The poo has hit the fan: at Paul's house

It is official! I have a “date” with the X-man on Saturday, well, soon as I reply. After a few more rounds of Olympic email ping-pong, Mr X has finally bitten the bullet and asked me out. Hooray!? The past few emails were spent discussing writing, whereby he mentioned his passion for poetry, especially of the visual variety. Visual poetry sounds like the modest term for a gyrating gigolo, but he has assured me he is not one of these incredible fellows! Shame really.

If you remember from the first article, Mr X proposed to write something, which turned out to be nothing more than a dull questionnaire. Well, he has written another piece (of this visual poetry). Aesthetically resembling a poem my laptop has regurgitated, after attempting to shove a box of Crayola crayons into the CD-Rom drive.

Dollar $igns for the letter S, OdDly plAceD upPeR aNd LowEr CasE LetteRs (reminding me of a 14 year olds myspace profile), random green words, strikethroughs, underlining of certain letters, b(rack)ets, *asterisks* and more pink lettering. All incorporated into a poem called: Is my point crystal clear to ($)ee? The pink letters vertically scattered spell ‘for you natasha’ and below the poem is a mobile number. Presumably his own, and not the gyrating gigolo! Again, shame.

The email asks if I am doing anything on Saturday and if I care to ‘break a world record with him?’ This is completely verbatim and quite a bold statement to make. I am honestly very interested by this comment, without a doubt making me more the fucking fool.

Should I fear for my life? Or figure out what shoes to wear? I think I'm going to text tomorrow. At midnight. To officially mark the beginning of my Cyber-rella fantasy.

Natasha x

Red Moon

The worst part about the occasional 'what if I am pregnant' thought (not that I have ever had sex, but we must NEVER rule out immaculate conception), is the same thought that harrows every person ever to have watched Eastenders circa Natalie Cassidy resembling the love-child of Mr. Blobby and a Pygmy Hippo. The greatest fear that you're secretly pregnant and will basically end up giving birth on the loo, a la Sonia.

I can just imagine this bastard baby hanging from the umbilical chord, flapping in and out of the toilet water. It scares me to death, so much so I now have to use the bathroom to reassure myself it will not happen.

Gumtree playing Cupid (whom I can imagine, throws BBMs rather than arrows)

When I spent the night drinking Brazilian cocktails and attempting to samba to an unnaturally quick beat, in Guanabara one Friday, the last thing I ever expected to see was a message aimed at me on Gumtree’s infamous ‘Missed Connections’.

Writing for Gumtree, I am always perusing for a story or angle, and undeniably I had found one. The post title read: ‘Guanabara - Friday - Natalie (ok, not quite my name but a close second’. Very intrigued and a wee bit apprehensive, I clicked on the post title and up popped a short message from the person (hereinafter referred to as Mr. X). The message read: ‘you’re a writer from South London, met you outside Guanabara on Friday night. I have something of yours’. Truth be told, I was slightly disappointed the message wasn’t “juicer”!

I debated for a whole three-and-a-half seconds whether to reply, concluding I’d be a fool not to. I messaged back a quick: ‘You have what of mine’. One day elapsed. The next day, I loaded up my hotmail and waited for my emails to emerge. There it was! Mr. X had replied, and golly-gosh it was an elaborate one.

To cut an extensive email short, Mr. X explained his shock at his endeavour actually working, especially considering he had used the wrong name. He apologised for the unusual method of contact and expressed how extremely contrite he was, for the rowdy bunch of morons (I mean, friends) who kept badgering me for my telephone number and my bloody facebook. Mr. X explained he had our little encounter on his mind for the rest of the weekend, he had found me “intriguing” and that I came across as the sort of woman who appreciated an approach a little off the beaten track (well, most enjoy a little BDSM, don’t they?).

He gave me his name on facebook and told me to add him. The main message said he would not ask for my number, but for me to allow him to write me something. If I liked it, then ‘maybe we could chat’. I felt a bit like Queen Victoria by this point. I agreed. Two days elapsed. Suffice to say, I found an email from Mr. X. The piece he had decided upon writing was less of an attempt at a handsome piece of cleverly-written prose and more just a questionnaire. Ten pseudo-insightful questions he could Freud all over. I reluctantly filled them in. Over the next week a few more emails, four free tickets to a BBC comedy show in Putney (he gave me the tickets, we didn't go together) and even more emailing.

I found the whole experience quite flattering with undertones of randomness. I’ve always been quite intrigued by ‘Missed Connections’ and continuously wondered if anybody had sought and found a specific person using the service. I do recommend more people use it, it is strangely remarkable and it’s free. Plus, it’s quite an interesting story to tell the grandchildren. Or not.

If adventures begin and perpetual emails cease, with Mr. X, you’ll all be notified.

Natasha. x

Who defines my line?

I consider myself a spontaneous person. I prefer living in the present, enjoying everything currently happening, as opposed to dwelling on the past or shaping a future. Though saying that, I am attending university for a reason. I've been called spontaneous by many different people, which slowly turned into impulsive (foolish!), which made me restrain my SPONTANEITY a little, or at least think them through a little more.

Anyway, I think to most the aforementioned sounds relatively positive. But, when I change spontaneous to impulsive, it becomes a negative trait. So, why is the former positive and the latter, not so. I do not consider myself impulsive, but can I be one and not be the other?

Probably should look for exact definitions for both, although I am sure they are reasonably similar in description and meaning. Give me a second to dictionary.reference.com both..

spon⋅ta⋅ne⋅ous – adjective

1. coming or resulting from a natural impulse or tendency; without effort or premeditation; natural and unconstrained; unplanned: a spontaneous burst of applause.

2. (of a person) given to acting upon sudden impulses.

3. (of natural phenomena) arising from internal forces or causes; independent of external agencies; self-acting.

4. growing naturally or without cultivation, as plants and fruits; indigenous.

5. produced by natural

process.im⋅pul⋅sive – adjective

1. actuated or swayed by emotional or involuntary impulses: an impulsive child.

2. having the power or effect of impelling; characterized by impulsion: impulsive forces.

3. inciting to action: the impulsive effects of a revolutionary idea.

4. Mechanics. (of forces) acting momentarily; not continuous.

Both are similar. However, impulsive seems to suggest impulses forced by power or emotion, whereas spontaneity is more natural. So, when an impulsive person becomes impulsive they find it hard to cease their impulses, which can sometimes become destructive and negative. Like a gambler? A spontanoues person seeks adventure and change. Like me?

I was once told by a woman named Ruth that I enjoy adrenaline-full situations, change and novelty, excitement and difference. But, find salvation in calmness and contendness. From situations I have experienced in my life, the product was the feeling of the unknown, which released adrenaline and set the excitement bar high. So, in my every day life I act spontaneously to fulfill my barometer of fun, because without them I would feel incredibly bored and probably be dull as fuck.

BB10 - what a load of bollocks - Part II

As per request, I am writing a second vicious rant at 'you-know-who'.

Since last post, somebody has left. I cannot remember who, so they must not have been terribly important. Not to suggest any are of any importance anyway. I presume within a month of writing this and the collapse of the Big Brother regime, said person will bring out a fitness dvd and will start dating some badly-dressed, sponging nobody. They'll become a unit and eventually one person, consisting of the prefix of one name and suffix of another. Bringing their total IQ to the sum of 10. Oh, and it's a fact you need fucking 50 to even be able to breathe.

What I find terribly confusing (and misleading!) about Big Brother is the people. They see the same ugly faces every single day, they see the same bioresonate chair everyday, nothing changes and everything is always the same, apart from Big Brother having the ability to control what they wear. Thankfully, Big Brother has them dressing like pricks.

So, in a house SO mundane and tedious, with boredom smeared over everything, like a plague, you would think the housemates would endeavour to entertain themselves (through striking fear of slipping into a coma, or death via boredom). It's certainly what I would do! Entertain myself, or at the least, talk people into doing the most dangerous yet certifyingly entertaining acts. There's a whole myraid of ridiculous acts available. I sympathise Big Brother has ruined their minds, they've lost the ability to think for themselves. Which is why they should strap them to a chair, hold there eyes open with tooth picks and make them watch Dirty Sanchez on re-run. Then we can smuggly sit back and watch these retards run into the diary room door, head first! Or attempt to throw the contents of the house outside of the Big Brother garden perimeter, but because the furniture is obviously heavier than themself, crushes them on the return to the ground. Surely they would entertain themselves, and surely entertain us. But, no.

Instead, let's put the Queen into the house. And, a fake one too. I actually feel sorry for Rodrigo, he must have felt like the biggest cunt. A bit like being in the cinema, walking up to your seat and tripping over. Though, to make it easier on my heart I like to remember Rodrigo isn't in fact real. He's Pinocchio's long lost brother. And presumably, fucking Big Brother voice is the Geppetto.






Lately, there has been more arguing, thank God. It sounds like Halfwit is making it his business to use 'fuck' after every word, but because he speaks so slowly, makes it seem very odd and makes me terribly uncomfortable with his voice. Bea - she is seriously grating now. She, like Halfwit, manages two whole words per minute. And, what is with the word 'negative'. Freddie thinks your negative. Marcus, Siavash and Freddie keep calling me negative. I'm not being negative. You've been very negative. You are emitting negative vibes. Negative negative. Do they think they'll win if they can mention the word negative enough times, it loses meaning?

Bea isn't negative!... She's just fucking annoying. And has a face like a maris piper. She keeps banging on about not wanting to talk about an argument between herself and Marcus, so instead of just bitching and shouting about Marcus, she'd rather MOAN about not wanting to TALK about it instead. Yeh, good move, we certainly won't vote you out you pointless, potato-face.

The rest have been doing nothing this week. I think they might have died. Meh, shit happens!

Until next time. Natasha. x