My blog is weird

You guys see a very different side to me in comparison to what many people in my life see. My closest friends know that I am pretty…erm…odd, but my work colleagues and casual acquaintances see “professional Jane.”

Professional Jane likes pencil skirts and blazers. She eats rye crackers and discusses politics with men in suits. She analyses exam results and collates them in the form of pie charts. She attends meetings with colleagues and has an actual clipboard. Sometimes, she ties her hair up with a pencil. Yes, professional Jane is a straight-laced, no-nonsense nine to fiver.

Then there’s “crazy Jane”. Crazy Jane tries to teach her cat how to curtsy (she *almost* has it). She has an inexplicable fear of foam and waltzes with herself. She likes to not stalk her neighbours with binoculars and pretend she’s a French mime artist. She also loves wrestling and tequila (in that order). Sometimes, she likes to drive slowly beside random joggers she’s never met while playing Eye of the Tiger. She also likes to frequent karaoke bars where she can rap California Love in its entirety.

So yes, I’m weird. But I’m not always weird. I could come on here and be normal but then you guys wouldn’t be (hopefully) laughing at with me.

In case you guys are wondering, crazy Jane mostly lives in a cage while professional Jane is at work. I let her out in the evening, where she likes to dance to Abba and blog. Crazy Jane sure loves to blog. She also loves talking to all her fellow weirdos and sending them virtual cake. She is uncomfortable with referring to herself in the third person so she’s going to stop now and knit some tea cosies even though she doesn’t have a tea pot. Sinister.

I made the short list!

If you guys didn’t have a chance to catch the international news today, you may not know that I have been shortlisted by The Blog Awards Ireland in the Best Humour Blog category.


I am thrilled! And hungry…but mostly thrilled! If it wasn’t for my lovely and loyal followers then I would have no reason to blog, so I owe this to you guys. There’s a gratitude owl on its way to you as we speak. (It’s basically a regular owl, but it curtsies.)

Time for me to go party*.

*Not really because I have school tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have a a cup of tea and not use a coaster….okay, I’ll use a coaster.

My Awkward Moment of the Day

Even though my entire life is an exercise in awkwardness and social discomfort, there is a silver lining. Whenever I find myself thrust (sometimes literally…) into the middle of an embarrassing scenario, I think to myself “I can’t wait to blog about this.” So, you see, it’s not all bad.

Today I decided that I wanted, nay NEEDED, croissants in my life. Possibly chocolate filled, my inner fat kid mused…fattily. So I decided to drive (my inner fat kid doesn’t like when I walk) to the local shop. Since it’s a five minute drive through multiple speed bumps, I decided against wearing my seatbelt. I also wanted to air-guitar/air-drum my way through “In Bloom” by Nirvana and my seat belt restricts my mojo slightly. Okay, that’s stupid. You should ALWAYS wear a seatbelt. ALWAYS. And I always* do. Except today.

I drive to the shop. I buy croissants (not chocolate-filled, because diabetes) and I drive home, again sans seatbelt. My iPod is on shuffle. I’ve got pastry. Life is good….

If you’re offended by this, sorry. I’ll go pose with a leprechaun or something.

…Until I notice a Garda checkpoint directly in front of my house. For my dear foreign friends, a Garda checkpoint is basically a police blockade where they check things like tax, insurance, licence, NCT (the Irish equivalent of the MOT, basically that your car has been certified road-safe) and of course, that you are wearing your seat belt. It is enough to strike fear into any person’s heart, never mind a person who is eating a croissant, air-keyboarding (to The Doors, FYI) and definitely not wearing a seatbelt. Needless to say I panic slightly.

The male Garda** motions for me to stop. I’m in a state of panic. I have to indicate, I have to change gears, I have to roll down the window, I have to reach for my licence but most of all, I have to try to smoothly and subtly put on my seatbelt without him noticing, which is pretty much impossible since he has been maintaining ice-cold eye contact with me the entire time.


Now I want you to picture this, reader. I want you to visualise this scenario because I promise you, you will have all the LOLs. And I won’t ever say that again.

I nervously pull over. I have four croissants on my lap (don’t be silly, there’ll not all for me. Jack will have one). One is in my mouth and I’m chewing furiously, frowning at the flaky pastry stuck to my chest. Dignity? Nope, never heard of it. I’m trying to veeerrrrry slowly put on my seatbelt while also reaching for my licence. I’m also rolling down the window. My iPod is still blaring out songs on shuffle, but I don’t think to turn the dial down, and also, I’m not an octopus (…yet, it depends how the surgery goes).

Are you with me, reader? Are you picturing all of this? A panicked girl with a seatbelt half on, half off, covered in pastry being approached by a very stern looking man? Okay, good.

Just as the guard gets to my window,
I’m about to explain that I only travelled to the local shop and that I’m sorry and he’s probably about to ask my for my licence. It could of all been very simple. A deserved slap on the wrist for me, a pretty forgettable encounter for him. But no. My life is never that simple.

Before either of us could utter a word, my iPod shuffle decides “hey, you know what would be hilarious? To play the most awkward and inappropriate song at the exact moment that you don’t want to hear it. Har hat har. I may be a robot but I’m hilarious.”

So just as both of us are about to speak, this song plays. I want you to picture the scenario. An already awkward encounter between two strangers, and before anyone speaks, this. Blaring through my stereo.



I’m not sure if the thumbnail of this song is appearing or not but I think it’s more hilarious if it doesn’t. So, surprise!

There’s a moment where I have no reaction, but to just freeze. As the iconic intro begins, we both turn to each other and make the most awkward eye contact ever. Garda’s mouth twitches slightly. He’s going to laugh. He clears his throat.
I reach for the dial and manage to turn the song down just before the titular line is sung and I actually die of awkwardness.

“Am, you’re grand. You’re grand. Drive on there.” He motions me forward. I understand, Garda. Any extension of this encounter may result in us both dying from awkwardness. I complete the fifteen second drive to my door where I decide that this is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. Ever.

*I may need to revise the definition of the word “always”
**Member of the Irish police force, An Garda Síochána

What distracts you?

Hello my little pine cones! (I don’t know either.)

I have been busy adulting hard (you know, making bubble foam beards in the bath and prank phone calling my neighbours…FYI, their refrigerator is running). I wanted to tell you guys I got a new cat, because having no cats was just not an option for me.

She’s basically me, in cat form.

I’m almost back to work, and I could not be feeling less productive. With this in mind, I thought I would fill you all in on the many things that distract me from, well, doing anything productive.

1. My new cat

She has to be taught all of these valuable skills, like how to curtsy. You know, just in case the queen ever drops by. Surprisingly, it’s quite difficult to get it just right.

2. My phone

Jack: Did you hear me?
Me: Hmm?
Jack: Jane!
Me: Just a sec….
Jack: Are you playing that damn Kim Kardashian game?
Me: If I don’t complete this modelling job, Kim is going to be so disappointed in me.
Jack: And you don’t want to let virtual Kim down.
Me: Exactly.

Please don’t hate me guys.


I’m also annoyingly addicted to Candy Crush Saga, Facebook and watching cat gifs.

3. Sleeping

I cannot stop sleeping. I’m more of a narcoleptic than Sleeping Beauty. I’m Sleeping Beauty without the beauty. (I could do this all day, but I’ve got cat gifs to watch.)

Basically, since I got holidays, I just can’t stay awake. I’ve become a consummate pro at sleeping. Hey, for all you know, I’m asleep right now.


4. Trashy TV

Jack: What did you do today?
Me: Erm, I watched a documentary about…the…effects of…global warming on…North African…giraffes.
Jack: You watched back to back episodes of Jeremy Kyle, didn’t you?
Me: Yes. Yes I did.

<img src="https://cupidorcats.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/img_4214.jpg"

5. YouTube videos of people falling over

I don’t think I need to explain this really.


Right? RIGHT?

So, tell me what distracts you while I go play with this shiny thing….

Why so not serious?

When I was told I had epilepsy, one of my closest friends was quite upset.
“How do you think I feel?” I asked her one evening, “if I collapse at a strobe light party, people will just assume I’m pop and locking.”

An epileptic seizure is only about twenty percent as fun

She rolled her eyes. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

I considered her question. I take some things seriously. Like choosing pizza toppings. (If you are one of those people who thinks pineapple is an acceptable choice for a pizza topping then I’m sorry, we can’t be friends anymore.) Or what kind of head dress my dogs should wear on Christmas Day (I usually go with reindeer antlers, but elf hat is always a contender).

Of course I am serious sometimes. It’s not like I show up to funerals dressed as a court jester…anymore. I even have a bonafide serious face. Sometimes I wear a monocle.

My serious face has slightly less feathers. And also, OWL!

The thing is, I have always turned to humour even in the most difficult of times. I don’t mean to be insensitive or inappropriate, but I find that having a sense of humour in difficult situations is one of my best coping mechanisms. I mean sure, I could cry my eyes out, eat my own weight in cookie dough and wallow in self pity and Blue Nun OR I could cry my eyes, eat my own weight in cookie dough, wallow in self pity and Blue Nun and laugh about it afterwards. I try not to take life too seriously because being Kim Jong Un does not look like much fun (except for the bouffant which he totally rocks).

I know some people could accuse me of being immature. I say, I know you are but what am I? And also, we get one shot at this whole life malarkey. Why not spend it laughing and making inappropriate poo jokes? Or getting drunk and riding roller coasters? (Aside: that’s probably not the best idea. You may end up getting vomit in your hair and crying on the shoulder of a stranger. Or something.)
There are so many fun things to do. There are so many silly things to say. There are so many ways to smile. And all of these are a lot more fun than stressing out. There’s nothing more attractive to me than a person who is self deprecating. I love someone who can make mistakes and then laugh at themselves, or someone who is okay with not being perfect.

So, you can either scoff at my post and resent my futile attempt at making you smile or you can come throw water balloons at my grumpy neighbours with me. Your call.

I’m here!

LADS! I’m sorry I’ve been absent, but I had to do really important work for NASA, which is top secret, classified information and because I don’t want to compromise the safety of any of my lovely followers, I can’t discuss it further.

Any chance anyone actually believed that?

No? Oh fine.

Basically, I was in hospital. Then my cat (aka, my best friend and I don’t care if that’s sad. I’m sad) died. It was horrible. I also had an allergic reaction to some medication that made me look like the Michelin Man with a bad case of acne. So yes, last week SUCKED.
I looked like this for the entire week:

Basically me, but with slightly more plastic surgery

You guys know it’s not like me to disappear for an entire week. I’m like that younger sibling that just won’t stop poking you. POKE.
So you know I’m being honest when I say, this week was the worst week of my life.

Never one to dwell on negativity *cries into my popcorn*, here are some random things that happened to me this week:

I made friends with an old lady and then she said “we’ll never see each other again”. I thought I’d made a new BFF, but whatever.

My brother invited me to visit him in London so I’m going next week. I’m going to go all Joey Tribbiani and be super-tourist.

I got ma hurrr did (that’s me referencing Missy Elliott to try and gain brownie points with my hundreds of followers who are female, hairstyle loving, Missy Elliott fans).
Translation: I have a new hairstyle.

I had a dream that the New Horizons probe reached Pluto and then woke up disappointed when I realised it was a dream. So yes, even in my dreams, I’m a nerd.


I had an amazing sandwich and I’m unapologetic about how food-obsessed and pathetic that makes me look. Because…bacon.

I feel ya, brah.

I high fived a giraffe.

Shock twist: One of these is a lie.

I’m now going to reply to comments and catch up with you guys, and we can plait each other’s hair and stay up aaaaall night together, deal?

So then I ended up in hospital…

So yesterday I ended up in hospital. Oops.

I got severe pelvic and back pain (which I actually mentioned in a post back in April) yesterday and my doctor sent me straight to the assessment unit to be seen by the surgical doctor at my local hospital. Eep.

If I thought my doctor visit was uncomfortable, oh ho, compared to this it was a freakin’ foot rub on a LILO.

I’m not going to go into all the gory details (because my dignity is currently trying to “find itself” somewhere in Outer Mongolia) but let’s just say there was needles, scans, samples (shudders), tears, poking, prodding and young male doctors with gloves. Rubber gloves.

The good news is, I’m probably okay. The bad news is:


If there’s any internet tequila going around, I’d really appreciate a shot or twelve. Thaaaanks.

Awkward, awkward, awkward

I’m standing in the doctor’s reception area, awkwardly waiting for her secretary to get off the phone and acknowledge my presence. A waiting room full of people leaf through outdated magazines. The television is tiny but I can make out what appears to be females playing golf. An elderly man is coughing aggressively and no one seems to notice.

Eventually the secretary looks up from behind her bifocals.
“Oh, hi. I have an appointment.”
“Jane, is it?” She asks this almost disapprovingly. Well, maybe I don’t like your name, Julia…Who am I kidding? That’s a magical name. Dammit.
I nod.
“Okay, since this is your first time here, I need some information. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty seven.”
“Oh, you don’t look twenty seven. You look a lot younger.” Judging by her tone, I don’t think this was meant as a compliment. “Sure she doesn’t look twenty seven, does she, Roger?” She leans out through her little window and gestures at who I can only assume to be Roger, the coughing man. He waves a dismissive hand, and continues coughing into his handkerchief.
“And you’ve got a bit of an accent there, where are you from?”
“Um, Cork.”
“What brought you up here then?”
Suddenly, I’m aware of the entirety of the waiting room staring at me, their suspicious eyes fixed on my face. I’m not one of them.
“A job. At the school. I’m a teacher.” I smile weakly at the receptionist, who shrugs.
“It’s not often we get people moving to the area.”
“No we don’t.” A voice perks up from the waiting room, but when I turn around, it’s not obvious to me who said it.
“Just take a seat and the doctor will see you shortly.”
I walk across what seems like an eternal space, a dozen pairs of eyes stuck to me. When I sit down, they continue to stare.

“Oh, sorry-” the receptionist calls from her office. “-I forgot to ask you what you’re in for?” Er, what?! I’m hardly going to announce it across a crowded waiting room, am I? Of course, she thinks that I am. She raises her eyebrows as if to say “well?” and I just mumble “just a general checkup” although that’s partially a lie, and I’m sorry ms. Receptionist, but I must begin our relationship on a foundation of lies to preserve my dignity. She faintly narrows her eyes at me, and retreats to her office.
I regret the fact that I didn’t say “I’m coming down from a massive LSD trip” almost instantly.

By now, interest in me has waned slightly, although I still spy people intermittently glancing up from their magazines and fixing me with a curious gaze. As I pretend to flip through Hello magazine, I feel what I can only describe as a malignant and oppressive presence in the room. I look from adult to adult, attempting to find the source of my fears, when I my gaze finally meets that of a…child. Yes, a child. He is sitting on the floor, staring at me. When our eyes meet, he narrows them and purses his lips. Picture this, but scarier:


Feeling uncomfortable, I smile at him.
He narrows his eyes even further. I look away and focus intently on a picture of Kate Middleton. I look up. He’s still staring. I’m staring to get legitimately paranoid that I’m going to burst into flames. Suddenly, another child appears at my side. Thankfully, she is smiling at me and appears less homicidal.
“You look like her.” She points at the magazine and I smile.
“Thank you,” I reply, looking fondly at the sophisticated and elegant Kate Middleton. I see the people next to me edge toward the page to get a better look and no doubt make unfavourable comparisons.
“No, silly, not her. Her.
She points towards a picture of Katy Perry. I would like to point out that this is not the most classy or sophisticated picture of Katy Perry: there is quite an amount of cleavage on show and she has more makeup on her face than Mac do in an entire warehouse. Again, I see all the eyes around me glance at the picture. Is it me or are some trying to stifle laughter?
“Oh, um…thanks.”
I adjust my top. Is it low cut? Should I have worn a polo neck? Crap. I automatically rub my hand against my cheek. Perhaps in my attempt to appear perfectly healthy and not be told that I am in fact, terminally ill, I may have gone a little OTT on the makeup. Double crap.

Too much?

I notice the first kid, who we’ll call…maybe, Damien (for no reason…ahem) still staring at me. Is it my imagination or is he sticking pins into a small doll that looks suspiciously similar to me and Katy Perry? Probably my imagination.

After some time, I look up to see the most awkward of all my waiting room companions: a student of mine. We glance at each other, exchange a tiny, awkward smile, and remain silent. Her mother is talking to the receptionist. Loudly.

“She only needs a very brief checkup, Julia. She just needs a prescription for her pill.”

Oh dear God.

Kate Middleton’s emerald coat has never looked so interesting. I’m pretty sure my student’s face is currently heating the entire room. Of course, this shouldn’t be embarrassing for either of us. But the extent of our conversation usually revolves around circumnavigation and jousting.

Jousting FTW!

When I am eventually called in, I breathe a sigh of relief. Surely, from here on in, it can only get better right? You would think so, wouldn’t you?

I have to say, the doctor is amazing. She’s the type of lady that puts you at ease right away. We talk about my epilepsy for about half an hour. We chat about the education system and play backgammon. Okay, we don’t play backgammon (what’s backgammon?).
She gives me a pelvic examination and we talk about my symptoms (pelvic pain and back ache). She asks the routine questions re my sexual activity and menstrual cycle. For anyone feeling very uncomfortable, here’s a puppy:


The questions would probably make some people blush.
Are you sexually active?
When was the last time you had sex?
Do you use protection?
Do you plan on conceiving?
What are your periods like?
What are your bowel movements like?
Did you, at any time, own a Taylor Swift album?*
Etc, etc.
(These questions were all relevant to my particular malady.)
I answer all of these questions in a mature and detailed manner. My mother is a nurse and I’m used to be being very frank about my body. Hey, we’re all adults here.

Although, aside: this is the last text my mother sent me before I went in:

Stay classy, Mother.

And then I notice I left the door open. The door which leads to a waiting room full of people. A waiting room where one of my students is currently sitting, no doubt furiously writing everything down. I said the word vagina. I talked about S.E.X.

(Oh no.)


I wonder why Julia didn’t close the door. Then I noticed Julia on the phone, which is probably what she has being doing for the entirety of my conversation with the doctor. The other patients are doing a stellar job of pretending that they heard nothing, including my student, whose face is the colour of pickled beets. She is transfixed on the same picture of Kate Middleton that I previously had been.
There’s an old man looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. If there was ever a time that I wanted a streaker to break into the room, it was now.

There and then, I made the decision to stop going to the doctor. I don’t care if I break my leg at home, I will just pull a Bear Grylls on it and drink my own urine to survive (that would probably be unnecessary in that particular situation, but still…) or a MacGyver, and fashion a leg splint out of chopsticks and kitchen utensils.
Because, dignity.


Have you an embarrassing doctor story? Please share so we can cry and eat consolation pizza.

*I may have imagined this question

I have a little favour to ask you oh friends of the internet

I had planned this hilarious* post about my recent trips to the doctor. Instead, I’ve conceded defeat to my mystery illness and am currently doped up on antibiotics, painkillers, folic acid and seizure meds while dancing with an elephant. While I curse my family’s genes and wonder why I’ve been bred like a junkyard mongrel, I have one special favour to ask you guys.

The Irish Blog Awards are taking place soon and they are currently accepting nominations.
Now I don’t want to ask you guys to nominate me. That’s right, I don’t want to ask you guys. Hint hint. Cough cough. Nudge nudge. Wink wink. Hula dances towards you. Okay, so maybe I would like to be nominated, I probably didn’t make that obvious enough. I can put away the coconut bikini now.

If you would like to nominate me, you can click here. Since there doesn’t seem to be an owl category, I guess I’ll have to fit into humour, because according to my imaginary friend Sally,
I’m a funny gal. If you don’t want to nominate me, that’s cool, I won’t send my flea-infested flying monkeys after you. What? I said I won’t.

To be serious for a second (FYI, it’ll be more than a second) I have been unwell lately and I don’t know what’s wrong. You could say I’m going for the sympathy vote here, and you’d be right. I am.

Anyone who does nominate me, I sincerely thank you. When I get better, I will dedicate my next dance fight to you.

So please help me look like this:

Jurassic Park B***hes!
And don’t make me do this:

That was the best blog post about owls of all time, OF ALL TIME!

Thanks guys,
I’m going to take a little rest for a while but I’ll be back (said in a very non-threatening manner).

*I bought my own pee. Trust me, it was hilarious.

I should probably add that nominations close tomorrow, but whatever. *stares intently at you*

You will need the following info:
My email is cupidorcats@hotmail.com and I live in Co. Roscommon.

That will make stalking me a lot easier.

My face gets me into trouble

I attract weirdos. It’s true. If you happen to like me, it doesn’t mean you’re weird, just that…er, okay…you’re weird. Sorry.

Maybe it’s some kind of radar I give off, like “hey weirdos, come talk to me about owls and taxidermy because I’m weird tooooo!”. And usually, it’s okay and I don’t mind. I like people and I like having random chats with strangers. There are times, however, when I just do not want to make idle small talk, know peoples’ most intimate secrets or be hit on by guys who get sick on my shoes (yes, that happened).

Jack says that people radiate towards me because of my face. He says I have a kind of wide-eyed innocence and friendliness that people probably find approachable. I’m not bragging about that, I actually didn’t want to hear that. It makes me sound gullible; the kind of schmuck that lights up the eyes of charity muggers on the street. I knew that there had to be something though. A few years ago, a perfect stranger walked down to length of a bus to ask me to reassure her mother, who was on the phone, that she was okay and the bus had not swerved off a cliff (long story). I asked my sister, who was sitting on the outside seat and looks far more responsible than I do, why on earth the girl chose me.
“It’s probably your face,” she murmured, in an annoying nonchalant manner. WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP SAYING THIS?!

I’m pretty sure this is what people see when they look at my face

My sister wouldn’t explain what she meant by that, but it wasn’t the first or the last time that I have heard that. Would you like to hear about the other times my face got me into trouble? Of course you would.

The time I attracted a for realsies stalker

So I’m out at a pub about five years ago, doing my thing (you know, dancing awkwardly and making bad life decisions) when this girl just came up and started enthusiastically dancing with me. Normally, I love this kind of thing. Come, grind with me, let’s make bad life decisions togethaaaar! But there was something about this chick. Firstly, I’m pretty sure she had vomit in her hair. Secondly, she was wearing what appeared to be two different shoes. She also appeared to be alone and was laughing at her own reflection in a mirror behind the bar. After we finished dancing, I tipped my invisible hat to her and went outside for a cigarette (I’ve since quit).
As I was lighting up, BAM, there she was. She just appeared out of nowhere, or a cloud of smoke or something. She just stood about a foot from my face, just smiling. Before I could say “Okay, take my kidney, just take iiittt!” she was blubbering. She screeched something along the lines of:

Then she just (and I promise this is true) fell into my arms. While I awkwardly patted her back,
I felt compelled to ask her one kinda important question.
“Erm, I don’t want to appear insensitive here, but….do I know you?”
She looked up at me with a mascara stained face while I looked around waiting for Ashton Kutcher and his stupid hat to jump out from behind a beer keg. Didn’t happen.
“No…I just…you seem…nice…”
Please don’t wipe your nose on my dress and get your face outta my breasts…
“Do I?”
“I think it’s-“
“My face? It’s my face, isn’t it?”
“Damn it.”

And as I sat avoiding eye contact and trying to dodge physical contact with, er,…Alison? Jenny? Christina?…I shook my fist in anger at whoever is responsible for my overly-approachable face. Curse you, genetics.

I’m going to end the story there, partially because I want to and partially on the advice of my solicitor but let’s just say, she found me on Facebook and tried to steal my life. DAMMIT, FACE.


The time I made a guy cry

Guys, I’m going to tell you a little secret. ACTUALLY IT’S A FRIGGIN’ HUGE SECRET. Sorry, I got a little excited there. You’ve probably wondered why girls go to the bathroom in groups, and if you haven’t then great for you with your relevant musings *rolls eyes*
Girls go to the bathroom together for many reasons: to talk about you, to whore up their faces some more, to actually go to the bathroom (rarely) and to take bathroom selfies (standard). But we also go together because the alternative is being left alone in a bar where guys pretty much lock onto you the instant your friends disappear. I learned this the hard way.

This encounter starts off pretty standard. Guy comes over and engages in pretty awkward small talk. I remain polite and wonder when I should mention that I have a boyfriend without coming across like a total cow. I hate the idea of embarrassing anyone, or leading some poor guy on, but this guy is a trier.

“Your dress is nice.”
“Oh, thank you. It’s actually my friend’s. She’ll be out in a minute.”
“You have nice eyes.”
“Oh, my boyfriend says that too. Thanks.”
There you go, I managed to drop it into conversation. Man, I’m subtle as hell. I nod back at myself, smiling smugly.
“I bet I could write a song about your eyes.”
“What?” Wait, dude, I just mentioned my boyfriend. Give it up, man.“Er, yeah…my boyfriend is a singer.” No, he’s not.
“How could anyone leave you sitting here alone?”
“My boyfriend’s favourite film is “Home Alone”.” Janey, can you even hear yourself?!
“Some girls look so bitchy when they’re sitting alone. It’s like they’re holding up a sign reading ‘do not approach’.” Darn, I should’ve thought of that.
“And you just don’t look like that…”
DAMN IT, FACE! Next thing I know, he’s leaning in with his lips puckered.
“Oh no, no. Er, sorry. I…I have a boyfriend. Sorry.”
“But…you said..-“
“-that I have a boyfriend. About three times. Hey, I’m sorry. Look, there’s plenty of single girls around. I could be like your wingman. Goose. Whatever.”
“Cougar was the wingman.”
There’s an awkward silence.
“I’m sorry for trying to kiss you.”
Oh no. No, no NOOO. He’s crying. He’s actually crying. I can’t deal with men crying. I can’t deal with *anyone* crying..
“Hey. Woah. Erm….it’s okay…”
“You just seemed friendly. You were smiling…”
Was I?
“You just have a friendly-“

Dammit face.

Where’s Oprah with ice cream when you need her?!

The time(s) Jack doesn’t take me seriously.

“Jack, I’m so mad at you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“But look at your face. That’s not the face of someone who is mad.”
“This is my mad face.”
“No, that’s your happy face.”
“Then why aren’t you mad at me?”


Tell me about your face.