How to not get laid

It's my friend's birthday today, so we went out to Mosh (an alternative night club) to celebrate. As we were dancing away, a guy taps me on the shoulder:

Random Guy: My jumper's wet. Will you wipe it for me?

Me: I'm taken.

Random Guy: What?

Me: No.

Random Guy: Pleeeeeeeease.

Me: No. *Turns away*

What I should have said was: "Why don't you take it off instead? ;) " but I didn't think fast enough, and I'm scared as to how he would have reacted. He wasn't hot, either. No wonder he had to resort to such bad pick-up lines.

On another note, I have discovered the three types of dad dancing: barely dancing, almost acceptable and appalling.

Yes folks, that what the dancing standard of the male species was like tonight. Entertaining and yet scary at the same time. It almost makes me glad that my boyfriend won't dance...(however, one day I WILL get him on the dancefloor...mwahahahahahaha)

Yes. I should be off to bed now, given that it's past my bedtime.

Green fingers? No, no, mine's red...

I've always quite liked plants. My nan loves gardening, and so does my mum, (and our dog, George, quite likes to help out too by digging massive holes in the garden...) so it's only natural that I quite like gardening too. Minus the part that involves creepy-crawlies.

The thing is, plants don't really like me.

In my twenty-year lifespan, I've managed to kill two banana plants; a venus fly trap; a cactus, and bamboo. My aunty (who lives in Australia) has bamboo surrounding her entire back garden, and it lasted through their drought, but it couldn't last a fortnight in my ownership.

Over the summer, I decided I wanted a new plant, so I got a pretty peace lily and called it Daisy, just to be ironic, and because I like naming things. All summer I looked after it and it was great. Lots of pretty flowers, she was a perky, happy plant.

...Then I took her to uni...

Within a few weeks' there, she wasn't happy. Flowers started dying, the leaves were drooping, she wasn't absorbing water and she looked more depressed than me when I haven't had a Starbucks for a month. So I took her home.

And within two days of being looked after by my nan, she'd returned to how she'd been all summer.

I wasn't impressed. But I was kind of happy that I hadn't killed of another plant.

Last weekend, I thought I'd try my luck with another plant, thinking that maybe peace lilies just weren't the right kind of thing for me to have at uni. So I bought a campanula in a pretty polka dot pot. It didn't last five minutes at uni before it a) started wilting and b) began to set off my hayfever. After three days I'd had enough and gave it to my flatmate to look after. I was ill enough - I didn't need hay fever being added to my list of ailments.

I bought it home when I was dragged home on Thursday purely from the sound of my voice (yes, I apparently sounded THAT bad), and when my nan saw said plant, she wasn't impressed.

"Look," she said, pulling it out of the pot. It slid straight out. "It's bone dry."

"But the last time I checked it it was fine!" I protested. This had been the day before. I wasn't impressed.

I've now officially given up on plants.

Or at least, the idea of keeping them in my poorly lit, strangely temperature room at university. Stupid plants.

If you want something done right...

After posting my last blog, I had a "genius" idea - I figured I could transfer my shiny new blog on to a subdomain of Mystic Ways, my incredibly geeky fansite for supernatural television shows. So I went ahead and downloaded WordPress, then realised something - I need a spare MySQL database on Mystic Ways for it to work.

And guess what?

I don't have a spare MySQL database on there, because it's taken up by the pretty gallery, which is going nowhere because it's taken me forever to find some of those pictures.

Grr.

I suppose I could just be happy with what I've got here, but then again, I'm a spoilt only child who always gets her way...

On A Mission

The fact that I'm listening to Gabriella Cilmi's On A Mission has nothing to do with the title of this post, I swear it doesn't.

You see, I LOVE to write (possibly more than I love my boyfriend, and he does know this, but he loves his PC more than me, so we're even), and am currently studying a Creative Writing coures at university. These two things have led me to notice several things:

1) That almost all successful writers (please note that I said SUCCESSFUL, not good) are either a) married or b) certifiably insane.

Exhibit A (married): Stephen King; Meg Cabot; Sophie Kinsella/Madeline Wickham; Marian Keyes; Dan Brown; F. Scott Fitzgerald

Exhibit B (crazy people): Virginia Woolf; Sylvia Plath; J.K.Rowling (the woman ditched a perfectly nice job as a teacher to go on the dole and write Harry Potter. If that's not insane, tell me, what is?)

Perhaps to call them "certifiably insane" might be going a tad far, but they're hardly normal. Not that I can comment, but I never claimed to be normal. Not lately, anyway...

Second thing that I've noticed:

"Chick lit" has a REALLY bad rep. Like, trailer trash rep. This annoys me. Sure, sometimes the characters can be whiny, annoying and boy crazy, but so can lots of people out there. I know FAR more guys that are bothered about being single than I do chicks, actually. They're all pretty whiny. But I digress.

Not all chick lit characters are like that. A lot of them set positive examples for us ladies - they're strong, independent, and if they get the guy in the end, that's great. And if they don't...well bugger 'em. Blokes are useless anyway.

Did you know there's also a sub-genre of chick lit called lad lit? I might have to check one out. Purely for research purposes, of course. I have no more desire to know how the male mind works than I do to eat a giant turd. (Actually, I think I'd rather know how their minds work than to eat that, but you get my point).

So anyway, all rambling aside, I'm going to make it my mission to give ladies' literature (see? Doesn't that sound so much nicer?) a better reputation. Along the way, you may also be faced with my somewhat bitchy, potentially successful and incredibly sadistic methods of thinking when I talk about something non-writing related.

Don't say I didn't warn you.