29.01.13- William Shakespeare, Work and Wonderful Welsh Weather

My 3 main thoughts in a day otherwise slightly mundane:

1) Getting to Uni feeling like you've been pissed on by St David does not make you enthusiastic for lectures.
2) People who sit at a computer next to mine when there are millions of computers available are invading my personal bubble and need to be ejected from their seats immediately.
3) Watching people peruse onions and reduced bread rolls all evening is incredibly therapeutic.

Going along Mumbles Road this morning

This morning was one of those timetable slots that fills every student with horror. The dreaded 9am lecture. And once again Swansea was pissing down and the walk to Uni at 8.30am was definitely a risk to my life because I definitely nearly blew away into the sea.

"Hey baby, heard you like them ruff."

So I arrived at Uni looking like I'd fallen into a toilet. Most other people did too so I suppose that made it okay, but the lecture on Shakespeare was utterly pointless and I huffed most of the way through it. I hate "introductory" lectures. Just cut the crap and teach me what I need to know to get a first-class honours degree please. I do not care what the names of his plays were, nor do I give two shits about what Shakespeare's face looked like when magnified on a giant screen. Cool, he's bald, he wears a ruff, he's witty, I'd tap that if I were Elizabethan, etc, etc.
I came away from the lecture feeling I'd learned nothing of value except that I am definitely reserving the name "Cuthbert Burbage" for one of my future cats.
Then I had an "I-Need-To-Sort-My-Life-Out" session in the library which involved browsing graduate employers, jobs, entering some of the major poetry competitions which are closing this month and having a go at applying for some extra role to do alongside work as a weekly columnist for some arts website. But to do that I think you need to be funny.

Invade my personal bubble
 and I will invade your face

I was incredibly annoyed however when a girl sat next to me and ruined my special moment of solitude with my cup of Costa tea whilst rocking out to Yann Tiersen's piano music on my earphones. It not only killed the moment but made me feel like my breathing air was being violated so I left shortly after.
Actually I left because I needed to go food shopping before work but it's more dramatic if I pretend it had nothing to do with that.
The couple of hours before my shift were spent reading up on Dylan Thomas, chatting with my mum and trying to discourage my little brother from showing me his bare backside and talking extensively about his bowel habits. Needless to say, my brother's meal of curry later looked extremely unappealing and I went to work for the evening.
I'd been dreading the shift all day. I just feel so tired. I wanted to curl up with a cup of tea in bed and contemplate volunteering for the Cats' Protection Agency whilst listening to Dido or something really shit. But you know what?
Work was the best part of my day. Genuinely. And it's not like I was that busy. An hour of cleaning and scanning trolley-loads then 3 hours of daydreaming and occasionally chatting to a customer or serving them cigarettes or lottery. I contemplated life and watched people examine tomatoes and buy really unnecessary things like cheese with holes in it and a 20-pack of yum-yums.
And my pulse rate slowed. My breathing steadied. The nausea eased off. The worry and confusion I've been feeling all week due to the scariness of the future and the odd need of wanting to settle and stop being a drunken lunatic so much of the time (whaat...settle?! Me?) and the endless wait for exam results just dissipated in the beep of scanners and stacking of Pringles.
I've come home feeling calm and more clear-headed.
So kids. If you're feeling pissed off, don't do drugs. Don't touch cocaine. Don't glug cheap vodka (that shit makes you go blind anyway). Go to a supermarket and ask the checkout girl if you can come and stand behind the counter. Go, be free, and stack tins of ravioli.
You will still feel the escapism you chase with drink and drugs, only you'll be doing something useful, you won't become an alcoholic, your liver won't fail, you won't be shaking for another line of coke and your nose won't rot and fall off and you won't die.
Hooray for supermarkets and stroking cats.

Far cheaper than therapy

Final Semester, Frantic Overthinking & Fat, Fat Families

So today was the first day of my final semester of my final year at University.
Final year of education.
I have been in education since I started school nearly 20 years ago. This makes me feel an odd mix of exhaustion, pride, sadness and relief. Nearly twenty years. That's hell of a lot of biros. That's even more PE excuse letters (for the amount of times I was excused for "time of the month" from swimming lessons, you could swear I was having a fucking haemorrhage not a period).

How I will probably be discovered in the library
during a Masters course

It also brings with it a massive sense of panic. I can't relax. I've tried running, I've smashed gym workouts and while the endorphins help, they aren't enough to get rid of the tension. My thoughts have been going haywire for weeks, my appetite is still struggling and I keep getting panic attacks at really inappropriate moments (traffic lights aren't ideal, neither are public toilets. Leaving a public toilet looking sweaty is a bit awkward, especially if you have just entered and left the cubicle alone). I am one of these people who is afraid of change and the unknown. I've been accepted on my MA course, yet would I do this full or part time, if at all? I've come to the decision to do a gap year and move home and work full-time for a breather before I have a breakdown in the library by next year and am found in the poetry section naked, screaming and covered in egg.
But I'm still scared. I don't want to move home, but I need to save money and work. Will I even enjoy full-time employment? Should I just go straight onto the Masters course after all?
Not to mention absolute chaos and confusion on the romantic front. Everything is confusing.
I wish I was a cat and only gave a shit about sleeping, eating and licking my own arse.
My first lecture back was the Dylan Thomas module. It looks challenging. Very challenging. But that's what I love about him. I love that his poems are so bloody complex and have to be read and reread over and over. I love the ambiguity of his Romantic versus Modernist style. I love the sexiness of his syllable stresses (...okay, too far). The lectures look hard, but so much fun. We have to do a presentation on his work and get the chance to read out our own poems inspired by him which is a great idea to push students to think creatively.
We got offered a variety of topics including the Cold War, language, radio and film and sex and the body. When sex and the body was offered, I stuck up my hand to claim it as my topic for presentation far too enthusiastically and instantly felt a bit embarrassed when I found no one else was keen to claim it. I might as well have just strolled into lecture in a pair of nipple tassels proclaiming, "Hi my name is Natalie and I'm a massive fucking pervert."

One possible buffet combination

After lecture, I went to my good friend Craig's "All You Can Eat" birthday celebration at Taybarn's. Ironically, I ate sod all. My stomach is still twisted in a giant knot. But I have to say I loved the company and had a great night and met some really lovely people. I also witnessed one of our group conquer 9 consecutive meals. He looked proud.
I looked disgusted.
That's the thing with these "all you can eat" places. They're so horrifyingly grotesque and mesmerising if you want to people-watch (being that self-confessed pervert, I watch people a lot. I draw the line at public gym showers however so you can't arrest me). Here are a few scenes typical of buffet-type environments. Go to Taybarn's and play Bingo with this list if you wish. You will probably discover:

That time I nearly rivaled my "salsa"
 pregnancy with a vodka & Diet Coke baby

* Families with a collective weight of 3 tonnes.
* Children with chips lodged in ears/noses/etc.
* Fairly old couples who look more enamoured by their fourth helping of chicken curry than the aging bore across the table with whom they are stuck with in stale matrimony.
* Unacceptable food combinations (eg. Yorkshire pudding, hot dog sausage and custard).
* An abundance of "food pregnancies".
* A sea of french fries littering the ketchup-splodged shores of a high-chair.
* Obese people filling carrier bags of burgers.

It all combines into a beautiful image to rival a glowing pink sunset over the shores of a Caribbean sea. I personally can't understand the concept of eating until the point of wanting to burst and watching strangers glut themselves until they turn a faint tinge of olive-green always makes me feel a bit queasy. Surely if you go for a meal you should be enjoying it, not inhaling it.
Then again, I'm sure my affinity for cold tinned carrots, massive jars of beetroot and ketchup-covered Sunday dinners aren't to many people's tastes either. Not to mention my secret crushes on James Blunt and James Corden.

I'd be Smithy's takeaway anyday

He's beautiful, it's true. Oh, shut up, he is.

Ah well. Each to their own.
Until next time. Need some kitten porn.

PS- I haven't even thought much about cats today as my thoughts have been elsewhere, but I did buy a cat card and looked at a picture of a Persian earlier.

26.01.13- Scanners, Scratchcards and Slightly Hormonal Outbursts

Today is a Saturday which means a 6.15am alarm and growling over a double shot of caffeine in my work jacket. I've been there 3 and a half years and that Saturday alarm does not get any easier to deal with. Especially not when you're a hormonal woman. Which, sadly, I am.
At least this week I didn't accidentally remove half my eyebrow, which I am pleased to report is growing back well and won't have to be pencilled for very much longer.
There are 3 simple ways to tell whether you're dealing with a hormonal cat lady as opposed to a tired Nat:

1) Everything makes me cry. Have I run out of apples? Oh God. I simply must deal with this in the manner of a Trojan widow and tear off my clothes, beat my bare breasts and roll around on the floor weeping.
2) I don't care what my blood sugar reading is today. GIVE ME THE SODDING DAIRY MILK YOU WHORE.
3) Bump into my chest and I will make a noise like a shot elephant.

"Oh God, I can only find my blue sock and I felt like green ones today."

Today I woke up and had to pretend a piece of liquorice was chocolate. It didn't work and so I made myself another coffee and tried not to cry.
At 7.55am I stepped through the automatic doors of the supermarket where I work part-time. When this happens I have to leave my grumpiness outside and start smiling like Ronald McDonald on marijuana-laced chicken nuggets. It would be another 8 hours before I could claim back my inner grouch (though I did have a cheeky sigh or two on lunch break. I could have looked threatening had I not been slurping a pot of sugar-free Rowntree's jelly).
Work itself was fine. I love my customers. I love working with my colleagues. I love being in a small store where everybody knows everybody and you actually take an interest in each other's lives.
Most of all I love old people.

Old people are often more awesome than the average adolescent.

They get lonely and come to talk to the checkout people. They especially love complaining and talking about cats, which suits me down to the ground. I like complaining and I like cats. I like the way customers are genuinely appreciative if you go out of your way to help them or take an interest in them and have a laugh. Some of my best life advice has been from the elderly.
My most memorable was a quote from an old lady during one dull Sunday shift after I had a sneezing fit (by the way, I believe sneezing is one of the best things in life. Ever. Not sure about that claim that 8 sneezes feels like an orgasm however).

OLD LADY: "Oh lovey, are you coming down with something?"
ME: "Maybe, perhaps I'm going to get a cold."
OLD LADY: "Ah, that means you're lacking something. Vitamin C and sex."

The age-old cure for colds. Apparently.

So there you have it. Give up your Beechams and burn your Covonia, everyone just needs an orange juice and a shag.
Today I had no such advice unfortunately, but I was complimented a lot on my hair colour which was nice. I'm not sure how to take the comment from one old man that "you look like a bloody traffic light", but traffic lights are very useful I suppose so I'll take it as a compliment.
Every Saturday after my shift I buy myself a scratchcard. Working behind a kiosk, there are some who will spend up to £80 on the things and win nothing. I don't want to be a gambler. My name is not Jeremy Kyle plus I'm too tight anyway; those are my student funds for my coursebooks (ie, double Smirnoffs on a Thursday night).
Last week I won a tenner. A world of possibility opened up to me. I could buy a bottle of wine. I could buy a DVD. I could go to the cinema. I could buy a bouquet of flowers and surprise my Mum.
I actually spent it on a taxi and a packet of Wrigley's Extra.
This week, sadly I won nothing. This nearly made me cry. I got in my car. I started missing my ex-boyfriend of 2 and a half years and our mutual appreciation of tea and crackers in bed in our slippers last thing at night. This made me cry. The Titanic theme tune came on my iPod. I cried.

What I genuinely look like whilst watching "The Notebook"

Bloody hormones. And I've STILL had no chocolate. My Nan and my Mum made me laugh after work as usual though and I've decided to stay home tonight with my lovely dog. He has to make do instead of a cat, though he is about as graceful and feline as a breezeblock. I'm now bubble-bathed, caffeinated and over my scratchcard defeat. I do still miss people I shouldn't miss. I do still want chocolate.
People probably now think I'm strange. I don't want to be dolled up on Wind Street. I want to grab my dog, paint my nails, watch the Notebook and cry into a jar of beetroot.
But as my Nan says: "Bollocks to everyone else, do what YOU want to do."
Thanks, Nan.
Oh, God I've run out of beetroot.

25.01.13- Downpours, Diabetes and Dangerous Driving

Right, so I'm now posting the other side of Christmas. There are 3 main reasons for this:

1) I've been too busy studying.
2) I've been too busy being a drunken pest.
3) I'm a lazy cow.

Happy new year and all that. Having got over the bitter disappointment of Father Christmas not bringing me a cat (selfish fat bastard, and he still helped himself to my mince pies) and surviving the exam period without my scheduled annual January breakdown (this time last year I'd signed my withdrawal form for Uni and was going to drop out of education, work and life), it's time to get writing.
So. Today.
Today I woke up with my blood sugar levels more than 5 times what they should be for the 5th day in a row. Once this has gone on long enough, this starts to happen:

1) My head hurts and I feel sick.
2) I want to fall asleep. Anywhere. Anytime. Everywhere.
3) I want to drive an axe through everyone's skull for existing.

Me this morning

So I scowled in my cowprint dressing gown and went back to sleep for an hour before testing again. Read the meter. "20.8".
Jesus arsebiscuits and christ in a tin.
I stabbed myself with more insulin before going back to sleep again with my book on top of me (sadly the only thing that gets on top of this cat lady lately) before going for a cup of tea with my Dad. Some people tell me I look like my Dad. I do not look like my Dad.
He is bald and has a goatee.
Running was out of the question today. I'm up to 10 miles but past that my blood sugars go haywire and last time I reached 10 miles I ended up retching near a bin so got a bus home from Mumbles. I liked to think of myself as being a "lad" swaggering on in my running gear.
In actual fact I felt like a dirty fraud. I don't think it will be acceptable for me to jump on a bus during the Llanelli Half Marathon. It might disappoint people.

"HI BOYS"

So it's been irritatingly restricted on the training front at the moment. I mainly seem to stick to the gym at the moment due to the fact it is freezing and I get so cold. I once went to bed in the afternoon in Spain because I was shivering. I'm the sort of person who goes to get my soya milk from the fridge and finds that my tits have turned to glaciers. Therefore running along the beach will definitely mean death.
All this training has also given me the leg muscles of He-Man (I noticed as I vainly flexed my calves in the mirror the other day). I am almost disappointed by the lack of penis.

So today's blood sugar reading really pissed me off as it meant inevitable laziness and sleeping. I don't have much energy at the moment but a lot going round in my head. Without running and the endorphins to calm me down, I am proud of myself for not hurting anybody yet, nor eating a cat.
After seeing my Dad and hearing all about his holiday to Jamaica (jammy git), I went to see my Nan and Grandad. I love them. At this point it was pissing down and icy cold and almost...ALMOST...made me want a cuddle. But I have no man I particularly want to cuddle right now plus I'm not in a cuddling mood, I'm in a smack-your-bitch-up mood so boys please don't mention Valentine's Day because the cards already appearing in the windows are already making me want to spew (this may be because it is inevitable that I'm only going to get a card from Mummy this year. Or the dog. Funnily enough, they have similar handwriting).
I showed them the penis birthday cake I made for my housemate yesterday. My Nan said it was "fabulous". My mum also said yesterday that it was "lovely", but then she was off her face on anaesthetic from having her wisdom tooth out and I was trying to force her to eat custard so I don't think she was quite all there at the time.

"Lovely" according to Mum. 

The rain got worse and worse today. I know we're in Wales. I was born here. I should be used to rain. But this was no ordinary rain.
This was apocalyptic rain of Satan.
As we speak, Killay and Brynmill are currently in the grip of hell (Brynmill is usually hell at about 3am on a Wednesday post-Wind Street, but that's usually vomit-and-stolen-traffic-cone related).
Driving back from seeing my hilarious bezzie bum James and slagging off life over refillable Diet Cokes at the Harvester (refillable. REFILLABLE. The novelty never wears off. You can stroll to the drinks machine feeling like a fucking monarch AS MANY TIMES AS YOU LIKE), I dropped him home and then decided to avoid the unlit road to Cockett (my windscreen wipers were breaking, thus in the downpours I had all the visibility of Stevie Wonder at a disco) by going through Dunvant.

"Welcome to Brynmill"

Big mistake.
The rain hammered harder. The window became more difficult to see through. I couldn't see the giant pools of water in front of me. I swear half my car was going to be entirely engulfed as I splashed straight through what can only be described as Gowerton's own Atlantis. And all the while all I could think was: "I am not going to fucking die listening to Lady Gaga's 'Bad Romance'."
I finally got to Killay only for the road to be closed off anyway due to floods and had to take a detour. Brynmill was also closed off. This is half-scary, half cool, like being able to imagine you live in Spongebob's pineapple under the sea but knowing that humans cannot breathe underwater.
I got in, shaken, Lady Gaga still thumping in my head. In true cat lady style, bed has never looked so appealing.
All that's missing is a cat.
Until next time, meow and all that.