When we sesh... We SESH.

Two words. Jesus Christ.

I felt it necessary after this weekend to make a post dedicated to the ancient art of seshing. A "sesh" is slang in my area for a group of friends getting together to drink gallons of booze and to smoke various oddities (including bread sticks... yep, tried it) until we collapse in bed completely obliterated at 6:00am. Seshes aren't something which can happen often... it's only every now and again you feel like drinking and smoking yourself into a senseless stupor, but on some occasions it's absolutely necessary. And, if there was any occasion more perfect than my boyfriend's 20th birthday - one of the greatest seshers who has ever lived, might I add - then feel free to slap me around the chops with that greasy hotdog we found on the cooker yesterday morning. (It was disgusting.)

I don't mean to brag, but if there's a sesh happening, I'm in it right until the end. If I'm not the last blubbering drunk on the kitchen floor in the early hours of the morning, then it hasn't been a true sesh. I think I speak for everybody when I say that when you're in it until the early hours, you form a wonderful kind of connection with the people your drinking with which won't ever be forgotten - no matter how many shots you try to wash it down with at the time. Nobody likes a sleeper, is what I'm trying to say.

On Friday I had my first "every stage of drunk" cycle. Usually all I do when I've had a few drinks is dance like a woman possessed, attempt to sing, and stagger around telling everybody how I believe in them, as though I'm some kind of philosophical master. But, for some reason on Friday, for the first time I went through the textbook stages like a swot in a science lesson. At first I started to get loose, and then came the dancing... all of a sudden I was smoking two at a time, and the confusion reared it's stupid head. I couldn't understand why my boyfriend was getting people to thump him on the back of the head to wake him up... and as a result, I slapped him around the head myself. Stage 5: Violence.

After a little depression session on my own next to the amp - iPod in hand and The Sex Pistols blasting - I was carried upstairs to bed like a sleeping baby in heels. When I realised that the sesh wasn't actually over and I'd just been taken to bed because I'd been depressed for the last fifteen minutes, I stumbled downstairs hardly dressed and ended it how only a true sesher would - one of the last three remaining musketeers, drinking the last glasses of everybody's leftover booze, sitting cross-legged on the floor and dressed proudly in just tiny shorts and a vest - not giving a flying fuck about the fact that it must have been below freezing outside.

I've managed to piece that night together through pictures and stories, but there's a middle part I can't remember for the life of me. Who knows... I might have got even more embarrassingly "violent" and then uncharacteristically quiet and sad. The videos mostly tell a different story (one featuring both a sailor suit and "New York City Boys" blasting, then another partyboying to "I Just Had Sex"), and I'm glad - if I'd of spent the entire night as I'd done for that strange and completely out-of-character fifteen minutes, then I wouldn't be able to say it was the best sesh I've ever been to. It absolutely was!

A true sesh is all about perseverance. As it turned out for me, a little bit of quiet time sorted me out and avoided any arguments which may have ensued if I'd of remained boozed-up and flailing my fists around... Honestly, if someone filmed me, I'd have the video on this post. I'm so ashamed but at the same time find it absolutely hilarious because I'm the least violent person you'll ever meet.

Finally, after pacing yourself and lasting until you're in the final crew at the end of the night, you have to deal with the aftermath the next day. Any tips for sesh hangovers? Well... sleep. Just sleep the fucker off. Oh, and it is a fucker to sleep off. I didn't get out of bed until 5pm on Saturday, but apart from my tummy feeling a bit fragile I was okay. Sleeping naked with a good-looking man for an entire day is the best hangover cure I could possibly recommend.

... Y'know what? That's the best cure for everything, let alone hangovers!

Thanksgiving

This time last year I probably wouldn't have considered writing this post, but as over the year I've met a lot of new American friends (one in particular who writes his blog with me, so here's your shoutout Eric!), who have inspired me to write about what I'm thankful for.

Well, at this present moment, I'm rather thankful for Lady Gaga's new holiday EP "A Very Gaga Holiday". It's the parter EP to her Thanksgiving special, airing later today which I will probably get to watch tomorrow. Her jazz covers are absolutely beautiful, and the acoustic versions of both Yoü and I and the infamous The Edge of Glory (infamous for it's sheer brilliance acoustically), are... outstanding to say the least.

I'm also thankful for the very kind people at the health department of... a "secret organisation" I wish to protect as it will probably reveal whereabouts I actually live so fuck you, rapists... for phoning me up yesterday and basically offering me a job. You know when I applied for it? Ages ago when I was making the daily lists. I can't actually believe how much good came from those little scraps of paper.

So, I wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving and hope you all eat like pigs and enjoy yourselves. Think of me while I'll be having an average day in England, wishing I'm gorging on Turkey like there's no tomorrow. Have a brilliant day!

... Notes: You can buy "A Very Gaga Holiday" on both iTunes and Amazon, and I highly recommend it to non-Gaga fans too, who purely appreciate a beautiful singing voice backed by a big band. Trust me on this - at least give it a try or a preview. You won't be sorry.

And, while I'm here, please check out my friend's blog too. His name is Eric, and we've been writing them together since the dawn of Busy Going Nowhere. He posts exactly the same witty crap as me, except he's in college, not unemployed, and is on the opposite side of the Atlantic. Give it a read here! http://sdfeitherway.blogspot.com/

LISTEN to this, I beg of you! Orange Colored Sky:

Whatever Happened to The Killers?

I loved this band. Sam's Town even replaced American Idiot as my favourite album of all time for a while. In a magazine I bought for when I was on holiday (to be honest I hardly read magazines any other time... unless there's maybe an appearance made by Mother Monster) there was an article on how they're writing their new album. It's about Vegas and slot-machines, apparently. Right up my street!

RELEASE IT for God's sake! I miss them so much.

English Test

Imagine you’re in an English exam. 

You turn the page over, and find that question one is an essay question.

“In 1,500 words, describe a person you love.”

You think of... your best friend, Erica.

It’s an essay question, and you’re getting marked on your writing ability, so you think of all the things you find special about your best friend and your mind goes wild – all the fun trips you’ve taken, all the stories and laughs you've both shared, all the times she’s been there for you and vice-versa – and then organise them into neat paragraphs so that the essay itself will flow and make sense. 

When you finish the essay, proud of this achievement, you move on to question two. 

“In 500 words, describe the same person who you have written about in question 1.” 

You stare at the paper, confused. But, what would the point in that be? You’ve just written about your best friend in a lengthy format – how much more does this question expect? 

After thinking about it, you decide that this must be testing your ability to pick out key points in an essay and how developed you are at re-evaluating your own writing.

Turning back to the essay, you re-read what you’ve just written and choose only the most defining reasons for loving your best friend, then combine them with just your most favourite of her qualities instead. For the rest of the question, you include the odd phrase which suggests the points you further explained in question one, however do not completely finish the idea. For example, “Erica and I have enjoyed thousands of amazing trips together, from nipping to the shops in college to holidays in Spain. Our Spanish holiday...” is shortened to “Erica and I have enjoyed thousands of amazing trips together, both at home and abroad.” 

Happy with your final answer, you decide it is time to move on to the last question. 

“In poetry format, describe the same person who you have written about in questions 1 and 2. 

The poem must contain no less than 4 stanzas, and must be in an alternate rhyme scheme.”

This scenario reversed is a metaphor for what I seek when I’m analysing song lyrics.

What I as a listener get to play with is a song with a typical lyrical format (intro, verse, pre-chorus, chorus, verse, pre-chorus, chorus, bridge, pre-chorus, chorus, chorus, outro), A.K.A “the poem” in my little metaphor. All I get is the end result, but what I’m trying to achieve is “the essay” in question one or even better – the thought process behind the essay before it was even written.

"Magic Boots"

Lately I can't tell if I'm actually being a horrible person or that I'm just stubborn. While shopping with my parents last weekend (a treat I don't get to experience very often), I acknowledged that on top of being a stubborn arse, I'm nearly incapable of changing my mind in a short space of time.

For example, I wanted a new pair of boots. I'm a nightmare to shop with - I either want everything or will refuse the most beautiful pairs of shoes because they're not directly similar to the specific design of a pair I've cooked up in my mind (which, to be fair, probably don't even exist in the first place). In this case it was the latter - I decided that I wanted a new pair of winter boots and that they would be a major investment instead of something trivial I'd pick up for £30 and would wear out in a month. In the whole of York I spotted two pairs that I loved.

One pair were in a rich chocolate brown, and would go with everything. The others were jet black and covered in laces - and I loved them purely because they were a work of art. Thus began a little battle in my head: should I make a sensible choice or blow my money on the beautiful pair?

Of course it was going to be the beautiful pair. Of course it was. Nevertheless, as I was trying the brown boots on, I felt angry with myself. I should be making the sensible decision and buying these boots which go with my new coat, but, I knew I wasn't going to. It killed me.

It killed me to the point where I was actually angry when I bought the black pair. "Great, now I'm going to need a new coat, a new scarf... eventually spend a bit more money I don't have." Yet, I was absolutely making the right decision by buying the ones I loved the most. I've been wearing them with pride all weekend, staring longingly at them whenever I sit down with little hearts in my eyes, and clicking my heels together as though on top of being beautiful, they are magic boots which are going to take me to meet Dorothy and the Munchkins.

So... the point of that lengthy anecdote was that I wanted to explain how even though I was doing something brilliant, I was in a certain negative mindset about not making the sensible decision, and couldn't manage to get out of it while I did something which was supposed to make me happy. I felt the same way about a situation a bit more important than boots (yes, it's possible) earlier in the week.

It's a person. He's... back. I said my goodbyes, I came to terms with what happened and moved on. I'm sorry to say it's nothing juicy like a love affair (I'm always annoyingly happy with that sort of thing), but it's equally as important and to be honest it's screwed me right up. Am I being horrible by ignoring him? Is it that I'm just stubborn and find it hard to change my mindset so quickly? I came to terms with the fact that he'd gone. When somebody dies, that's not a bloody easy thing to do.

It's even harder to bring them back to life when they wake up.

Good Luck, Bad Luck

Good luck last week:

1.       I got a job interview.

2.       My best friend broke up with her boyfriend.

3.       The Chili’s opened a new tour date out of the blue… an hour away from me.

4.       Red Hot Chili Peppers tickets were purchased.

5.       My friend I thought had died is miraculously alive and well.

6.       I booked the perfect date for my driving test.

7.       My grandparents bought a boat.

8.       We won the lottery. (Not kidding.)

Bad luck this week:

1.       I missed the bus.

2.       My interview was cancelled due to lack of funding.

3.       I can’t get the money I’m owed for the Chili’s tickets yet, and I’m poor.

4.       A Jehovah’s Witness completely owned me.

5.        

… Y’know what? I thought I’d be able to think of more things than that. Maybe this hasn’t been such a bad week after all.  

A Witness Statement

What is the need these days for door-to-door salesmen?

For God’s sake, we have the internet, we have cars, buses, taxis, shopping channels… if we want something, there’s absolutely nothing standing in the way of us taking matters into our own hands and getting it ourselves. Why, in this day and age, do we still need people knocking on our doors and pushing unneeded crap down our throats?

Never once have I lounged in my living room and thought, “You know what? I really fancy changing my religion. I wish someone would knock on the door and shed some light on the situation.”

YOU know what I’m talking about.

Today, an elderly man asked me if I prayed regularly. I said no, because I think that kind of thing is private. He didn’t relent, and then asked “Do you pray before you drive?” I replied with “No, but my driving instructor does.” I got a slight scolding for being sarcastic, and was then instructed to consult a website about taking the Bible literally.

Look, don’t come to my house preaching about how the world is in ruins, and then leave a piece of paper in my possession I’m clearly not interested in. If we’re in such an apocalyptic situation (which, to be fair is half true…) then why don’t you just recycle it?

If there’s ever an argument against religion, I’m the first person to defend it. It’s a beautiful thing, a belief – it should be treasured and given enough room to grow the way you want it to. Such a regimented structure to something as fragile as a belief feels wrong to me.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask about his views on homosexuality, but I didn’t. I felt given the comments I’d already made it would seem rude. He left after a few minutes, assuring me that if I committed myself to this new way of thinking then maybe I’d get a job.

Kind of scary hearing that from a man I’ve never met... how does HE know I’m unemployed??

I’m keeping my door firmly locked from now on.

"What's in a Name?"

I don’t know about you, but my identity is splashed upon all kinds of different medias.

I’m talking about forums, blogging, Twitter… anything from web albums to social networking sites. If it’s clean and accessible, I’ll have an account. Bonus points if I can provide a picture and indulge in touch of shameless self-promotion while I’m there (follow me! @CathyCwaffy).

With millions of networking sites parading their red arses around the internet, it’s almost impossible to admit your identity isn’t streaked all over at least one of them. (That metaphor didn’t sound as disgusting in my head, I can assure you.) With the amount of traffic popular sites receive, there’s one key feature you have control over to let everybody know who you are – your username.

Yesterday I was contemplating the importance of a username whilst sitting on the bus after a failed job interview. Recently I’ve been considering changing my Twitter username to be something more relative to the posts I make, and the potential followers I want to receive. At the moment I’m called CathyCwaffy (as mentioned above), but given the sudden shift from my tweets being mainly about me and the odd personal twist on a TT, to being a committed Little Monster, I felt that a catchy variation of my own name combined with a Gaga lyric would be more… “appropriate”, if you know what I mean?

CathyCwaffy is a nickname based on a joke I have with my boyfriend. Seeing as how none of my “real life” friends are on Twitter (or if they are they haven’t mentioned it… bitches), the reference is completely wasted on the wrong crowd. I thought it would be better to switch it to something with a bit more relevance to what I tweet about – a cutesy little nickname doesn’t exactly represent the shit I post.

That in itself got me wondering about how far usernames represent your identity online, and especially how they can be manipulated to portray a certain identity you have created for yourself. It doesn’t even end at usernames – it applies to any variation of your own name you have in “real life” with your buddies, or your family, or that sexy person you have in your bed. It’s interesting how by changing a little part of the name you were born with can transform your characteristics completely, while still being an accurate portrayal of yourself.

For example, at home, my parents call me Catherine. That is my name, it’s what I was born with, and it’s the thing I’ve lived with my entire life. Yet, my friends call me Cathy. I’m different around them than how I am with my parents, but “Cathy” is just as much of a part of me as “Catherine” is and will ever be.

I started posting on forums under the username “Cat C” (which I’m sure you’re familiar with because how else would you find yourself here?) around a year ago. It was a name spawned from a quick decision on The Green Day Authority, after I found that you needed to create an account on “Disqus” to post a comment on a piece of news. Although this was extremely obscure, the “likes” you received as a commenter were tallied, and I became the most active and “liked” commenter on the website. I felt I’d created an entirely new identity as a witty commenter, with a taste for rock and roll, and a name which reminded me of “Kat Von D”.

Deciding to eventually join the forum attached to the website, I used the same username to be easily recognisable. Over the past year this is all I’ve used – I’ve created an internet identity for myself and sealed the deal on websites a million times over.

I am Cat. I’m Catherine. I’m Cathy. I’m Miss Psycho Sexy on the side. Sometimes I feel as though Cat is so synonymous with its creation via Green Day, that it’s hard to develop new interests I want to throw out there and show off. But that’s the beauty of a name – just like a new pair of boots you can make a beeline to the shop and wear a brand new pair the next day. A name is nothing concrete. It’s just an extension of ourselves, and we can be whoever the fuck we want to be.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll think of a new name – a brand new representation of myself, who I can use to reinvent everything “Cat” was and is, to indulge in another part of my personality which hasn’t had the chance to shine just yet. My conclusion on this hour long bus ride was that names are like clothes. You wear them as an extension of your identity. They can be changed, binned, and collected. But at the end of the day, you’re the one who decides what to put on.

Update #5 (sort of) - Friday

I finally managed to get myself a pair of tickets to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I'm so excited.

It's Friday so that means I'm off out, probably for a sesh and definitely for a booze. After the success of this week I can't wait to celebrate all the good news with my friends. No, I swear, I'm not as antisocial as I sound.

I'll leave to the groove of some psychedelic funk rock. Happy Weekend! ;)

(The above track = the origin of "Miss Psycho Sexy"!)

Update #4 - Thursday

“Anything you can do, I can do drunker!”

Fitting motto for tonight, it seems. It certainly makes me appreciate how much of a tank my dear nana was – this is strong shit. And I’m enjoying it a little bit too much…

Anyway, unfortunately I wasn’t able to complete a couple of the points on my list today. BUT – before you judge me – I have a fitting excuse (for the first time in my life). Hear it goes:

I needed to go to the bank, to put some money into my account for the Chili’s tickets tomorrow. After walking into town (because I can’t drive, that’s right, rub it in), and requesting to put the cash into my account, I realised I’d forgotten my credit card. Fortunately, after a few questions and a bit of banter with the woman behind the plexi glass, I got the money in fine. Her son was trying to get tickets to the same concert, so she could understand. I then strut to the shop to buy onions, dry ginger ale, and whisky.

I was feeling pretty good about myself, to be honest. I was wearing this low cut vest and a pair of tight beige trousers, and because it was sunny I had my hair loose and my wayfarers on. I got a couple of wolf-whistles from a few idealistic middle-aged builders while I was walking. One looked old enough to be my dad, but never mind. A compliment’s a compliment, isn’t it?

So in the shop I got my things and stood in the queue. I was behind two old women who took an eternity to pick all the pennies out of their purses so I was just about ready to shoot myself by the time I reached the checkout. Old people in everyday situations are complete cripples – I can’t stand it. Especially on public transport, but that rant is for another day. Anyway, the girl serving me beeped my onions and ginger ale, and then asked for ID.

… Fuck.

Update #3 - Wednesday

There was something bothering me, today.

I received some more great news. After a successful driving lesson, I returned home to be greeted by a stack of mail – I’ve got a job interview for a legal apprenticeship on Monday. My grandparents have just bought a boat. And… I feel kind of wrong posting this but I will – my best friend broke up with her boyfriend yesterday. She’s so much happier now.

Lots of amazing things have been happening lately…too many amazing things for me to properly comprehend. It may sound strange but I feel rotten not being able to give each separate segment of good news the excitement and attention they deserve. I took a day off my list project to chill out today and to stop making good things happen for myself. Maybe I just wasn’t ready for greatness?

Earlier I learned it would have been my Nana’s birthday today. I’m not going to go into detail about how much I loved (or love) her, because it's extremely personal, and probably wouldn't even be humanly possible to describe anyway. She’s my biggest inspiration. Always has been, and always will be.

After a day of feeling weighed down by greatness, hearing something like that dragged me back down to earth with a holy bang. I didn’t get upset, and instead thought about what she would have said about me being depressed that so many amazing things were coming my way all at once – it made me laugh. She would have rolled her eyes in disgrace and then proclaimed there was something wrong with me!

We were reminiscing about how she used to be when she went out with her friends. My mother told me about her beautiful figure, and that short, sleeveless chiffon dress she used to wear, with her blonde hair in perfect curls and red lipstick. The ensemble would of course, never be complete without her trusty whisky and ginger tumbler in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

As a tribute to my biggest inspiration, I thought I’d take it upon myself to stock up on the ingredients of her favourite tipple and toast her at the weekend. She would have really liked that, I think.

So, here’s my list for tomorrow. Resuming the greatness.

THURSDAY GOALS

1) Wake up at a decent time

2) Apply for GB job

3) Go out for whisky and ginger

4) Pay £££ into the bank for Chili's tickets

5) Try a new recipe. Why not?

6) Jog

7) Wear red lipstick all day long

Cheers!

Update #2 - Tuesday

After the success of yesterday’s list, I decided to challenge my tiny little self and make today’s tougher to accomplish. The good news is that I did accomplish all the points on here in some form, whether the picture tells you they’re scribbled out or not. Here it is as of 8:43pm:

A lot of great things happened today. I booked my fucking driving test finally… it’s only taken me an entire year of lessons to do it. I’m not a bad driver, honestly! I just found the format of the theory exam really difficult to get my head around. It’s a miracle I passed it first time when I took it last month, because on top of dealing with the stress of the exam, there was a huge spider on the floor of the waiting room. It was right next to my shoe waving its front claws at me when I was trying to speak to the woman behind the desk. The memory gives me Goosebumps to this day.

Anyway, my practical test is booked. I’ll probably pass first time considering I’ve been driving for an age. The other fantastic news I’ve heard today is that the Red Hot Chili Peppers have added an extra date to their UK tour next year. We couldn’t manage to get tickets when they were on sale in August and I was devastated – now we get another chance! Miss Psycho Sexy may need to make an appearance.

Finally, I promised myself I was going to try a new recipe for lunch. I knew I had chicken so I just went with it. Here’s what I made:

So that’s grilled chicken breast with “secret” spicy sauce, and a couple of baked potatoes topped with mozzarella. They look a bit brown but it was just convenient to leave the grill on instead of switching to the full oven. I’m not a very precise chef!