Legit reasons to be an elderly woman.

• You now bear resemblance to such fantastics as Olivia Dehavilland, GREER GARSON, Vivien Leigh, Laurence Olivier, Priscilla Lane, Audrey Hepburn, Gale Sondergaard, Donna Reed, Alec Guinness, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Eva Gabor, Paulette Goddard, Cary Grant, Walter Pidgeon, Liz Taylor, Bob Hope, James Stewart, Marilyn Monroe, Katharine Hepburn, Ginger Rogers, Rita Hayworth, Fred Astaire, Alan Arkin, Veronica Lake, Jane Russell, Bette Davis, Lucille Ball and Robert Donat, who are all old (or accordingly dead), too.
• You get to make cakes all day and not care about how much weight you put on because you've accepted your mortality and frequently use it as a threat to your children when they don't visit often enough.
• No more work.
• You can feed ducks all day instead, or saunter along the beachfront holding hands with other elderly people.
• People give up their seats for you on the bus. No more standing inauspiciously in the walkway! Those days are long gone!
• You can complain all you like and no one cares because you're going to die soon and you're allowed to be angry with the world, mostly for not providing a cure for old age at any point during your life even though 'The World of Tomorrow' assured you that you would never die.
• You get pension pay for sitting around all day chatting shit about inflation and playing tennis on the Wii.
• You get to wear clothes that you would never as a child because you're old and can't remember how to dress.
• You can get an suitably silvering perm.
• Your partner can never leave you because he couldn't possibly hope to find anyone better at such an age. He is tied to you with the bonds of anachronous social normalities and shortage of life.
• Receiving visitors is pleasant, rather than irritating.
• You know the words to every song played on Heart FM, but can't remember your grandchildren's names. That's got to be a comical situation.
• It's acceptable to talk to strangers at bus stops, and it is expected that said strangers pretend to be interested because you're old and emotionally fragile.

My mum spent most of her teenage life in Pip's

...it was a sort of Mod, late 70s club in Manchester. She used to sit in the rafters of The Roxy Room there, drinking Vodka cran and requesting they play the acoustic version of Bowie's 'Width of a Circle' repeatedly. She was a sort of pseudo-football-hooligan and she once snuck into Paul Simon's hotel as a drunken dare on the premise that she was his cousin, and she met Steve Perregrin Took at a sufragette rally in Southampton. She was a seamstress and a poet and she first fell pregnant at 26 and went into labour in a registry office.

Now she's a nostalgic single waitress. I wish we were chums when she was a kid. I think I fail her as a daughter. I often think that, if she could have seen me when she was that age, she would be disappointed that I was the kind of child she would one day have.

She was dead pretty. I, desperately, am not.

Over and out.

Faith moans about coffee.

I am awash with self-pity and melancholy. Arghhh! All aboard!
I am sickly and ill today, and all of me is unbearably hot. I tried to eat a sandwich, but I got half way through and was sick. Life is hard. Must I continue on in this difficult sandwichlessness, for only a bleakish horizon can be spied!
Questioning whether or not to be friends with Kiall anymore, since he is being sort of clingy and insistant that we see eachother. Suggestions would be much welcomed, if anyone might care so much as to have any? I saw him yesterday and he next-to kicked me out of his house, not to mention never made me a cup of coffee like he promised in my special mug (it's yellow and spotty and the handle is the neck/head of a giraffe. It holds, like, 20 litre of coffee. This is why I have claimed it as my own, you see). He suggests we start a band and has decided that his girlf (kill me now) is driving us to Exeter next week so he can get himself into debt buying a new guitar for this project. We have not a name yet, but I'm holding out for 'Fable & Folklore' because it's suave and underrated and I stumbled upon it on Wikipedia Randomize.
Also, got all ahead of myself yesterday morning and tapped up 30 CVs, printed and delivered about town. Upon returning home, I re-read the file to make sure (perhaps a little late in the process of applying for jobs) I had written all the correct information. I spelt my name wrong. On the plus side, I got my number right, so when someone calls me and asks for a Miss Faith Newcomb, I will know what it is about.
I'm not even kidding. CHRIST. WHY DID MY MOTHER EVER LET ME OUTSIDE?
Over and out.

Faith moans about modern art and questions her own ability to mimick it.

I'm eating a bar of milka daime, listening to alternative-countrytechnofolk and finishing the art coursework that I have been putting off all weekend.
My hair is greasy as a deep fried...ball...of...grease... and there isn't a chance in hell that I am going to drag my sorry animated corpse out of my wonderful bed in 7 hours to wash it, so everyone will have to put up with my not-been-washed-for-three-days hair at school tomorrow in favour of my not-failing-art.
Well...That's actually looking somewhat questionable, as my artist's copy of 'Iris' by Alphonse Mucha, which is supposed to look like this:

Is looking somewhat more akin to an image of this capacity:

Life never gets old when you draw like an underachieving ferel dogbaby, whose qualities are better suited for howling at neighbours and/or drinking dirty water from a bowl.

Over and out.

Faith moans about her weight.

and now I'm dolled up all office chic in appropriately sparkly gold courderoy pencil skirt watching 'My Girl' and inevitably crying my eyes out. I also bought a huge bag of m&ms and ate the whole thing in 15 minutes. Alone. All to myself. That's roughly 700 calories. I know you are now thinking 'oh my god, you beast Faith. How can you possibly be alive after so much food?' but fear not - I am priming myself for a lifetime of sustainant-lessness beginning Monday. My Brockenhurst College interview is on Friday and I have no achievement awards to take with me - they're going to laugh in my face, it's true, but if I haven't eaten all week, they might be like 'YHSURE COME ALONG COZ YOU NOT SO FAT AS YOU ONCE WAS'.
Living the dream. Boojah.

Over and out.

OH NO YOU DIDN'T

Oh yes I did. Why? Because I'm a fearless motherfucking bastard, that's why.

Faith moans about her feet.

It has come to my attention from one of my steadfast followers (don't get excited here, she is a friend of mine. We all know that I don't have any proper people-I-don't-know-in-real-life followers) that I have been somewhat slacking on the bloggery, which is obviously because my life has been so incredible and busy and popular that I haven't had a chance, so henceforth I vow to you a fantastic post about my fantastic life.
LOLJKS I'VE BEEN FILLING TIME I WOULD USUALLY DEDICATE TO BLOGGING TO EATING so this calls for a week of cigarettes and coffee instead of food. I've already failed by eating a bagel, but no one else need know.
Also, my best friend has decided that, instead of going to Southampton university to take an illustration degree and live out her life-long artisitic dream, she is throwing it all away to go travelling for a year, a concept that she only considered yesterday and has suddenly and irresponsibly taken over any 19-year-long ambition of higher education and fulfilling future career opportunities. I'm sort of mad at her, but I'll just have to call her every day and cry at her until she has the good sense to come home and stop wasting her life. STUPID GIRL.
Also, I sprained my ankle yesterday kickboxing, and now it is too swollen and bruised and tender to put my doc marten's on.
Also, I have so much graphics/art coursework due in on Monday and have to go to Westbourne now to buy work shoes because my current pair have a hole the size of my fist in them and thus my left sole has now taken on the form of a hobbit foot. Attractive.

Over and out.