back up blog

It started a few days after I moved into the House of Pastelle. There was rice on the floor. Like, everywhere. And no matter how many times I shrugged my shoulders, smiled inwardly and chuckled-off the irritation I HAD JUST MOVED IN TO THE MOST CANDY-COLOURED HOUSE IN THE WORLD so really, I wasn't prepared to get cross. I have to keep my kitchen-tidiness in check around other people, anyway. Not everyone was brought up with Mama Janie , who essentially washes up before she sits down to eat. I didn't even know what a hot meal tasted like until I was 19 and able to live in my own squalor where washing the pans after your belly was full was not only encouraged but expected. So I tried not to let my bizarrely high standards of kitchen cleanliness bother me when confronted with the rice. Every time I went into the kitchen. For 4 days in a row. EVERYWHERE. Nu-uh. Didn't bother me ONE LITTLE BIT. I'd just get the dustpan and brush, get to sweeping, and slightly wonder to mysel...

Apparently, life imitates art. Or, at least, my life imitates this art . It's well documented that I ain't all that and a bag of chips, sister girl. Yes, I've been propositioned as a prostitute , and sometimes, when I go out wearing nothing but a leotard and some coke cans in my hair, I get some attention. But that's only because I'm dressed like a slag and boys like girls who are easy. I am categorically NOT easy (in so much as if you can't successfully complete the Guardian's crossword in under 30 minutes then I won't get down on my knees for you) (Word) and am not only writing this in my pajamas but have also failed to brush my teeth yet, either. It's nearly time for bed again, anyways. So I might not be all that and a bag of chips, but you'd better believe that on the way home from Sainsbury's, carrying all that and a bag of loo paper and olive oil, some guy comes over all 8-Mile on my burly, dimpled ass, when I'm just a nice, Britis...

I miss America. This time last year, I was living there . And you know, it really is true what they say (when I say ‘they’, I mean the rest of the world). Americans suffer from high self-esteem. They just have this kind of, “Well, what do I have to lose?” attitude. AND I LIKE IT . With that in mind, this is what is about to happen. I am going to tell you that  I  suffer from high self-esteem. It’s why I fit in there so well. Then, you are going to judge me as an arrogant, self-righteous nobody and probably think to yourself, “And she isn’t even all that and a bag of potato chips ANYWAY. I’ve seen her picture on the top of her profile. Laura Gaga, Lady Blah Blah.” This is how it will work. Ready? Okay. Hi, my name is Laura Jane Williams and I suffer from high self-esteem. SEE! I told you. JUDGED. Look. There are two things I adamantly and fervently live my life by: never will it matter to me if my gravestone reads either,  SHE DIED THIN , or,  SHE PAID OFF THE MORTGAG...