back up blog

On unavoidable reflection, 2011 seems to me to have been somewhat thematic. I got propositioned as a prostitute , won an award for my vagina , graduated with a first-class honours for writing about my vagina , wrote on the Internet about my vagina , moved my vagina to Rome , stopped blogging about my vagina , started blogging about my vagina again , wrote a book about my vagina and then took my vagina out on a particularly shit date . To me this raises an very pertinent issue: should I have my fish grilled or oven-baked for supper? Whilst reviewing the photographic evidence of the year, what struck me was the three very definite stages 2011 had for me. The first four months clearly highlight being obscenely drunk with Calum , and then working incredibly hard for many, many hours with his alter-ego to truly give weight to the mantra work-hard, play-hard. He got me so drunk that I threw up glitter after we met an American man who worked for Alexander McQueen and inexplicably could ...

I surveyed the circle of teenagers suspiciously, looking each 17-year-old in the eye as they stood waiting for me to launch into the daily warm-up ritual of Baby Got Back.  You might remember that I don't put much weight on traditional teaching methods ; I don't know how much good the third conditional is if you can't even use the words booty and brothers with any semblance of authority. Also, I find it hilarious. "I have a feeling," I told them. "My intuition is telling me something." Everybody looked guiltily to the floor, and then sideways at each other. I might not speak Italian, but you bet your ass I'm fluent in spin-the-bottle teenager. "The energy is different this morning," I continued. "There are secrets." Nobody said anything, as well they mightn't at a residential camp in a convent , about what I might mean. But two days ago when I tried to throw away the plastic bottle in the corner of my classroom there was unadu...

So I'm not so much typing this blog entry as much as I'm mashing the keys to my MacBook with pudgy, mincemeat-filled shovels of fingers and hoping for the best. I can't even cross the fat sausages for good luck. Not unaided.  The whole snow-on-the-ground thing meant December was officially a No Running Month, and I have successfully eaten the cupboards bare here at mum and dad's- and I've only been here ten days. In fact, not long after I arrived Mama asked Dad to pick up a few bits on his way back from the pub the golf course giving mincemeat penis' to strangers wherever he was going. "But we've got loads in," said Dad. Mama looked at him. "That was before Laura had breakfast," she replied. It's alright for her. She's so bloody skinny that she barely has one chin, let alone my six. I've taken to calling her a fat bitch as a sort of passive-aggressive coping mechanism. As in, "Could you get me a glass of water and a co...

I'm being told from several different directions right now that there is more to me than my vagina . OH! Thats' not what the fella last night said! And so. What with sort of wanting to be a proper grown-up writer and all- you know... One that lives in one place for more than eight months at a time and lets people actually stay the night rather than just the thirty-eight minutes it takes to have everybody get what they need. The sort of writer that might make money from their craft one day or at least not be looked at like Wagner from the X-Factor when they have finished reading aloud their piece (IT HAPPENED). The sort of girl who in general might actually begin to contemplate using the word career and who isn't mean to people with babies. Yeah. What with all that. I thought I'd share a grown-up piece. Alternative title: Suicide Note. But then I realised that probably isn't funny. SEE. I am growing up.

2009 in Photographs from Laura Jane Williams on Vimeo .