. No one. At all.

 

I'm a mother of two, with another on the way. I'm forty-five years old. I shouldn't be pregnant, should I? But, God help me, I am and, though I'm not in the least a pro-lifer, I can't get rid of it.

 

I am having second thoughts though. I had my first scan today. “I think it's a boy,” the doctor told me. “That's not its penis, you idiot,” I replied. “The little sod is giving me the finger.” And I swear I wasn't seeing things. I'm studying the printout now and there it is: a barely formed fetus giving me a stiff middle digit.

 

Just like its bloody sister, then. For the sake of anonymity, let's call her Daisy. (Actually, I always wanted to call her that, but my husband—let's call him Dick-insisted on a Jewish name to rile his grandmother, an obnoxious woman with views on Jews that would have made Himmler queasy.) Daisy is out of control, a foul-mouthed, oversexed truant (she thinks I don't know about the love bites on her inner thigh, but what responsible mother doesn't go into her sleeping daughter's bedroom with a household torch and turn back the quilt?). Is it unreasonable to want to keep tabs on her? Does fitting her with an electronic ankle bracelet make me a
bad mother?

 

And does wishing a lingering and painful death on her father make me a
bad wife?
This is the man who'd sooner be performing ridiculous macho daredevilry up a fiberglass rock face than at home carrying out his basic paternal duty of tagging his daughter. Am I wrong in thinking this isn't a woman's work?

 

I am only trying to do my best. So why am I being persecuted by feelings of guilt and failure? And why am I even writing this? Is anyone actually reading it? Does anyone give a damn?

 

Comment posted by
Krishna Mom:
Keep the faith, Desperate. My girl shaved her head so I've locked her in her room until it grows back. And while she's up there, the fat little slut can lose about 60 lbs. Tough love. Krishna knows it's the only way.

 

Comment posted bv
Klint:
I have the perfect solution. I gave my poppet a cell phone for Xmas. She loves it. It's pink and fitted with the latest camera and mp3 gizmos. What she hasn't figured out is that it's also got GPS so I know exactly where she is 24/7. (Go to
www.spyonyourkids.com
.
Complete peace of mind for less than $200.) If she goes within 100 yards of her stoner boyfriend's trailer, I'm on him with Total Magnum Force. (Go to
www.guns-4-u.com
.
Complete peace of mind for less than $500.)

 

Comment posted bv
Woody:
You sound like one horny little MILF, Desperate. I do like ‘em pregnant and I'm rubbing myself now thinking how I'd take care of you in ways your lame ass husband couldn't dream of. Any chance of posting some jpegs of your sweet self?

 

Gotta go and “take care of business,” babe. Back soon.

 

Comment posted bv
AuschwitzIsALie:
Have you got the name/address/e-mail of your husband's grandmother? I think she might be interested in my book,
The Holocaust Myth: They Weren't
Crematoria;
They Were Giant Pizza Ovens,
which has been removed from Amazon in an outrageous denial of free expression and simply proves that Amazon is a key player in the global Zionist conspiracy.

 

Comment posted by
Woody:
COMMENT REMOVED BY MODERATOR.