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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.

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:

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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.

“Yes?”
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.

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“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:

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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.

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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.

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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:

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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:

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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.)

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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.

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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:

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

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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 people’s 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?!

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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:
“myboyfriendjustleftmeandmygoldfishdiedandIkilledmyfavoutitehouseplantandDonnyWalhbergwon’treplytomyfanmail…”

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 he’s 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?”
“Yes.”
“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.

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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?
“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.”
“Oh.”
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-”
“-face.”
“Right.”

Dammit face.

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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.”
“YOU LOST MY USB!”
“Then why aren’t you mad at me?”
“I AM MAD AT YOU!”

DAMMIT FAAAAACE!

Tell me about your face.

Cupid or Cats is one year old today*

This blog is one year old today! I just want to say a massive thank you and give an awkward arm punch to all of my wonderful followers, commenters and likers for sharing this weird and wacky journey with me.

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I decided that for my blogaversary, I would do a blog Q&A, with myself…because, well you already know weird is how I roll.

Hey Jane.

Hey, Janey. Wait, am I Jane or Janey?

It doesn’t matter. Man, you’re annoying sometimes.

Ditto, bitch.

Well, we’d better get started. Why did you begin blogging?

It was actually my boyfriend’s idea. I was always either ranting or making silly jokes, and he felt that a receptive audience would be a lot better than just him and our cat. My cat thinks I’m s**t, by the way.
Anyway, I was going through a tough time and I thought it would be a great way of expressing myself.

Does your blog have a niche or a theme? Because it seems random as hell.

Originally, I had intended it to be a relationship blog but then my brain got in the way (wearing a bikini and being all distracting) and was like “no Jane, talk about farts, talk about owls…” so yeah, that idea quickly went out the window (along with my dignity).
Now, I just write whatever makes me smile. Essentially, I just want blogging to make me happy. I’m selfish like that.

You’re a teacher. Why don’t you blog about that?

Occasionally, I’ll mention it. It is a big part of who I am, but this was intended as an escape from all of that. I love my job, I do. And I try to be fun in class and have a laugh with my students, but obviously I have to be professional. Here I can just be whatever I want, including a ballerina. *does awkward arabesque*
I know that if I had a proper niche, I would have more followers but I never began this to gain thousands of followers; I did this for stress release.

Why the name Cupid or Cats?

I don’t know. I really don’t. It just came into my head. I think it was because, like I said, it was supposed to be a relationship blog. And I thought I want people in relationships (who’ve been hit by Cupid’s arrow) and single people (erm, I don’t know what to say without offending anyone so here’s a picture of a happy kitten:)

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…to read my blog. By the way, I once had, like, five cats so what do I know?
And anyway, if I keep blowing foghorns in my boyfriend’s ears, this is what will happen to me:

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Smooth Jane. Really smooth. So, be honest, what do you like best and
least about blogging?

Best: The people. Really.
I have met funny, kind, intelligent, insightful, loving, cheeky and generally BRILLIANT people here. It’s great, because we are all united in our desire to say something relevant and to listen to others.
I can’t really believe how nice anyone is. Or how engaged people are. We have lots of fun on here.

Worst: Ugh. That’s tough. Sometimes I read blogs that are just amazing and I know I’ll never measure up. But then I look at owl memes and I feel okay.
Also, keeping up with all the blogs I follow can be difficult and I don’t want anyone to think that I don’t value what they do. I try my best. I get a little paranoid that people will think I’m a selfish blogger, but really I make as best an attempt as I can to catch up with all of you. I reply to virtually every single comment I receive because I appreciate them so much. And also, because they’re always great and make me smile.
Something happened lately that has upset me a little, but I’m not going to discuss it here (sorry). It just made me realise that there definitely are downsides to this blogging malarkey.
But the pros definitely outweigh the cons.

How do most people find your blog?

Through Google searches about farting. No joke.

That’s weird. So, how does your boyfriend feel about all of this?

He doesn’t really care either way because he’s so busy with his PhD. He does like what I write whenever he happens to read my posts, though.
Sometimes he even laughs.

Does anyone else know about your blog?

Yes, I drunkenly confessed to a friend but I doubt she reads it much. She’s cool though, I trust her and I don’t mind her reading it at all.
I also think I told my best friend but she didn’t really say anything at all.
There is no way I would tell anyone else, though. My family would not be impressed (they’re great, but very private) and I would be really paranoid I’ve written something negative about someone that would cause offense, so I won’t be sharing this blog with anyone else in my personal life.

Why the picture of yourself then?

I think the chances of someone that I know stumbling across my blog are very small. I probably will change it, but I’m lazy.
I like that my readers can put a face to my blog, even if I do look super-bitchy in my gravatar. M to the e-ow.

What do you think is wrong with your blog?

Nothing, of course.

Jane, stop being an ass.

Okay, I was kidding. I thought you of all people would know that.
I have no grand plan or scheme, I don’t edit my posts, I write exclusively on my phone, I post too much…okay, now everyone is just going to unfollow me. Thanks, Jane. (Little do they know, every time someone unfollows me, a dolphin cries.)

So Jane, how’s your Mom heh heh heh…

What are you talking about? She’s your Mom too, smartass.

Oh yeah. That’s embarrassing. . So what do you think the future holds for your blog?

I don’t know. I want to tidy it up a little and maybe include some features.
If I ever get to 1000 followers, and that’s a big if, I’m going to do something really really special. It’ll probably be a while before that happens but let’s just say, it going to involve me, wine, maybe some karaoke and a camera. Oh yeah.

That should class up the place a bit Jane..

Natch.

So, that’s a whole year guys. Here’s to a whole bunch more.

*Technically, it’s tomorrow. But the idea was born on the fifth and….look over there…*runs*

This is the kind of relationship we have

Last night/morning, Jack came home at five a.m. stinking of beer and woke me up after he went on a massive bender with friends.

This morning, I woke him up with a foghorn.

Revenge is a dish best served loud.

Not the post I had intended, but…

So I had this post all written up and ready to go. And it disappeared.
It was about independence, there was pictures of BeyoncĂ© and sea otters and me singing (with words…trust me, you would have sung along). AND IT’S GONE.

Needless to say, I was pissed. While my posts aren’t exactly top quality (you know I write them on my phone, while intermittently playing Candy Crush, drinking coffee/wine and throwing papers at my cat) and I won’t exactly be winning Pulitzer Prizes anytime soon (but wouldn’t that be SO COOL?!), I still love this blog and I love writing up my weird and random posts. Perhaps it’s revenge for being so blasĂ© about it all. Boo, WordPress, boo.

So instead, I’ve just decided to throw together some of the thoughts that have run through my head today and maybe you can tell me what you’ve been thinking about and then we can have internet cake? Got it? Good.

1. I did a Luis Suarez impression for Jack but he thought I was impersonating Bette Midler. Typical.

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2. Jack handed me a giant bread roll filled with chicken while I was watching TV and I was holding it like I imagine Hamlet held Yorick’s skull, wondering whether the 45 minutes on the cross trainer would be worth it, because carbs.
One of my former students happened to walk past my window, with a look of “why the hell is she staring at her food like that…oh yeah, because she’s weird.”

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3. Girls really can be crazy. I met a guy in a bar about a month ago who was also a teacher. He happens to be a friend of a friend. We talked about our jobs, and I talked to him about my boyfriend. Literally, all we did was talk about our work (he’s also an English and history teacher).
Our mutual friend called me today to tell me that his girlfriend had been watching us and went insane and they had a massive fight that lasted weeks. I felt bad for about ten seconds, and then realised that it was completely innocent and she’s just cray cray. Maybe I should stop wearing hoochie lipstick?

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Apparently these are the lips that will ruin your life…

4. I am one step closer to becoming BFFs with Chris O’ Dowd because my boyfriend and his Dad are friendly (they’re even Facebook friends). I keep asking when it will become acceptable to show up at their house with a six pack and apple pie.

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SOOOOONNNN

5. I love my nieces. I spent a RIDICULOUS amount of money on them today and now I’m poor, but hey, who needs clothes? AMIRIGHT?

6. Jack thought “polo necks” were actually called “polar necks” and I realised that kinda makes sense.

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7. We have a drink in Ireland called Cidona and it’s amazing.

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I want it on me.

8. My other friend rang me wanting to know if she could put up pictures from a few years back of me on Facebook. I’m pole dancing upside down.
So no.
She did send me this picture, taken when I was 18 on her brick phone (it was huuuuge). Don’t I look like a moody cow? And I really miss that Rolling Stones top.

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9. Squirrels are basically land beavers. Swans are basically posh ducks.

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Look at him there, the snob.

10. I had to get my driving licence renewed and the guy processing my application thought I was crazy. After I got my picture taken (it was the WORST picture of me taken EVER. In fact, it might just be the worst picture taken EVER) all I could think of was this pic:

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I literally burst out laughing in the guy’s face. And I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t. He looked really confused.

So that was my day today.
Tell me about yours!

P.S. Here’s the picture of the sea otters because I love you guys.

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Here

I see you suffer
Hiding behind the burnt skin and thinning hair
Smiling a little weakly
A feeble frail finger taps a hollow cheek to where my blood filled lips can touch
I fear a kiss may kill you

I see you moving
Crossing deserts in your kitchen
Glancing through your window at horizons you’ll never reach
The timer on the oven seems to be moving too quickly, too quickly
The dinner won’t be ready
The time will be up too soon

I see you folding children’s jumpers
Holding them close to your chest for seconds before you let them go
You’ll have to show them how to get creases out, so they will know
When the folding is done, and plans are made
You need to sit

I see you now, as you are, and I see you as you were
Vibrant, dancing, living,
Teaching, learning, yearning, dreaming
I see you now, hopeless, lost, frightened, blind…but at least

I see you

-JG

Jack White- Dublin 2014

Last night I got to do something I have wanted to do for years. I got to see my favourite musician perform in the best live gig I ever could have wished for.
It was a big deal for me. I’m never really able to experience these things, because of strobe lights and also because I can’t stand for long periods of time without fainting (which is just, like, so embarrassing).

For my birthday, my wonderful boyfriend bought me tickets to Jack White, knowing that I’ve been pretty much obsessed with him since I first heard Fell in Love With a Girl. Since I’ve been having a few pesky seizures lately, I didn’t think I could go. But my Jack was pretty insistent and I’m glad he was.

The concert was in Dublin, in the beautiful and historic setting of the Royal Hospital in Kilmainham. Jack’s support act were The Kills, a male/female duo. Jamie Hince is married to Kate Moss, and the female lead is Alison Mosshart.

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Source

They were great, although you really got the feeling the crowd were impatient, willing Jack on stage.

When Jack did finally come on, it was absolutely lashing rain (did I mention it was outdoors? Well, it was). We were saturated. But nobody cared. Who could be in a bad mood listening to this:

We danced, we laughed, we loved Jack’s duet with Alison Mosshart.
Jack drank beer while we laughed at my clothes stuck to my skin. We were carefree, listening to one of the best musicians in the world doing what he loves.

Jack then broke curfew and the PA system got cut off, but he played on anyway, because, well, no one wanted to go home:

All in all, it was magic. Here are some pictures of the gig from Jack’s official website:

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