|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|26 May 2003||will||Ummm, today i thought of a way to escape from my miserable life. I thought perhaps i should move, move up into the loft. But, i would have to be very quiet. And what do i do for food? Well i could eat the glass fibre insulation. A kind of tasteless candy floss, or if you're from Australia it's fairy floss. I would have water from the cold water tank. But what about a toilet, i hear someone say? Umm, i haven't thought about that one........|
|26 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Dear Mouchette,
Just a note of thanks for editing my last post, where I spellt my own name wrong. I know you only want me for my body, but it's nice to think that someone cares :)
Update: Boobs will be back on the menu in a months time. They are refining my implants so as I can maintain them without too much fuss, or the need for bin liners. Which is just as well, as I received a letter from Kwik Save PLC this morning, demanding I pay a bill of £100 because I take so many of their shopping bags. And I don't take the bags for shopping either...
|24 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||*assumes London-Cockney accent* Bloody 'ell Mouchie!!!
'as the suicide kit become a dating board, or even a forum? How many times do I see "Dear this, dear that, dear tits, dear whoever.."?
If that's the case, I may as well leave my details.
Name: Hmm well by birth, Lucy Cortina. But my mates call me 'officer boob'. Or my Danny calls me 'agent 00 oh oh!, madame boob'.
Age: Well, I'm only 17, but don't tell anyone cos that will mean I won't be able to put up any X-rated pics. It seems that you must be over 18 in the UK, or 21 in the US to have a naked picture on the net. Which puzzles me, as kids ar losing their virginity at age 12+ where I live. At least if we were all shagging over the net, there would be less newborns to pollute this already baby-infested world. (Which reminds me, the other night I slept rough with a friend. We slept in the baby-changing-unit at an all night Supermarket. Because, as my friend said, there will be no babies shopping there at night. Fair enough, I thought!)
Occupation: Ex-boob-pornstar. Wannabe Britney Spears. Super Secret Spy Sex agent. Exhibitionist. Part-time nudist. And of course, a full-time volunteer who contributes to mouchette.org.
Interests: Maintainance of boobies. How to grow new boobies when your old ones have died and gone to that great 'boobie home in the sky'.
(That reminds me - I am currently trawling the web looking for breast growth remedies. And not stupid hormone thingies. I'm not a bloody shemale after all! - yes, I'm referring to YOU, Abel!)
Ok, it seems I'm too unconcentrated (as opposed to concentrated orange juice) at the moment to bother with the rest of this profile. Besides, I always start rambling about other aspects of my life, and I may reveal too much...
...like the fact that on an SSSS mission, I stole an antique dildo from the Pope. As Marianne Faithfull once said, "Screw the Pope!!!"
Oops, now he can't be screwed.
Ain't I just one naughty lil' minx....
|23 May 2003||just a girl||"walk away"
Everyday is the same..
It used to be different.
It used to be exciting.. enlivening even.. inspiring and mesmerizing.. as the day and the people around me would absorb my essence and i would absorb theirs..
Now.. there is nothing left to absorb. the sponge is dry. it has been wringed so profoundly that nothing is left.. although it was once drenched and saturated with the dripping liquid of life.. it is now dry.. and dead.. and empty. everything that once was has been exceedingly consumed..
And now there is me.
And now, everyday is the same.. skool.. skanks.. skool.. skanks.. (and u know how i feel about the skanks at my skool).. but i still go.. god knows why (there is no god), but i still do.. i still get up in the morning without my fix of danoz direct adds, boobie-dooer's and prozac to go to that hell hole.. and for one reason.. there is a bridge just near my skool :) and everyday is the same, and everyday i wait for that bell to ring.. for that heavenly sound to explode in my ears.. so i can get my scrawny ass out of that place (away from the skanks).. and look at 'my' bridge.. just look at it from a distance.. so i can ponder.. and contemplate what it would be like.. not to be up there.. but to be falling from there..
Today was no different than any other day.. endless minutes spent counting endless skanks with fingers that don't exist (yet).. and waiting eagerly for my moment to be alone with her.. with her beauty and with her grace, and with her little ounce of hope that she brings me each and every day...
"DING DONG!" (woo-hoo).. and i am outa there.. and as i walk through the scrub and out onto the road carrying my particularly heavy skool bag filled with the books (lit' buggers) who are evidently going to be the ones responsible for my entire education and place in life (if i ever make it out there into the big bad world)... i can't help but imagine her and if she has changed over night.. (or if i have changed?)
once i get to my desired destination i stand still, and i can't help but stare at her, and marvel at her beauty.. taking every piece of her in..
"Is today the day?" i ask myself.. (a now common repeatedly proverbial question to me).. and everyday is the same.. and everyday my answer is the same..
"I don't know".. i never know.. but it still doesn't take the fun out of it! as i stand on the corner of the busy highway in front of me, i watch the cars and skool buses go by me (no doubt skank is somewhere in there) and i can't help but want to walk out in front of one (that will teach skank!) have my blood and guts splattered onto her perfectly clean windscreen.. (litterally).. and i also watch the pre-skoolers and primary-skool kids from across the road.. all little and cute.. all innocent and sweet.. all fucking clueless and naive (yes kiddies, santa is true.. hmmm) and can't help but feel sorry for them.. for how many of those little kiddies will soon to be.. standing on the other side of the road.. standing.. and thinking like me..
i realise i'm getting off track and turn my focus back to her.. and she is beauty.. all covered in rust and dirt.. and oh so high up above all those pretty shinny clean cars.. occasionally she gets banners! oh yea.. all special and loving.. usually with messages such as "Happy Birthday Baby!!! I LOVE U!" or "Happy 21st sez.. love the girlz" either way i wonder about those people in the cars who get to see those banners.. (will i live long enough to see a banner of my own?) and think of how loved they must feel..
it is cold.. and i am still standing here.. watching her.. waiting for my mind to make up..... its mind!
"Is today the day?".. and the same scenario runs through my twisted mind.. i walk.. i watch.. i step up.. up.. up.. and down..... down..... and way down.... (splat?) and once again i can't help but think what it would look like? how great would it be? my insides plastered on the road and near by passing cars.. then they would see.. oh yes they would see.. all my insides that is!!!
but still.. my feet don't move.. and my mind doesn't change.. and thanks to a certain *someone* who will remain un-named.. a song runs through my head..
"..and its so hard to do.. but so easy to say.. but sometimes.. sometimes.. u just have to walk away..."
in any other situation i love this song dearly.. for it provided me with the valuable information that indeed it is usually better to walk away from most things.. (scrag fights with skank).. but in those times.. i never can.. i am the type of person to stay.. to stay and fight.. to work things out.. to battle till the end (damn skanks).. but i never can "just walk away" when i really need to..
but when i'm with her.. i can't stay.. but this time i want to.. this time i want to stay.. i want to battle till the end (the very end).. but i don't..
so everyday is the same.. and everyday i ask myself..
"why oh why do i stay when i should be walking away.. and why oh why do I walk away when i should be staying?
but still.. everyday is the same.. and everyday.. i just..
|22 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||PS - You are probbaly all wondering why I needed to steal bras, since I departed with my beloved only last week.
Well, a girl learns to move on past the pain (and burning boobies).
I have booked into a clinic for new boobies. And they are gonna cost me a bloody fortune, cos the nice lady told me that they used to be *inside* Britney Spears.
Make of that what you will.
|21 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Wow, I thought I was crazy. This week I was done for shoplifting panties and bras, so I get pissed on a secret stash of vodka and spend the night on a park bench thinking how crazy I am.
Then I come back to this den of naughtiness. And my actions pale into nothingness. Oh well..
|19 May 2003||just a girl||"another lonely day"
once again, waking to the inevitable and unbearable phenomenon of being me.. just a girl.. but this time it wasn't at 3am in the morning, and this time i didn't have danoz direct adds to save me from the reality which exists beyond the renowned safety and cosiness of my doona which lies before me.. covering my scarred fragile body..
I wake to the remains of the previous night.. a half empty bottle of vodka, some pills named (oh wait.. i can't read it, it's too damn early).. and a shiny piece of glass with exceptionally sharp edges, which appears to be the leftovers of a once-beautiful-photo-frame.. given to me by.... what is that red stuff on my sheets?
8 am.. and the alarm clock beside my bed is informing me that perhaps it is time to get out of bed.. and perhaps to even have a shower this morning.. and perhaps to try and make it out the front door without shedding a single tear or pulling my hair out.. which moments later i make a discovery.. and realise it is not possible.
8:40am.. in the car on the way to school.. being awake for a whole of 40 minutes and already i've had enough of this world.. oh please can't i go back to the insanity which lingers in my bedroom? fraid not 'missy'.. a voice to the right of me is preaching something.. yet again.. probably of how impossible it is to love me.. (what a shame, nothing's new?)
9:05 am.. class... oh skank oh skank.. could u be more conspicuous of your ways of skanyness.. (i don't think so) oh my would u look at that.. skank got kicked out of class- due to hmmm what would u call it.. 'profound self-obsessed-vanity' and flirting with the cocksucker next to you whose pants sit oh so way too low..
11:25.. class.. how can i be expected to write? i mean.. how do u wankers think it possible to hold a damn pen in a hand that acts like a jackhammer drilling its way to china.. let alone write with it? (maybe i should have taken my meds? nah more fun this way) speaking of.. do i have enough fingers (and toes) to count the amount of skanyness at this skool? simple question.. simple answer.. NO (perhaps if i look at her enough like i wish she would disappear.. she will drop dead and die? him too?)
1:15 pm.. lunch.. is then when i'm supposed to eat? oh no.. this is when i'm suppose to sit back and watch life as it happens around me.. skank to skank.. but not actually live it.. (note to self.. grow more fingers enabling me to count the amount of skanks at our skool... 1..2..3..100..900......)
3:30.. home.. something inside me tells me to be 'happy' about this aspect of my day.. but then that little patronising voice inside my head kicks in and says.. "but you don't feel anything.. remember?" (besides the constant beating of a hammer on my head.. due to hangover of prozac and vodka) i remember..
Home.. at last.. home and.. at last (not least) ALONE.. i always did love that movie :)
ps.. Lucy i gave a prayer for ur dearly beloved boobies last night, who hopefully now... are resting in peace.. can i join them?
|16 May 2003||Felicia the unexpected||Felicia's useless facts:
Rosey O'Donnell is not gay.
(She was a manic depressive to begin with.)
The laughing cow on the butter box did not laugh just for posing. She had her udders tickled.
The Cadbury Bunny didn't lay eggs, but gave birth to marshmallow bunny peeps.
Tom Arnold did not marry Rosanne for money, but who would believe that one.
On higher elevations, cookies don't bake the same as lower elevation cookies. They puff up and burn, then you toss them.
Drinking your own pee is not insanitary or is it? Well it does come out of your own body. (I was told this and it grossed me out, so I might as well share this with you anyway.)
To be vain is okay. To be overly vain is the same. To be too vain, is bad. Overly? What the heck, who cares?
All "Gothic" people love black only. Not true. I wear black all the time just to hide my "very gross" veins.
Bras in the beginning were first used as sling shot weapons. The cave woman that slingshot her prey for the lazy cave husband, was distracted by her shaking boobs, used the slingshot as backup to prevent herself from tripping.
When you want revenge on a one night stand philanderer, buy a pregnancy test kit. Mark the window indicator with a red pen, tell him that your pregnant. Wait nine months later, feign having a baby, and collect child support from that dumb ass twat. Ooooh! That's bad. For best results, if the incident happened around July, wait till the beginning of April and say out loud, "April Fools!"
This Mouchette site was set up by an org of Cirque Du Soleil mimes.
No offense to my friends. Have a nice evening.
-Not the end-
|15 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||It was like in that film. Four weddings and a funeral. Except it was four parties, and my boobie-funeral. The parties were all crap.
But yeh, I decided against a cremation of my boobies. If ghosts do exist, then I'm sure that boobie-ghosts also exist. So I need to retain my boobies - even if they are in a wooden box surrounded by mud and worms - so that my boobie-ghosts may return to their pert, proud, and enormous former selves.
As I was in the big room where they allow you personal time with your departed loved ones, I looked down at the beautiful boobies, and cried. They had been arranged so as to look beautiful and "at peace" by the undertaker. They were even surrounded by little daisy chain necklaces. Now ain't that sweet!
I once heard a rumour that dead people fart. The gas builds up, and then suddenly releases!
As my boobsie-woosie's had learned how to fart just before they so tragically died, they both gave off their last (and loud!) burst of gas. Then it was almost like I could see them, rising up... up to Heaven. Or maybe that was just the cloud of fart-gas, who knows.
My boobies were gone. For eternity. Never to be seen again.
Here's a lesson for you people suicide is so NOT worth it. My breasts were so selfish, and have left Lucy Cortina a broken girl. I may end up like Mariah Carey, thinking that people are plotting against me, and leaving crazy messages on Eminem's answer-machine.
That would be a shame, eh?
Anyway I buried my collection of shopping bags, leather bras and co. with the boobies, so at least they won't have to float around Heaven all naked and exposed, like the angels do, or Adam & Eve... or even Adam & Steve.
Now, won't ya all say a little prayer for me...?
|14 May 2003||just a girl|| ***K-MART SHOPPING LIST***
1. Get boxes of condoms & randomly put them in peoples' carts when they aren't looking.
2. Set all the alarm clocks to go off at 10-minute intervals.
3. Make a trail of orange juice on the floor to the rest rooms.
4. Walk up to an employee and tell him/her in an official tone, "I think we have a code 3 in housewares," and see what happens.
5. Put some M&M's on lay by.
6. Move CAUTION WET FLOOR signs to carpet areas.
7. Set up a tent in the camping department, tell others you'll only invite them in if they bring pillows from the bedding department.
8. When someone asks if they can help you, begin to cry and ask, "Why won't you people leave me alone??!!"
9. Look right into the security camera and use it as a mirror while you pick your nose or scratch yourself.
10. Dart around suspiciously while humming the theme from 'Mission Impossible.' (this one's for lucy :P)
11. While handling knives in the kitchen department ask the clerk if he knows where the anti-depressants are. (my personal favourite)
12. In the auto department practice your Madonna look using different size funnels. (also for lucy)
13. Hide in the clothing rack and when people browse through whisper "PICK ME! PICK ME!!!!!"
14. When an announcement comes over the loud speaker assume the fetal position and scream "NO! NO! It's those voices again!"
15. Go to the fitting room and yell real loud..... "Hey we're out of toilet paper in here!"
|14 May 2003||just a girl||"my first smile"
oh could it be? really.. could it be? oh god tell me (not that there is one, sorry to disappoint you!).. could it be possible that i committed such a surreal and absurd act of this demeaning and nauseating vile world that i currently live in (that includes the schizophrenic world i've now created in my head as well).. how is it possible that anything was able to bring about such a miracle but such a sham at the same time.. which merely imitated but a former illusion of myself.. which is so far from reality.. so far from the truth.. and now so far from myself.. that presently exits..
i smiled today :)
And i'll tell u a little secret my humble and gracious fellow readers: I almost fainted!!! no joke.. the tremendous yet synthetic courageous act (or should i say.. crime?) which i committed just moments ago almost knocked me off my feet!! which perhaps might have been a little funny to any viewer near by.. watching my school skirt fly 100 miles over my head.. which would in turn bring about the scrutiny of my sexy black lace underwear, i'm sure (god knows why i still bother to wear sexy underwear.. oh, wait there is no god!) which might actually make someone else smile :)
But oh no.... must i go to jail now??? will some strapping young man in a uniform come use handcuffs on me? hehe memories.. but aww :(
"I dun wana go to da jail Mr.. pwese pwese dun make me!" (no lucy cortina stories in jail!) "it was only one wittle smile!"
Anyway by now i'm guessin you're all wondering what on earth made me commit this horrendous crime in the first place.. well i came here to share it with you all.. perhaps create another to commit the same crime.. enjoy :)
|13 May 2003||PC me||I wana use this website for a dedication to my lovely boyfriend Derek. Like they do on radio when they play a song and dedicate it to some old biddy that is half deaf anyway.
This one is for you, my sweet Derek. From your Phil. I love you today and always.
- - - oh yeh u mite also b able to tell from this that im gay. im a fag. wow! how shocking! its like Lucy Cortina WITHOUT breasts but WITH a bra!
|12 May 2003||Felicia in PMS mode||Hmphf! Snotty celebs on my recent website. No offense to you Lucy. It's these prima donnas have already gotten their boob jobs and I have none. They are fashioning up their Shakira like qualities and shaking their small, small asses. Left and warmed out like a melted crayon. Farted out like a can of pinto beans, thrown in a bleached pool and making my blonde highlights look green. Where's the deodorant?!! GADS!! There is none! I'm out of pads, I ran out of tampons!!!
Help! Help! Someone drank my last can of TAB cola!!!
|11 May 2003||just a girl||oh and auntie lucy... you will have to wait till next time to hear my naughty confessions.. ;) (althought im not too sure they will measure up to that of a sexually breast obsessed gal.. like urself)
|11 May 2003||just a girl||"Thank god for television!" is my quote for today.. as i woke to the inevitable and unbearable phenomenon of being, well, me... just a girl..
But of course waking at 3am in the morning does arise a certain feeling and/or thought, in this profound, yet slightly insane head of mine.. what to do? what on earth can i do with myself at an hour like this.. what pessimistic activity must i encounter in order for me to stay alive, for yet another day.. another obnoxious day in which i must find pointless deeds to be done to prevent me from wondering into my kitchen to find that handsomely large glistening knife.. which sits peacefully and patiently in mummy's drawer... waiting for me.
But at 3am?? what activity is present for a 16-year-old lonely, depressed, anorexic and suicidal girl such as myself to take part in.. no computer in site.. no kittens playing with bubble wrap.. no chocie biscutes to digest in the emaciated tummy which lies before me.. no lucy cortina stories to read!.. no noise.. no sound.. only the constant humming of the diluted thoughts running through my head..(oh my!) what to? do what to do?... and suddenly.. as my hand scrambled through my sheets to find an exit, (intending to head to that kitchen draw of mummy's) i came across a long, black mechanism... yes it was.. my tv remote.. "peep".. and to my delight a sudden glow entered my room.. "but wait! there's more..."
And as the sun came up this gloomey sunday morning (mother's day.. o yippee yay..) i had made it through another night watching danoz direct adds talk about the one and only.. 'abb-doer' (is there a boobie-doer too?) as the morning hours passed me by..
"Thank god for television!"
|11 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Dear just a girl:
This site is wondefrul eh? Like a boobie love parlour. If you want to say anything, I am here :) Any naughty confessions u would like to make to auntie Cortina?
|10 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Normally just before 6pm in the evening, my mum says to me:
"Lucy, I'm going to have a bath at six!" so that if I need the loo I could quickly go, before she used the bathroom to sit in her own filth - surrounded by bubbles - for 10 hours.
So it came as a shock yesterday when she said:
"Lucy, I'm going in the shed at six!"
Millions of horrific thoughts raced through my innocent brain at that precise moment. Thoughts like:
"Has she become a Victorian and now takes baths in a cast iron tub with carbolic soap, using the shed to spare her blushes?"
It will be more than my thick skin can stand if we have to start wearing lacy blouses and wearing skirts as long as the Eiffel tower. And have to sit in front of a coal fire sipping mint infused tea, saying "we are not amused" when a newsreader wearing makeup (i.e. - all of them) appears on the TV screen (which incidentally would be black and white, so god knows how we could tell makeup from the fuzz).
She was, infact, going to pot some new plants for her flowerbeds. I have explained to her before that gardening is a hobby for people who get to that stage in life where they.. well... no longer have a life.
My granddad once told me that, as a child, my mum used to sneak off into the shed with her mates for a quick cigarette, and he would see clouds of smoke emitting from the shed. As I know what a naughty woman my mum is, I went outside at 6pm to investigate my suspicions.
Sure enough, clouds of smoke were emitting from the shed! As I got closer, I could smell burning strawberry.
"Oh nooooo! Mum may have finally flipped and is murdering Dad's entire home-grown fruit and veg collection!" I thought.
Mum was annoyed last week because Dad seemed to be spending so much time playing Madonna records to his cabbages and sprouts in the garden, to try and get them to grow and reproduce (or whatever it is that cabbages and sprouts do, apart from make you fart). He had been playing Madonna's "Get Into The Groove" (what a perverted title for a song!) when Mum snapped, and ripped dad's favourite cabbage from the soil. She then proceeded to boil the cabbage in a pan - the screams of the poor cabby could be heard for miles around.
Anyway, back to the present - I feared opening the door to the shed, as I may have discovered my Mum gleefully covered in strawberry flesh, armed with a potato peeler.
Eventually I opened the door... to discover Mum sat in the corner, looking all dopey. She had what looked like a cigarette in her hand. But sticking out form the nub of the cig was... wait for it... a strawberry! It was all black and bubbly.
"Do youshhh wantsshh shuuuum?" 'asked' my mum.
Why, oh why, did I not commit suicide sooner? I ran back to the house screaming, and took out mum's vitamin C tablets, and shoved a load into my mouth.
Which is when I remembered the "cod-liver-oil-tablet-overdose" escapade. Noooo! I was going to end up like an orange! As if I don't already have enough orange-peel skin on my thighs...
|09 May 2003||Rrose Sélavy||http://www.art-bin.com/bilder/cuts.jpg
Brandish against your self-person the pointed comments of parental gas bags, graphite-clawed teachers with lively, turgid murmuring cunts and the stacked packs of randomly drawn bruise-and-tear substratum playmates manifested most corporeally as the metaphor of your kitchen's knife drawer. *cough, cough, cough*
BLACK LUNG INTERLUDE (enjoy the sonorous ululations of my orange phlegm rattling against the inflamed walls of my passed-gagged throat cavity)
With the aid of hara-kiri, as your alimentary tracts slither down your abdomen, Rorschach hemoglobules of splattered ink pressed between sheets of linen or lined notepaper may provide fruitful self-discovery or at least busy-work for distraction until safely through the passways of mortality.
"Cliiiiiiiiiimb in", is purportedly how the non-imposturing Charon will cheerily form his admonition, the whole two-cents bit being the last con on hapless schlemiels by predatory grifters adrift on and addicted to Lethe. Grow a long thumbnail with a spare on hand for popping the top off fresh heaped corpses and oblong boxes of overdone chicks done in under heat lamps. A quaff off the frothy top and let the rest reside spilled on the ground with the gravitationally collected residues, bits of grit and clear gristle buboes floating like overgrown corpuscles in the heady dregs of the chick's evacuated body abode. STAB, STAB, STAB, circumferentially perforate the neck pylons of the newly abused before every goddamn gimp floating around from methanated vent to methanated vent on a bat-wing umbrella drops in and skirmishes for the untorn, still tagged, unclaimed necrotic carbonated refreshment. What a chick is to the 12 FL OZ of terrestrian sweetened blood-guzzling POP! a wholesale corpse is to the hops and barley sloshed in an aluminum keg's tummy. *cough, cough, cough, cough, cough....*
|06 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Note to Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears et all: Don't bother with the all year tannning crap.
Do what I did, overdose on Vitamin C tablets.
I am ready to take the entertainment world by storm.. once these breasts grow back.
|01 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||This just ain't funny anymore. Whoever offended God in my name must step forward now. Why does he hate me so much??
Surely he can't be jealous of my ability to grow such strong, healthy boobies? I mean, they were even bigger than Buddha's, and God planned to spike Buddha's jam doughnuts with Bust-reductO juice in the end.
I long to see the day when Britney Spears is aged 50 and still dancing around in bed-sheets and skirts that barely cover her ass. Well, she covers her face with makeup anyway, so we never get to see the real ass. Anyway, she's dancing at age 50, when suddenly her breasts explode live on stage, because God hates her because on her 49th birthday she finally gave in and shed her virginity, by reading a Jackie Collins novel.
Back to the point the latest horreur in my 'life' ('existence' might be a more suitable word), was waking up from a dream, where I was being chased by an enormous ass. For once, I wasn't being chased by Britney Spears. Or even J-Lo for that matter *snigger* (that reminds me J-Lo attempted to poach Kylie Minogue's ass-makeup-stylist this week, as reported in recent news. Afraid to say it J-Lo, but the only makeup you will get on that ass will be a certain type from your Dear Ben).
Anyway I went to the bathroom to cleanse and tone. As the warm water from the iron tap cascaded into the sink, I looked down.
And let out a scream.
There was poo in the sink! There WAS!! I'm not joking. So I ran screaming down the stairs and around the house, like a Marathon runner, and did about 10 laps of the whole place. Once the horreur had been released from my young and sensitive brain which, incidentally, is like a sponge, and soaks up tragedy like this in an instant I crept back into the bathroom. The sight was still the same, except I had left the tap running and now water was gushing over the rim of the sink. And the water was not alone. Poo was floating on top of it... and getting closer to me by the second! So I once again ran screaming down the stairs. But the poo was following me! Like a stalker!
The water was starting to rise to the level where my smoothly-shaved legs were. I ran faster. The poo floated faster. Then suddenly... I tripped over one of my sisters Barbie dolls.
Head first onto the water-filled floor.
The poo floated closer... and closer... and closer....
I couldn't get back up! Help! HELP me!
It floated closer.. and closer...
And I woke up.
I had fallen asleep in the back yard in my sisters paddling pool, which may explain the watery dream. As soon as the thought occurred to me... it became reality. My sister was there too and she was not alone.
It's a shame Mum doesn't affix a shopping bag around her legs instead of using cheapo nappies from Kwik Save.
How could anything else contain such an enormous, and smelly bulge?