My name is Caroline, this is my blog and it's a pleasure to meet you.

I live with my sister on the outskirts of swinging London town, in a flat we're constantly one late rent payment away from losing.

At the moment I'm a journalist in name only (check out my sexy business cards) and I'm desperately searching for my first job in journalism.

That's pretty much what this shebang is all about. Shall we see what I've been up to today then?

Feel free to sign up and talk about anything either on the tag board below. It's usually occupied by weirdos, headfucks and best avoided around midnight


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The name of this site (if you're a lawyer working on behalf of Chris Morris or Charlie Brooker) is inspired by the Channel 4 show Nathan Barley. If however, you have no such affiliation to either of those parties and you have no idea of what or who Nathan Barley is, then just assume I made the name up myself. I'm a clever girl like that.
Basically, in the premise of that show, Geek Pie is a haircut. In the premise of the internet, it's the name of my website.
And that is, as they say, is that!

Geek Pie Does Desperate Housewives
Holy Moly!
Spaced Out
Dirrrty Pop!
Indie Girl & Pop Boy
Dante's Handcart

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Saturday, April 29, 2006
A bit of a hiccup

There I was packing up our car for our trip when my Mum appeared and asked what I was up to. Surveying the car, complete with Spongey B strapped into the back, a weeks supply of Diet Coke in the boot and a map of Hillingdon on the dashboard,  I realised that this was going to be a difficult one to explain. 

I could already see an air of general disapproval radiating from her pores and a comment about mine and Breezy's superior ability to waste time entertaining ourselves on foolhardy escapades about to escape her lips. "What would be the point in lying to her," I thought.

"Erm, we're not up to much at all, as it happens. No plans. No fixed appointments. Taking the day as it comes. Chilling and shit. That is the order of this day, lady!" my voice becoming increasingly shrill as each word escaped my mouth.

I knew she didn't believe me and I'm pretty sure she'd spotted the very pretty timetable Breezy drew up last night as I was jabbering away . To her credit, my sister had made a very good job of it. It had all the important information, outlining the business of our very busy day and was decorated with pink stars and glitter glue. It was eye catching and unfortunately resting on the parcel shelf of our car. Looking through the back window of the car, my Mum was reading every word on it.

"Hmmm, well if you're not busy, you won't mind babysitting your nephews then, will you?"

"Oh no. Mum! The little one hates me though. He says I'm stupid all the time!" 

With that, my Mum looked at the car, looked me up and down and then pulled a face, one I've seen many times before. The one that suggests that you've just hit the nail on the head and that yes, your nephew is bizarrely perceptive for one so young.

"Fine. we'll watch them. Hmph!"

So our little road trip is set to become a bit more crowded, now we've got parental responsibilities too. It'll be fine.

Posted at 02:46 am by Carrot
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The last rites of passage for Spongey B

It is my sad duty to report that today could potentially be Spongebob's (or Spongey B as he's been affectionately known as all week in this household) last day with us at Geek Pie. 

I know he's only a balloon, but he has bought a certain something to proceedings. He's been a great talking point. We had the gas man come and read our meter the other day. He took one look at Spongey B and asked where our kids were. I looked around, pointed at myself and announced, "Here!" He didn't really say much more after that, but his presumption can be forgiven.  

What you have to remember is that being in possession of a pair of boobs, fairly young and living in Hayes, people do expect certain things of you. For instance, once you're my age (21), if you haven't got a troop of at least six kids, with questionable  paternal descent and all under the age of nine, you're seen as a bit of a failure.

There's also something about having here an object, that no matter what the hell happens to it, never stops smiling. Waking up in the morning and seeing his smiling face, you can't help but smile back. It's like being out and seeing a Mum with a baby in a pushchair. If the kid smiles at you it would take quite a hard hearted soul not to return the favour.

Also, he's provided Breezy with a nice little outlet for her little rages and strops. She either spends the day moaning at him instead of me (result) or starts beating him about the head with pillows. The latter of the two is not something I'm very happy about and I've not been witness to it, but she told me that's what she does to him when I'm out.

But these good times are coming to an end.  His limbs are looking even more wiry than usual, he's losing puff from his wonderfully square arse cheeks and he's finding it difficult to remain stuck to the ceiling. His lifeblood (helium) seems to be seeping away.

Yesterday, I decided that we had to make his last day with us as memorable as possible. I was going to say, " make his last day on Earth as memorable as possible."  but he's never been even close to it. That's the beauty of helium.  

We've decided we're going to take him to all the places he probably wants to go to, but is unable to ask. He's only a balloon for fuck's sake. It's important because it means his final hours won't be wasted hanging around the lampshade in my room.

 So far we've pencilled in a trip to Ruislip Lido (it's just like being at the seaside), a walk around Uxbridge to  commerate the first time we met and possibly a train ride somewhere too. Above all, it also gives us an excuse to go on another Geek Pie road trip, of the like the world has never seen, well since the last one.

We'll keep you posted about our progress.

Ta ta.


I can't believe the amount of Spongbob shit there is on the net. It's frightening:
SpongeBob SquarePants CD Player: Yellow

Posted at 02:23 am by Carrot
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Friday, April 28, 2006
We have a new member!

Yesterday Breezy and me were given a simple brief. We were furnished with 15 and told not to return until we bought something suitable to give to a lady who was hosting a party in honour of St. George. We had to be back before 2.00pm and ideally with some change.

So with Breezy's P plates in place, the money being clutched in my hot sweaty little mits and with Breezy's very shoddy mix tape in the deck, it was to Uxbridge we were bound.

Now, I think I should expand on the nature of this "mix tape" and I'd appreciate some clarification as to whether it should be considered a "mix tape" at all. To start with, it only has four songs on it. Secondly, all these songs are from the Kelly Clarkson album (any teen girl angst bellowed over 80's rock riffs is a winner for Breezy), although they have been shuffled to play in a slightly different order to the tracklisting.

Uxbridge itself was bustling with Saturday shoppers and with the West Drayton 12-13 year old pram pushers jabbing the back of our ankles with their kiddie karts, we both knew that we didn't want to be there too long. But  we couldn't think of anything to buy.

We went to Debenhams, but the stark strip lighting and all the different types of shit they sell started to give me a headache. Any place that gives me lots of choices about stuff (book shops, record stores and cafes) often causes this reaction.

The clothes shops were a no-no. On Saturdays they always are. Every single one of them seems to be playing a fucking Ibiza anthems album at top volume. The Saturday staff all appear to be people that if their parents were offered a labotomy or oxygen starvation at birth for their offspring, they opted for both. They stare straight through you, their mouths agape, with their hair scrapped back and their horrid black roots showing.

"Have you got this in blue?"


"This top. I was wondering if you had it in blue? Cos I've had a look round and I can't see anything..."

"Whaaat? Have you looked by the dooooor?" 

"Erm, yeah. But this is day wear and that's all nightclubby stuff over there."

"Oh." She then stares blankly back at you, making you question whether or not you are the retarded one. You look over your shoulder and she's still staring and then it's your time to speak.

"Is that it?"

"I think so."



Anyway, we weren't really sure what the lady would like. We got to her parties. We eat her food, drink her house dry and chat to her but we don't know her well enough to make decisions on what she should go out the house wearing. The same goes for smellies. I think you have to know someone pretty well before you start making steps to determine how to improve their natural odour.

With time slipping away and our inspiration capacity dwindling, we started to get a bit down in the mouth. We didn't have long left and we still couldn't think of anything to buy. We were rubbish at present buying and this realisation led to us walking around in silence for a good 25 minutes.

The only time the silence was broken was for Breezy to admonish me for some of (I thought, winning) my suggestions. "What about a CD?"

"Stop talking."

"Or a paper weight? She works from home a few days a week and she must have lots of paper."

"Please stop talking. Stop thinking, in fact. Please shush."

"I saw a really nice vase in TK Maxx the other day..."

"I can't believe you don't stop talking. Please stop or I'll have to hurt you or myself. That's what your thoughts are driving me to."



With silence enforced upon me, Breezy suggested we split up. We halved the money and she said if either of us saw anything we had to give the other one a call on their mobile. I agreed and off I wandered. I looked round the Pavilions, a bible shop down Windsor Street and Tesco Express before winding up next to Big Issue selling Ted outside Woolworths. Fuck, I still couldn't think of anything.

Then my phone rang. It was Breezy. She said she was in Marks and had found a potted plant in a fancy vase, but she was 2.50 short. She needed me and my 7.50 there straight away. Feeling slightly off the hook, I started to walk towards the shop when suddenly I was thrown.

It was a boy. Something about him at that moment in time meant I had to have him. I tentatively made my advance. I had to exchange pleasantries with the crowd he was with, but within minutes money had changed hands and he was all mine.

Daily life without Spongebob in my life

Suddenly he's here and the change is instantaneous

I went to Marks. But before I could introduce him to Breezy, she took one look at the pair of us, shook her head and demanded the money; a despairing tone resounding in her voice. I still had the 2.50 she needed, so I couldn't really see what the problem was. 

We paid for the plant and as we were walking to the car, Breezy started to soften towards the newest addition to Geek Pie.  

"He's so stupid looking. But you can't hate him. Him and his stupid face. Just make sure he doesn't get in the way of my rearview mirror, okay?"

"Hee hee! OKAY!"

And it was with that, that Breezy, Spongebob and me drove back home. Mission accomplished and with smiles on (nearly) all of our faces. As for my Mum's change, I think the presense of Spongebob must have stunned her into silence because she's still not asked for it.

What a result!   

The post purchase adventures of Spongebob and Caroline

Posted at 10:38 am by Carrot
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Karma comes to those that wait

I've always like the idea of karma. Do good things and good things may happen to you in return. Not being a religious person, it's only really registered on my radar as a result of My Name Is Earl and I'm using it as a basis for conducting my daily life.

Is it wrong to find fancy Earl? Fuck it, I don't care.

Although there are times where I think all my good work has probably come undone. Usually when I'm standing in the check out queue, cursing the person in front of me as they stand there painstakingly counting out all their loose change to pay for their weekly shop.

Anyway, subscribing to the notion that doing good things for people means that good things might happen to you is not a bad way to live your life, even if I do come unstuck sometimes.

I helped a lady carry her pushchair up the stairs at Kings Cross station the other week, I'm forever dolling out change to charity people now and I even helped an old mantis off the bus the other day. This was after her arthiritic joints and hobbly walking style made me think that although her first stop might be outside Tesco's her second would almost certainly be the floor, had I not intervened.

As yet, I don't think any the good stuff I'm expecting in return has hit me yet. I expect it's like anything, you have to wait at least 28 days for delivary. But, then today I had some very good news, which I think might be mysterious karma dealer's way of thanking me for all my good work.  

I had a phonecall from one of my course tutors asking that I give them a call. He told me that there is a job going at a tech magazine based right in the centre of Swinging London Town. He gave me the editor's phone number, email address and told me to phone him as soon as possible.

I duly did, not even stopping to make myself a cup of tea, something that is virtually unheard of in this house. I spoke to the editor and I told him all about my current predicament regarding jobs, but that I'd still really like to be considered.

He asked me to email over a copy of my CV. I told him I already had. He said he was having a look at it over the phone and he ummmm'd and arrrr'd in all the right places --although I'm sure I heard him stifle a laugh when he must have got to the part where he read what my degree was in.

He said he liked what he was seeing and invited me for an interview on Tuesday. If all goes well I can start at the end of next week. 

Karma. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing.  

I'd buy this 20 times over, if only for the Shoot the Messanger. Top song:
Equally Cursed & Blessed
By Catatonia

Posted at 08:42 am by Carrot
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Tuesday, April 25, 2006
All aboard the nighty night bus

Life feels pretty good at the moment. I've still got my hoarsy voice, but being dosed up to my pollen swollen eyeballs with hayfever drugs certainly makes for a very contented life.

I get up. Have a Weetabix,sometimes two. Dick about with my myspace blog (which makes me feel a bit uneasy discussing on here. I don't want this Geek Pie to think I'm being unfaithful). I then head to the bus stop and wait for my bus to Uxbridge.

There are three buses I could take. There is the 427 which stops at every stop along the Uxbridge Road and makes the 25 minute trip to town feel like it lasts about three days. It's usually populated with the old, decrepid and those who seem to like smelling like they've just bathed in someone elses piss.

The drivers have to cope with a lot, which makes sense if you consider the number of people they must let on and off along this route each day. As a consequence they are typically grumpy and go out of their way to make all their passengers lives a misery. I've heard the excuse on the Northern Line about late running meaning that everyone has to vacate the tube, but never on the buses.

That was until I rode on the 427 the other day. I think the driver had just had enough of all the school kids, the whinging old folk and the younger hipper people (like myself) who stand there grimacing as they end up nose to armpit with one of their fellow passengers.

Then there is the 607. This does the same route as the 427, but it doesn't have as many stops on it. On a whim most of the drivers completely ignore passengers at the stops they're supposed to pick up from, but gladly collect them from stops they're not supposed to. Anarchy reigns! This is partly the reason this route is name the "schiz-o-7", but so to is the fact you seem to get a very high number of Hayes weirdos on it.  

Personal favourites include the bloke that walks around with a basketball up his shirt and Dancing Joe. He has an old school Sony Walkman and dances to whatever tunes he has playing on it. If he catches you staring at him he threatens to "cut ya good!" 

Lastly we have the U7, and a personal favourite of mine. It's yellow and always seems to arrive just in time to save my ass from a kicking from the bad kids that hang around my bus stop. The drivers are always happy to see you and when they see you running, they never drive off. I think the yellow colour must chill them out.

Anyway, after I've ridden the bus, I walk to the gym and work on getting myself a toight arse. After that I take my hayfever stuff because the fake circulating air in the gym means I don't need to worry about an attack of the sneezes while I'm there. Also, I have enough difficulty working out how to operate the equipment there when I'm lucid, let alone when I'm drugged up.

The return bus journey is usually much more pleasant, as a result, and then I spend the rest of the afternoon asleep. Breezy will then come in and tell me off, complaining that I look like Side Show Bob because of the chronic case of bed head I'm rocking at the moment.  

But still, it's quite nice feeling spaced out all the time. Yawn. Night!  

Oh dear, tired!:
Bedshaped, Pt. 2
By Keane

Posted at 11:57 am by Carrot
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Monday, April 24, 2006
Woah there, hoarsey!

Last night I kept waking up in the middle of a sneezing fit and I think I might have done myself some real damage.

I've had a headache all day, my eyes have been itching and my throat has gone completely hoarse. It's definitely my hayfever, I just don't know why it's so bad at the moment.

Anyway, the hoarseness isn't too bad an attribute to have. Firstly, it provides my singing voice with a nice raspy edge and I think it's making my speaking voice sound a lot sexier as a result. The latter is paying dividends.  

For instance, in the newsagents this morning I got given a bag for my purchases after I asked if they had an Diet Coke and vanilla (trying to develop my palate you see) rather than just the regular stuff. Usually you have to wrestle the guy to the ground to get a carrier bag. Having a husky voice is so cool.

However, there is a slight downside. Trying to get on the bus this morning and asking the driver if he had any change was made into far more of a trial than it ever needed to be, mainly because the driver was a cock.

Everytime I asked, he'd lean over and cup his hand over his ear before exagerratedly gesturing that he couldn't hear me and telling me to "speak up, luv!" In the end I gave up and just handed him a fiver, only for him to turn round and say he had no change. Seething, I stomped off in search of somewhere to get some.

Now I've just got think of some other ways of using this new found power of mine and putting it to good use.

"Did a bad fing!"

Posted at 08:37 am by Carrot
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Saturday, April 22, 2006
I don't love it when you call my name.

There are certain places that I don't like hearing my name. For instance, during the reading out of chruch obituaries or that bit at weddings where they ask if anyone knows why the lady in the big dress shouldn't marry the guy in the ill fitting suit. Other places include during Neil Diamond and Status Quo songs (but there is not much I can do about them) and when I'm half naked in the gym changing rooms.

According to a survey conducted by Grazia, 98% of women are unhappy with their bodies. Go to my gym and hangout (and most people do literally) in the changing rooms for a bit and you'll soon discover that this these stats don't seem to apply here.

It seems the people with the best bodies walk around cowering behind towels and get dressed while nearly standing in their locker. You can't be seen staring directly at them --it's a gym, not a peep show-- but out of the corner of your eye it's quite funny to watch as they hop around getting changed desperate not to flash even the tiniest bit of tit or muff. It's usually the younger people who go to the gym that do this.

On the other hand, the wobblier members of the place seem to take great pride in wandering round with as little on as possible. No towels, no shame and a real proud swagger when they walk. I think it's great that they can do this, and feel so comfortable with themselves. All I'm asking is that they at least sort out some of their unwanted body hair first or at least try and conceal their caesarian scars.

Anyway, back to the original point of the post. Yesterday, I'd just finished my workout and was getting changed out of my sweat soaked gym stuff. I'm neither a "let it all hang out" type of person or a locker jockey, if that's what you're wondering. I have a very sophisticated system, which I don't feel at liberty to share with anyone here. So there.

Then I heard my name. I froze. I thought it was gym etiquette not to get chatting to anyone when doing so could throw their concentration and lead to them to  accidentally drop and uncover something they'd rather keep hidden. 

I turned round with determination. I would not be thrown. I turned round and was greeted with an ungodly sight. The Mum of someone I went to school with standing there completely in the buff. I was mortified. Obviously, this was never conveyed on my face because if it was I don't think she would have carried on the conversation as long as she had, especially if she had any idea what was going through my mind right then.

Here's a taster: "SHAVE. WAX. IMMAC. ANYTHING!" It was also clear that she'd have to be doing a lot more in the gym than accoust young folk such as myself if she ever wanted her thighs not to meet in the middle anymore. The same could be said for her neck and breasts.  

She stood there chatting to me about what her daughter was up to --studying for either some law thing or marine biology. I wasn't really concentrating-- and then listed what her other three kids were up to as well. Nothing I said could hurry the conversation along either.

When she mentioned her youngest's name I searched franctically in my head for any recollection or memory of them so that I could convey that I knew already what she was going to say about them. Unfortunately, I got the wrong sibling completely-- her youngest isn't a boy called Phillip, it's actually a girl called Helena. Fuck.  And this little mistake just made her go on more.

I tried to maintain eye contact with her at all times, but it made me realise that when you have conversations with people, your eyes do wander a bit. Taking in what they're wearing (in this case not a great deal more than downy fluff and muff cover. Vomit), their overall mannerisms (very expressive and showcasing quite a bit of armpit hair) and watching their reactions to what you do too. The last one was easy, she kept looking me up and down as I stood there with a towel covering my bottom half and a hoody on the top.

Eventually she left me alone, after making me promise to give her daughter a call and passing on her best wishes to my Mum. I showered and then scooped up all my belongings and crept into one of the tiny cubicles that no one ever uses to get changed in. I just felt with all these people overexposing themselves, would it really be so bad if for once someone decided not to put so much of themselves on show?

And also, I was thinking back to all the judgments I was making about old Hairy Muff Mary (not her real name) and remembered people could be thinking stuff like that about me. Hmmmm, not willing to run that risk and so it was with giddy abandon I got got changed. Just the only person privy to it was me.  

I love this city man, but this city is killing me:
Bring It On
By Gomez

Posted at 12:29 am by Carrot
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Friday, April 21, 2006
Making my mind up.

After my interview on Wednesday, I got in and checked my emails. There bold as brass was one from the dentist's magazine. They were offering me the job.

As bad as it sounds, my heart sank. Now I'm left with lots of decisions to make about all the speculation I've been putting in over the last few weeks. With no other offers on the table, it looks like I might just have to bite the bullet and take the job.

My car won't be happy and I've got a horrid feeling that I won't be either after about six months. It's so far removed -- in location and subject matter-- from where I want to be at the moment.

Also, they want someone for the long haul (they said at least 18 months) and that's definitely nowhere near how long I saw myself staying there. I was thinking, put in a sly 9 month placement and then fuck off. Get a better job and leave the dentistry publishing mourning my departure.

They've given me a start date and I'm really going to have to put my thinking cap on to work out what my next move is going to be. Moneywise, I desperately have to start working soon. I just don't want to feel like my hand is being forced to take a job I'm not anywhere near 100% sure about taking.

So in the meantime, I've been applying for other stuff. Quite promisingly, I've got another interview next week for a trainee features writing position. Again it's miles out the way (what is it with me only being offered jobs in the arse end of nowhere?), but the job is a lot further up my street then the other one.

So who knows. Fucking hell I need a drink. But, I mustn't succumb!



Lipstick Traces: A Secret History Of
By Manic Street Preachers

Posted at 08:42 am by Carrot
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Wednesday, April 19, 2006
It's going down!

I've made a couple of changes to my life the past few days. The is that I have made a solemn vow never to drink ever again, or until my birthday. Whichever comes sooner. Oh and what do you know? It looks like I'm going to be greeting my 22nd year with a champagne toast and JD chaser.

Basically, what I'm saying is that I've quit the sauce until my birthday (June 7). It's mainly for health (the number of times a hangover has contributed to my lapse in gym attendance is frankly appalling) and reasons of vanity (must get rid of wine belly).

So yesterday I started back at the gym and I have achey muscles around my knees to prove it. Also, my hair stinks of bleach and vanilla because I forgot to take my shampoo and conditioner and had to make do with the free stuff from their pump despensers. Yuck!

I'm also finding this a great distraction from the job stuff that is currently overloading my primative brain.

I've got my third interview at the Dentist magazine today. I've invoiced them for the work I did last week, so --even if I get nothing else from them-- at least I should get some money.

It's a third interview. I've never got this far in before. Usually it's been two interviews at most and then I've either got it or I haven't. A third interview is a completely new and daunting prospect for me. Not really sure what to expect and it's making me a bit nervous.

Think the best thing to do is to show no fear. Therefore, I'm just going to lay my cards on the table as soon as I get there. Start the money ball rolling straight off.  

" Hello? Yeah, whatever. C'mon let's just cut the crap. How much are you going to be giving me and what reg is my company car going to be?"

They'll probably be some bargaining. I'll offer to take a pay cut in exchange for a coaster for my coffee mug and exemption from making the tea for the first three weeks I'm there. Judging from the nature of the magazine, I don't think it'd be too unreasonable to ask for weekly tooth whitenings, scales and polishes either.

I think I've got the measure of the situation and I think I'm going to be fine.

Ta ta.  

Must stop listening to this!:
Ride a White Horse 3
By Goldfrapp

Posted at 01:23 am by Carrot
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Monday, April 17, 2006
A possible solution

It's barely spring and I've already got hayfever. My eyes are itchy, my nose is tickly and I keep getting that horrible feeling like I've got ants crawling in my ears. I hate spring/summer or whatever the hell arse is going on with the weather round here.

Anyway, I think I might have a partial soultion to my job woes. Again, this is all hypothetical because they haven't actually put their balls on the line and said I've got the job yet. I'm thinking that if they offer it to me, I'm going to say that I can't start until the beginning of May.

I'll tell them that I've got some freelance stuff to complete (I've actually got a kick ass idea to pitch that I''m working on at the moment) and so I can't start straightaway. This will give me time to hear back from the other place I had an interview with up in town on Thursday. The lady said she'd contact me in a week and a bit to discuss further interviews (or perhaps to disparage me for even attending and wasting her time in the first place).

Then if they offer me a job, I'll take that one and graciously decline the other. How sneaky and underhand?

I'm not totally going to dismiss the first one until I've been to the third interview. Some people in answer to my plight (thank you readers and posters on Life Itself) have sent me some good suggestions to put to my interviewers to make my life easier if I took the job. If they agree, then maybe I could take it and my life wouldn't end up the empty husk with no social life that I'm envisaging it becoming should I take the job.

But my car has also chucked in its own opinion about what I should do. As of yesterday, it decided that it didn't want to go anymore and if it can't be fixed, all this job angst might be for nothing. With no car to begin with, I can't get there to work in the first place, let alone enough to help me put a down payment on a car. Bit of a  shitter.

Again, this might all be a complete waste of time. After Wednesday they might conclude that I'm not the person they're after at all. If that turns out to be the case, I might print off this blog and my various posts for help I've posted on Life Itself, Myspace and round my neighbourhood, demonstrating the amount of thought I'd been wasting on a magazine where I'd be responsible for writing stories about toothbrushes.

Helps to put it in to perspective, doesn't it? 

Currently listening to:
By Pet Shop Boys

Posted at 01:55 am by Carrot
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