So, the time is here! My announcement that is bound to underwhelm everyone that isn’t me!
So I’ve been asked to blog for a new website, which is very exciting for me. And I’m sorry to disappoint you all, but I will continue to write this one too.
Yoostage is a website for creative people to upload their creative content. My blog will be on the subject of creativity, and I’ll be talking about things that I know nothing about, like acting, modelling and dancing (although let’s be honest, those that have seen me in a dance-off will know that’s not true.) It’s pressure, because writing for other creative people is a daunting prospect to me. In fact, writing anything that isn’t just for me is scary. Someone choosing to put their faith in you to help represent them is also very exciting though. And I’ve been told I don’t have to censor myself! So although I won’t be talking about my penchant for winding up my neighbour with pistachios*, I can still say weird things. My aim is to get “kinky fuckery” in there somewhere.
I have been getting ever-so-slightly flustered whilst writing my first Yoostage post. I decided it would be a good idea to introduce myself, and I wanted so badly wanted to make a good first impression with readers; partly to let them know that we’re all creative people in the struggle together, and partly because I didn’t want messages from trolls like “Who the fuck does she think she is?! She looks like Zooey Deschanel with a gland problem**. Let’s find out where she lives and blow her house down!” (Well you know what? You can’t blow my house down, cos this fuckin’ pig lives in a brick house, baby! Yeah!***) But the pressure of trying to introduce myself ended up with a tedious comparison between my mind and a septic tank, because it’s full of “any old shit,” and that readers should “think of this space as a huge intellectual toilet where we can all take mind dumps.” I think it needs some work. But don’t worry; I will let you all know as soon as my first mind diarrhoea has seeped down from my brain and into my new, huge intellectual lavatory. I smell creativity!****
Other work-related news this week: I’ve got a new job! No more being lambasted by the belligerent faux upper classes for putting too much/not enough/no ice/lemon/lime/alcohol/straws in their drink! I don’t know what this new job will be like, but all I need to know is that it’s more money. I’ll give you a hint of how much money it is: I could probably afford to take out the GOLD membership at my gym, and still have some money spare to go to the cinema every Orange Wednesday! Saywhaaaat!
I went for the interview last week, which I was very happy to do because, as always, I didn’t make a great first impression on the phone. You see, I had just got in the shower when my they called. Normally I’d just let it go to voicemail for obvious reasons, but I was so desperate for this job, that as soon as I saw their number come up on my phone I tried to jump out the shower as quick as I could, slipping as I did so, which could have ended really badly if my bathroom wasn’t so small. Luckily I just gently face-bumped the wall opposite. When I answered the phone I realised how obvious it was that I was having a shower because the running water was so loud, so I darted out of the bathroom. Without grabbing a towel. So I’m standing on the landing, naked, whilst this guy is like “Is this an ok time to talk?” and I’m just like “Yeah, sure.” If only he knew how not ok this moment really was. I don’t know why I didn’t just say “can you give me a minute?” so I could put my phone on the side, calmly walk back into the bathroom, and get my towel like a NORMAL person. So this guy starts asking me what I know about PPI claims whilst I’m running around, trying to find ANYTHING to cover myself up with and hoping that my dad doesn’t come upstairs. I contemplated telling him I was in the shower for a very brief moment, but luckily my brain realised that it sounded less like a great excuse and more like a casting-couch-esque proposition. I eventually found a towel but was so flustered that I got my own age wrong – as if the guy was asking me a trick question – and when he asked me about my last job I told him that it was “no big deal.” But for some reason he gave me an interview and I got the job. Now I must resist retelling that story to new co-workers because I actually don’t want to be the person everyone avoids in the canteen.
*Just a quick update on said neighbour – I saw him the other day and genuinely didn’t know if he had died or just gone to sleep. I watched for a while, but then felt weird about it so I went back upstairs, and thought if he’s still in the same position when I come down later that’s the time to be concerned. Luckily he wasn’t there by the time I came back down, but this could either be because he was alive, or because he had already been taken to the coroner’s office. Either way it got me thinking, and I am now trying to find an appropriate time to go round there and request to have his bonsai tree in the event of his death, whenever it may be/was.
**I want to stress that this is not an assumption I’ve made. I don’t think I look like her. This is not something I think. The only resemblance we share is blue eyes, a fringe and a candle for Ben Gibbard. People keep saying it to me because they think it’s what I want to hear, like I got a fringe because that’s what I want people to say. People really don’t have to say it, I’m not expecting it. The only people who use it genuinely are those trying to insult me. As soon as someone with blue eyes and brown hair gets a fringe people automatically assume it’s because they want to look like Zooey Deschanel. Do I want to look like Zooey Deschanel? Sure, why not. But I also want to look like Beyonce. If I got bum implants no one would say to me “Y’know who you look like now? Beyonce!” They would just be like “Oh my God, why have you injected your bum with Pollyfilla? Is it supposed to bleed like that?”
***I’ve been drinking.
****What am I even talking about? This post is going to really upset my mum.