A Coffee Church and A Prezzie For My Sister...

I want a motorbike. No bones about it, I want one. A big thunking black one. A shiny big thunking black one so that I can use it to squish hedgehogs and small children. Motorbikes are sexy, I am sexy, therefore I should have a motorbike.

Of course, learning to drive would be a good idea. But I can't be arsed. I have a father, he has a car, thus I have my own chauffeur and limosene service. Course the limosene is a Ford Escort and the chauffeur won't wear a black hat when chugging me around town, but the service is there.

But really, I'm 22, all my mates can drive. course none of my mates have a motorbike, I'd be the coolest cat in the casba.

On to other topics. The coffee machine was reincarnated. Like Jesus. There was no great round rock or angels or the like, but I think it's begun to accumulate apostles. The teacups look slightly more humble, and the father was gazing at it with unhealthy adoration. I hoped that perhaps it could turn water into wine, but alas, when I put water in it all that came out was coffee. Just watch, some day soon there will be a Church of Coffee Worshipers, of which the coffee maker is the first pope, and religious nuts will make pilgrimages to my kitchen. Instead of bread and wine there will be coffee and Rich Tea biscuits. The teabags look homicidal.

Of course it came back to life when my hankering for coffee had subsided. I am firmly back on the good ship HMS Teabag. We are sailing the seven milky seas, searching for buried sugar. I am the Captain, I wear a PG Tips pyramid teabag as a hat and rule my crew with an iron mug. So far my crew consists of one, but I'm holding interviews next thursday at the community centre, if interested bring a CV and a teapot.

I also have a gift for my little sister, EMMA ARE YOU WATCHING!!!!!

I dedicate this picture to my little sister. Emma dear, you know you like it, I can't be the only pervert in the family.

Oohhoo hoo, I love yaoi. lovelovelovelove.

This pic is one of my favs, it does strange things to my delicates. Yes, I am mentally ill, but I love it. If guys can get off on lesbians, I can get off on randy boys fucking other randy boys. It's only natural. And it feeds my love of threesomes in which I am the only one there with a uterus.

And Emma, I can see you shaking your head and looking horrified, stop it, you have always known I am a filthy bint, you store all of the knowledge of my debauched life. When I die of some hideous disease I am trusting you to write my life story. You can't write, but the story should make up for that which you lack. It will be X-rated, but you'll make a mint. With the cash I want you to erect a fifteen foot statue of me in the back garden to honour my memory.

And don't forget that you have to keep my eyeballs in a box on the mantel piece.

Anyway, the pornish pixie is off to drink more tea and watch some hentai. Just kidding about the hentai part... okay no I'm not, but don't tell my mother.

The Teabag Conspiracy...

The coffee machine died.

I booted it to the bin in a fit of caffeine deprived rage, but the father rescued it.

I plan to give the poor unfortuante appliance a decent send off. There will be flowers and dark clothes and tissues and sherry for the guests, which of course will consist of me, my favourite mug and next doors cat since I am obviously burying the machine in the garden where the mooching moggie has taken up residence.

After much agonising I have decided that there will be no tea at the wake. Of course, under normal circumstances there would obviously be tea, the source of all comfort and the staple diet of widows and mourners. However, I deemed it in bad taste to have tea at the funeral of a coffee machine (tea being the mortal enemy of coffee after all, I have to keep the teabags and the instant coffee in seperate cupboards to prevent an interkitchenal incident.)

I would cremate the poor, unfortuante provider of coffee goodness, but I don't know what it would do to the oven and I value the microwave too much to even try it.

And thus... I am left only with the trusty kettle and a cupboard full of teabags, but I will struggle on. I have instant, and I swear I can hear the teabags snickering. If I was a more suspicious person I'd suspect a consipracy, but that would be silly, as teabags lack the intellectual capacity to plot and scheme, which is essential to any good conspiracy.

This, my dear friends, is what happens when you deprive me of sleep and much needed caffeine. I go potty. The above paragraph should be a testament to that. I would go to bed, only I have moved beyond the realm of weariness and have arrived in a giddly little world know only as Land Of The Twitching And Dancing Purple Spots. I am watching a repeat of Who Wants To Be A Millionare and I have decided that either Chris Tarrant is high, or I am. Although what I could possibly be high on I have no inkling... mashed potato maybe? I have eaten a most dishonourable amount of mashed potato today. Can you everdose on the fluffy substance? Has it ever been done? Can I give it a shot?

Again with the ramblings. I really must stop this. People will begin to think me insane.

This is lack of caffeine for you, a horrid affair. It does strange and ruthless things to ones grey matter. I have practically drowned myself in tea throughout the course of the day, and yet my hankering for strong black sugary coffee endures. Jesus help me.

But Jesus won't help me, not after the incident with the crucifix and the pentecost candle in Sunday school when I was nine. Proudest moment of my life, I actually coerced a man of the cloth to raise his voice in anger! *glee* But somehow I don't think Jesus would forgive me, no matter what the dusty old book says. I am sure the poor old, facial hair afflicted chap feels violated, but honestly, he did go and wear his hear like a hippy, what was I meant to think, he loked like an anorexic Barbie doll nailed to a wooden cross and all my wicked fantasies came to life.

I still don't know what happened to all those Barbies I maimed after that encounter.

Anyway, the point is, he wouldn't forgive me, and I don't want him to, since Lucifer and I are on intimate terms. The dark prince would undoubtedly see my absolution as a heinous betrayal, and the kinky bastard does have a rather generous helping of cock (even though he is a fallen angel and angels have no jiggly bits, but this is my twisted mind to get lost) so when it comes down to it, I choose the devil.

Basically all that was me saying that Jesus won't help me. See... lack.of.caffeine.

I do think I hear the teabags calling...

Coffee, Tea, Guns and Knees...

The smell of coffee is taunting me. My coffee maker is so slow and LOUD! I swear to god it gurgles and rasps and splutters like you'd never believe. I'd get it an iron lung if I didn't have instant to fall back on.

I do prefer my tea though. Tea makes the world go round. Tis the Fountail Of All Goodness. The Drink Of The Gods. The Divine Beverage. Cod Liver Oil For The Soul Only Far Better Tasting. Perhaps that is why the coffee maker makes the offensive noises it does, perhaps the gurgling is really profanity in coffee maker speak, and it it telling me of it's contempt for my favouring the teapot.

Come to think of it, when was the last time I used a teapot? Do I even have a teapot? I must scour the kitchen sometime in search of this elusive tea making utensil. I vaguely remember one, I think it was brown, or beige. Does it matter though? So long as I have a kettle and some teabags all is right with the world.

But I digress... I prefer tea, but occasionally the unfettered need for pure caffeine overrides the good sense of my tastebuds. And right now, I need coffee. The damn coffee maker however is making things difficult.

The old War Injury is acting up. I may call it the War Injury, but really, a bit of a knackered knee and my leg refuses to work, how pathetic. I scorn my right knee and all of it's contemporaries, namely the Anterior Cruciate Ligament, the the Posterior Cruciate Ligament, the Tibial Collateral Ligament and the Tibial Plateau, all of which are plotting to undo me. The swines.

Other than that my life is a cesspit of unadulterated boredom. Here I sit, in the corner seat of the leather sofa, propped up via a mountain of green cushions, watching some sort of home makeover programme and refraining from beating myself into unconsciousness. How did my life descend into this? I had a life once, friends and men and money and GUNS! Guns for christ's sake, SA-80s and the lark, MP-433s and other forms of deadly weapons. And a bayonette. My life was all sweat and dirt and laughter for a brief while, and now I'm getting fat through lack of physical exercise, watching daytime TV with my leg propped up on the pillows.

Ah tis a sad life for one who had fallen so far from grace. Then again, I was never that close to grace to begin with. Satan's had a room booked for me since the day I was born, there's nowhere for me to fall.

Except for off the sofa, where I am invariably going when I make the attempt to reach the kitchen and kick some sense into the spluttering coffee maker.