Basic Instincts – just because you can’t see the ice pick, doesn’t mean they’re not a psycho.

Choosing to house-share via a website is a bizarre leap of faith. I mean, you email back and forth, arrange to meet and then if all goes well, move in a few days later. What on earth can you figure out about a person you’ve just met online that makes you decide you can co-habit? It’s speed dating on crack.

Of course, there’s the obvious things to look for; do you like the house and your room, is it conveniently located to where you work, does the neighbourhood possess all the amenities you’d be needing like a supermarket, bakery, brothel, I mean church? But does this person have an ice pick under their bed? Not so easy to check.

In one more week I shall be an unemployed bum yet again. Most people would be upset by this, but I’m quietly hoping I didn’t get that job I went for last week because a dose of unemployment will give me time to write. Plus without any money, maybe I’ll lose a couple of the kilos I’ve put on after four months being stuck to a chair for eight hours a day.

The job is at a university, helping manage flat rentals for students. They’re at the stage where they’ve lived with each other for a couple of months and personality clashes are beginning to show. Of course, all this has done is make me ponder my own disastrous colourful history of flat-sharing.

I’ve been through this process many times now. My decisions are usually based on nothing more concrete that a feeling, an instinct and, surprisingly often when I think back on it, alcohol. The first time I opted to live with strangers I was 26. The ad said they were looking for someone over 28 but I chose to ignore this. It was 11am when we met and within a few minutes they were serving me champagne. Three hours and many glasses later, I left with a new home.

Instinct paid off here and I lived happily there for three years, until one of the three housemates started a relationship with a manipulative psycho bitch and the house dismantled. Two housemates left and instinct failed me abysmally with the choice of replacement.

It’s probably my fault. I was, not for the first or last time, led astray by aesthetics. The best candidate of a bad bunch was also the prettiest. And at first he seemed fantastic, but it soon became evident that he was a habitual liar and, we came to suspect, a gay male escort. Continue reading

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Weird stuff I done seen today #3

I’m the first to admit I’m pretty clueless when it comes to girly things (I only just found out what threading was a couple of months ago) but today I was well and truly gazumped. I snapped this quickly (notice the word quickly – this is to facilitate the thought process that this is such a terrible shot for a reason) from one of those beauty shop place thingos that most females like to empty their purses in.

Now I know what a Brazilian is and I know what a blow dry is, but if you put the two words together like that, I have no idea what the bloody hell you’re on about. I mean, once you’ve had a Brazilian, if they have the slightest clue what they’re doing there aint gonna be anything left there to blow dry. For some reason my first impression was that it was a kind of gangster slang, like Glasgow Grin, but I doubt you’d be able to advertise something like that so blatantly in the window. Maybe a small flyer in the back, yes, but the window???

So all the way home I thought about it and here’s the only three things that would make sense to me:

1) It’s ironic slang – it means bald men can have their head waxed there.

2) It’s a normal Brazilian but with the added extra of someone actually blowing on your giney until the pain of the wax strips goes away.

3) It means you come out looking like Gisele…

The exact moment she realises she could really do with landing a Rexona campaign