I broke down and cried on the phone to my Dad today. I had let myself into my house at half twelve and was feeling pretty dejected at having to spend the last of my (borrowed) pounds on essentials like shampoo and cat food. It’s easy to forget about how much the little bits and pieces cost when you have a job, but when every day means literally counting the pennies, you start to notice how far £30 doesn’t get you.
As the word document I’m copying and pasting from says; “more freaking beer buttviews”. This weekend I finally went to the treasure chest of brilliant bottles that is Carringtons in Chorlton. Someone on Yelp described this shop as “being six again and cooing over the Pick ‘n’ Mix at Woolworths” which is exactly what it’s like, only with beer. So with recommendations bagged up and ready to be drunk, Socrates and I began another beer review. Any typos expressed here are that of the (drunk) authors’.
The boundaries between ages are blurring. Kids are growing up faster and adults are growing old slower. Grandparents own iPods and make-up comes free with pre-teen magazines. Whilst labels which tell us how we should act given our age are ridiculous, they’ve always been there guiding us through challenges such as “maturity”, “responsibility” and “really scary life decisions”.
But I’ll never be what older generations would define as “an adult”. Here is why:
I heart the apocalypse. There’s something about the imminent sense of the whole world going to shit that really fascinates me. I’m not interested in death, it’s the part just before. The majority of the human race struck down by something, usually man-made, struggling to survive before the inevitable end.
The Counsellor lowers her head and peers at me over her glasses. Instinctively I look away. My breath smells of polos because I forgot to brush my teeth this morning and I am trying not to exhale in her direction.
“So,” She says, reading off my forms. “You want to claim benefits.”
I agree, but I haven’t spoken out loud to anyone today except for the bus driver so my voice is a characterless rasp. I clear my throat but she has moved on.
This week, Morrisons are currently selling “seasonal” beers and ales for just £1.50. But despite the charming/often terrifying labels of these festive drinks, how appropriate are they really? Does drinking a seasonal beer evoke memories of tinsel, yule log and fireplaces… Or are they just bitter and disgusting? Socrates Adams and I set out to find the truth about Morrison’s Selection of Cheap Seasonal Ales.
Taking on the Twilight franchise is like flogging an undead horse. However hard you try to hit back; it just won’t die. For every critical piece I read on the Internet there are five million blogs, fansites and crappy screencapped-banners proclaiming Twilight to be the greatest love story ever.
Bullshit.
Earlier this year the magazine that I edit, Shoestring, was criticised for only soliciting submissions from its friends. We are, as I hastly defended myself, “two girls sitting in their living room trying to make a cool magazine” and much of promoting the deadline was done via Twitter.
Ironically, Shoestring was criticised by the man now facing snarky messages himself regarding the credibility of the Manchester Blog Awards that was held in October. The event has been accused both before and after the night itself as being too cliquey; the results predetermined and success hinging on “who you know” rather than talent or readability.
I am having a productive morning.
Alternative Title for this post: The things I am prepared to do rather than leave my nice warm house to buy loo roll.
I’ve been smoking for around three years, so I consider myself a pro at many things nicotine. However, I’ve never learnt to roll cigarettes before. This week I decided to give it a go and become a Supreme Smoking Sculptor. This is what I have learnt.
