So, on the 4th of December I'm going to a Fetish Club, called the Torture Garden.
Check it out here: http://www.torturegarden.com/home/

Me and my friend Mel, whom I call Mistress, are going.
It's gonna be fairly intense.
She's gonna dress all vamp/dom and more than likely make out with girls and I'm dressing as a PVC Alice in Wonderland.
I know the outfit needs to involve this:
http://www.etsy.com/listing/35532048/classic-latex-feather-neck-corset-your?ref=sr_gallery_5&ga_search_query=latex&ga_search_type=category&category=clothing&ga_page=4&order=&includes[0 (Unknown or private posting)]=tags&includes[1]=title

Anyway.
That's my story for the day.
How me and a Dominatrix are going to a Fetish Ball.
:]

I want to go to work right now, as much as Jews did gas chambers.
Seriously.
No.
Don't make me.
Someone rich, will you marry me?

That Marilyn Manson song is playing again, the one that always reminds me of you.
The one where I'd pull you close, more than likely to head height.
Kiss you.
I doubt I could make love, to anyone, aside from you.

Everytime I get behind the wheel, I'm like, can I even drive?
Then I start the car, a little panicked, reverse out of the drive and start on my way.
The, yes, I can drive! Yay me!

Plus I mostly drive a jeep, so it's not that fucking difficult.
Yeah, my parents are the kinda people who live in the suburbs and own a jeep.
But, with 4 kids, 2 dogs and the whole fact my Dad drives a lot, he's not the kinda man to own a fucking people carrier, like, what is it the Americans say? A Soccer Mom?
I think that's it.
Well, no.
He's not a Soccer Mom.
My Dad would drive a tank if he could.

So I'm at work today, and this guy who decides he's automatically allowed to be a cunt to me, because he knows my name, comes to the bar.
"Make me a drink" he says, with a toothless, and trying to be funny, shit eating grin.
"Any particular kind of drink? I sort of sell a lot" I say, opening my arms, indicating, I'm behind a fucking bar, there's a lot to choose from, dumbass.
"Anything, make me something" he says, again, trying to be funny, and not noticing I've stopped smiling.
"Well, I don't know, what do you like?" I say, as politely as I can.
"I prefer my drinks wet" He says to me, still not noticing if I could set on fire, from how frustrated I am, I'd pretty much be an inferno.
"Well I've got lager, stout, cider, ales, all of different kinds. Alcopops, bottled beers, spirits, juices, cocktails" I tell him, my fists clenched.
"I don't care, anything" He says, whilst I'm still trying to finish off what kinda crap I sell. I mean, it's a bar for fuck sake, who does this?!
"Fine then, I'll make you something" I go off, come back a minute later, with a plastic beaker filled with water.
"What the fuck is this?" He says, clenching the beaker so hard it's looking like it'll snap in his hands.
"That'd be water. It's wet. Is it not?" I say, revelling in that I've angered him.
"I've noticed it's fucking water, you're actually giving me water? I guess you want fucking paying too?"
"No, water is freeee!" I say, like someone posessed. I'm actually full of glee now. This dudes face is changing colours.
"No you silly prick. I wanted an alcoholic drink. I've not come for fucking water. What the fuck, this isn't funny" He says, slack jawed that I'd dare offend him so.
"Well, you weren't exactly very specific" If I could be dancing right now, I fucking would be.
"Throw this shit away and make me a fucking pint of fosters" He says, defeated. Knowing further arguement is simply making me happier.
"Technically, I'm just pouring the fosters into a pint glass. It's already made up" I couldn't end it there.
"You're such a fucking dick!" He says, throwing a tenner my way for payment for his drink.
"Well, when dealing with dumb fucks like you for 50 hours a week, I have to get my kicks somewhere" I say, putting down his pint. In another plastic beaker. Just because.

My boss was watching the whole time, came up to me after and said "Now Glenn, we've talked about you and playing with the customers"
:] What can I say. I like to troll the drunks.
Plus, never go to a bar and be all "I want a drink" it's obvious you want a fucking drink. You didn't come to buy a fucking chinchilla, did you? What the fuck else have you come to a barman for? I don't do sexual favours. Shut the fuck up, tell me what you want, exactly how you want it, and I'll give it to you in exchange for currency, in a polite manner. I may even throw some friendly banter and wit into it as well, no extra cost.
Annoy me, and I'll be so fucking difficult you'll be tearing your hair out.

I haven't been this bored since I thought working in a phone store was a good idea.
I have also found nothing to fuck this weekend.
Depressing.

Why, when I've miss placed my ipod, do I check the fridge?

Fire.
The crack of a whip.
When I bind a corset too tight.
The feeling of falling in dreams.
When someone pulls my hair.
The full moon.
That rush I get when I see your name.
When I say a word where I have to speak each letter, like your name.

All remind me of you, and some bring a blush to my cheeks.
Some bring a blush to my no-nos.

So instead of an underground orgy rave, where I hear Bjork DJ'd.........not that I'm bitter.
I went out to a bar called the Conservative Pub.
I'm no-where near conservative.
So I walk in, in skinnies, a tee with gems on it and skulls and shit and my boots, looking like a Topman edition of Brokeback Mountain.
I'm instantly hated.
I discover vodka is £2 a double. £2!!
I'm fucked up, fairly quickly.
A pub crawl ensues across the city.
I'm in my local, I make out with Lisa (The girl in my profile picture, yeah you're jealous) and a couple of guys.
I buy a bottle of champagne, I love champagne.
Then, my fucking retard ADD brain decides champagne is a perfect acompanyment for fucking jagermeister.
I've no clue what else I was doing, the whole night.

But I just pre-ordered my deluxe edition Fable 3 (FUCK YES) and bought twister lollies and Lisa is cooking me Sunday roast.
Fuck yes.
So yeah.
That's my weekend.
Any of you lot even leave the house?
:]

Well, I want to go to London on Saturday for an underground orgy rave.
But no.
I'm at an 80th Birthday party.
Bastard.

On other news.
Fuck you.
Yes you.

Somewhere, on this sad, and blackened little planet of ours.
Someone is sucking dick for some heroin.
Someone is getting raped.
Someone is getting married.
Someone is saying goodbye.
Someone is sharing, that butterfly bringing first kiss.
Someone is being born.
Someone is getting an abortion.

There are, what, nearly 7billion, someones, alive, right now?
Don't you find that odd?
We're like, ants.
Building into the clouds themselves.
We go to war.
We fall in love.
We mourn.
We mourn people we've never met.
We wear clothes made by someone we'll probably never know.
You're reading this, or maybe not, from maybe thousands of miles away.

Oh god.
Even I got bored and Tl;dr
Hang yourself Kennedy.
Hang yourself in shaaaaaaaaaame.

Customer - "Why are you even in the customer service trade? Your attitude is terrible, and you're rude, who do I make a complaint too?"
Me :: -picks up an empty pint glass- "this is my cup of caring, as you can see, its empty"
Customer - "You can't say that to me!"
Me :: "Oops"

Low blood sugar, and kareoke make me a very, very grouchy barman.

Also, no google ads, I do not want to fuck real girls or try viagra.
I want to fuck men and don't fucking need it.

There's a girl on the sofa in my pub, giving her boyfriend a handjob.
Pretty sure I should stop them.

But no one wants to interupt that.

No one in this day and age, in a mostly middle class city, should smell as bad as the woman does who's in my pub.
She fucking stinks.
She smells like she died 6 weeks ago.
Its tragic, she's been in here for 2 hours, with 4 drinks, for her and her "friends".
I'm contemplating calling the hospital asking if they've had a break out.

So, for some freaky reason I'm over my ex.
Its taken me like, 3 weeks.
3 weeks of crying, eating my weight in whatever I find and pretty much being a general bastard.

Now I'm freaking horny and ready to start fucking my way through the West Midlands.

I joke, I joke.
I might be into sex, but I'm no common slut.

But I do want me some loving.

I wonder who you've got to be friends with to buy a nuke.
I know where to get a gun.
Though my shot is terrible, give me a bow and arrow anyday.
You'd think I'd miss, when I hit you in the back of the knee.
I didn't miss.
I meant too.
Breaking knees is fucking painful, so I hear.

You know what word is good?
Delectable.
Its so fucking perverted.
How it rolls off the tongue and you have to sound each letter.
Filth.

Christ I'm bored.
Where is my wonderfully destructive Doctor to keep me company when I need him.

It's the strangest thing, leaving the person you love.
You love them, oh god, how you love them.
I'd have given anything to see it work, but, had to leave.
I couldn't see us going much farther than we already did.
We'd hit a wall I guess, and I left him.

But I'm alive.
I've got my friends.
And I've got you bunch of lolcows to keep my ass company.

So, life goes on, I've jumped another shit covered hurdle and come over it.
Covered in shit. But over none the less.

Sometimes I wonder why I check out the diaries daily.
Then a vagina tree pops up, and I'm reminded.
Apart from the emos and the people who should probably be on the sex offenders register.
There are some really funny, sometimes sweet, even on the odd occassion insightful diary entries, that make my morning ritual of reading the shit you lot think is interesting whilst on the crapper, totally worthwhile.