What do you call a parasite that lives off of Beetles? Heather Mills.

It has just occurred to me that the last entry didn't particularly have a resolution. THERE IS NO RESOLUTION. Not even on the monitor. Even now, I'm on the laptop, and I've just had to sit back while Windows "installed" MS Word for me.

Anyway, never mind the last blog. This is a new leaf, freshly fallen from the tree and ready to spend half the year mouldering unattractively on the forest floor. No, I swear I'm an optimist.

What is it with people my age? (God, in saying that I've just sealed my reputation as future Battle-axe, comparable to the indomitable Anne Robinson or even *gasp* Baroness Thatcher.) Why can't we just shut up and put up? Or, alternatively, why can't we bloody well do something about the things that upset us?

Having had an ex-boyfriend with the all the consideration for fellow man and emotional scope of Heather Mills (yes it's begun) and been shipped from A+E to General Practitioner until my intestines finally exploded forth, I've now reached the peak of my physical and emotional trauma (one can only hope) so I have the benefit of being sage-like and trustworthy to my peers and friends alike. But one thing I cannot tolerate is people keeping quiet when something wasn’t quite right.

I have a fantastic band of friends, but I do still find little comfort in the fact that all of them were happy to watch me and previous ex-boyfriend argue, wind each other up and bicker in public, ruining nights out and generally making things uncomfortable for everyone involved. Pretty much the same happened with my Heather-a-like ex. Things even went as far as one friend actually flirting with him. What got me was that as soon as she'd done it, she'd look at me, like a kid who puts their hand in the biscuit tin and looks straight in its mothers eye.

Luckily it's passed now, and my friends are now quite happy to tell someone they're out of line, but I'm seeing it again with the kids at my local Drama Group ('drama' of course being the operative word). If it's not "The Director yelled at me today", it's "She only got that part because her mum's on the committee" or else "She can't act/sing/dance/run a bath, let alone a production".

My answer? Yes, it'll all change and they'll all be obsessively picking something (or someone) else to shreds next week, but in the meantime...Why not just say something to someone? There's always someone willing to listen. There's no point suffering in 'silence' (i.e. shooting your mouth off) or posting a pseudo-pointless rant onto a message board (cough, cough).

~ Teeny – "Thank God I didn't have to pay £24 million to shut the useless twat up"

Monopoly Wanna Cracker?

There are four people in our house...and about eight computers.

I jest not. Two of these computers are actually working, the other six or twelve or ten thousand or however many there were last time some poor sucker cleaned the garage (I swear, I might've had a sister at one point who was swallowed by our garage. Nobody speaks of her now. Poor Agnes) are just pieces. This is because my Dad is an IT Technician.

Now Xel, my younger sibling, has his own laptop; a throwaway from Dad's work which does pretty much everything minus internet connection (I did mention the fact that only one of these infernal RAM-munching machines has internet connection?), and I have one in my room. I was promised it "before I went to College". Ladies and Gentlemen, I left College last year.

Now don't get me wrong, I get on with my Dad. We may not understand each other at all; I think he is unnecessarily tight-fisted and would love to present him with a lump of coal to see if he could turn it into a diamond by the end of the day and his response to my incessant 'babbling' (or even just talking) is often the vacant Welch-patented laugh which actually means "I'm not really listening", but we do get on. Thank Heavens, because we're both as stubborn as bullocks and this drives my poor mother up the bleeding wall.

Seeping house fittings aside, my Dad's obsession with computers know no bounds. As my mother once put it, she is fifth in the queue to use the main computer after Dad, me, Xel, Dad (again) and finally her. I am currently sat next to two computer towers. I didn't know which one was active this morning so resorted to jamming buttons like Houston on a bad day for the Apollo until the little green light of solstice and redemption appeared.

Anyway now, have to go. Someone needs the computer...

~ Teeny - "Just call me 'Ms. DOS'"

Pants to the lot of you

Bugger. It appears that after all, I have reverted to crap one-liners as titles.

Today, dear Blogger.com, Teeny is confused. And you're all going to listen why I tell you why, because firstly you're nice and secondly you're like Prince Charles' potted plants; you don't have a choice, you just have to sit back and listen to the impertinent old bugger and hope it steps out of the way of the sun when it's all over.

I am confused because I've dyed my hair. Not confused by the colour (Red Black), nor confused by the new cut (very short at the back), but because I have apparently become a totally new person. I have, ladies and gentlemen, traversed into the world of the "GOFFF".

No, not Goth, GOFFF. The Goth has, along with the rise of Emo and the fall of Pete Wentz's waistband, pretty much disappeared. The GOFFF is what is hollered by such riff-raff as 'The Poole Town Massiv' (or whatever they're now calling themselves) at people like me: ordinary people who have perhaps darker hair as usual and don't drape themselves all over in bargain buy sports wear.

For your perusement, some examples of GOFFF:

• Dark Hair: either dyed darker than your standard chocolate brown, or else naturally dark or black hair on an otherwise Caucasian
• Eye Make-Up: Dark or vivid coloured eyeshadow on females, any at all on males
• Clothes: if you're not obviously wearing Sports World or JJB's own brand, then you're pretty much a target. Today for example I was wearing a forest green jumper and grey jeans.
• Accessories: Earrings that aren't gold, diamonique or diamante or any retarded amalgamation of 'diamond' and another random word. Watch that is not, again, a sports brand. Also, unless you've marinaded yourself in Adidas or Lynx, you're pretty much of a different species.

So there you have it. Apparently, you don't have to shop at American Apparrel, Alchemy or Hot Topic. Why waste all that time and money dyeing your hair? After all, provided you aren't a Chav, chances are...you're a GOFFF.

Teeny ~ Today I tripped and fell in a bush, mush