Screaming my rebel yell

Since Friday night, roughly 60 hours ago, this is the sum total of all I've eaten:

• Approx 2 dozen pieces of chicken wings. All with hot sauce.
• 2 servings of fries
• 2 x 1/4 massive serving of nachos
• 1/2 a family size bag of corn chips
• 1 whole rack of baby back ribs, fries, and 'slaw
• 1 serve Chinese noodles
• 6 pints of beer (I think...)
• Too many bottles of beer to count
• Cocktails - including shots (too many to count + don't actually remember how many I had bought for me)

A truley mature, healthy and varied diet huh?

This is how the blame is being organised for this weekend of glut:

1. Beer/shots/beer/shoots/first serve of chicken wings: Going out on Friday night after my ex-ex boyfriend told me he was definitely moving to Ireland to be with his g/f, even though he told me he would never leave Australia when I moved to London. I needed all the extra beer and shots to help me fuel me for the inevitable drink and dial I ended up doing...
   
2. 1/2 family size bag of corn chips: Being horrendously hung over on Saturday morning, dragging my sorry arse onto the couch, and finding a pack of Doritos on the table. I had to substitute my coke/corn chip cure for just corn chips and water to try and feel human enough to go to orchestra...
   
3. Beer/Fries/Ribs + fries + slaw/cocktails: Hair of the dog + we were going out for dinner anyway... AND I can't go to Bodeans and not have ribs.. That would just be plain wrong.
   
4. The Beer+Wings+Nachos Blowout: Superbowl Sunday and watching the Chicago Bears bend over and receive a spanking from the Colts.
   

In fact, this whole weekend has just been one big be as naughty as I can possibly be weekend.

Firstly: The ex-ex: I believe that all phones should have the "Don't Make An Arse Of Yourself" feature, where it recognises when you're drunk and if you call a number you KNOW you shouldn't, either blocks said number from being dialed, or at the very least gives you a recorded message with something like "if you make this phone call, you know you will end up waking up tomorrow, realising that you've made a complete tit of yourself, and end up wishing you were dead, because frankly, your now in your late 20's and you're still acting like a fucking teenager".

Damn you Drink+Dial. I don't really remember what I said but I'm sure it contained the words "why didn't you move for me? What the fuck was wrong with me?" and "you bastard", even though I know that this is not this guys fault, and it was like 1000 years ago for fuck sake, and given the choice, I wouldn't have changed a single thing, because we both know it all worked out for the best anyway.

Secondly: C and I bunked off 3rd period musicianship class at orchestra this Saturday, because 1) we couldn't stand listening to Viola Woman drone on and on about crap that has nothing to do with the class, 2) the sun was actually shining, and we wanted to sit and bask in it's cancer omitting rays. I've never bunked off class in high school, and I felt like such a rebel. I was practically Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club (though obviously without the being a boy and smoking dope bit).

Thirdly: HOW MUCH JUNK HAVE I EATEN THIS WEEKEND? I can't add up all those calories because I don't believe numbers can get that big. The Superbowl has the most to answer to for my poor diet. Despite the fact that I know nothing American football, I happily used Superbowl Sunday as my excuse for staying up until 3.30 am on a school night, help demolish 2 massive Pyrex serving dishes of nachos + guacamole, drink copious amounts of beer, and gorge myself on delicious spicy, buffalo chicken wings. The Flatmate and I went to Dr K's and Calv's house last night, where they cheered the colts, and I of course cheered on the Bears.. who lost. Typical. Calv and his friend Mappy were supposed to do a podcast for their website, which I was going to special guest star on, so on Sunday morning, (with another hangover), I boned up on my Superbowl knowledge. I was desperate to say on the podcast how I believed that "Chicago would take a very similar approach to what they did in the NFC Championship game against the Saints, and play a very physical game." And how I thought that "The Bears would try and get as many hits on Manning as they could, whilst their corners would do all they could within the rules to manhandle the Colts receivers and throw off the timing of their passing game." However we never recorded the podcast, and around 2 am, I kept falling asleep, waking up, eating some more chicken, taking a slug of beer, then fall asleep again.

Ok, this week I'm going to be uber virtuous and v angelic. I'm going running and cycling, eating only salads, fish and low fat soups.

OOOHH, someone at work just gave me a caramel egg... Ok right after this I'm going to good.

Who am I kidding, I just can't do virtuous and angelic.. I'd best just go buy myself some eatin' pants.

Odds and Betting

I've just come back from watching Arsenal beat Liverpool 6 goals to 3 in the Carling Cup at Anfield. The odds on that must have been massive!

Then, on the walk home, The Flatmate and I found a tennis ball we started kicking about. Near our house is a huge Boots warehouse where late at night big semi trailers come to drop off goods. As we were walking along, we saw a semi trailer coming towards us, so I kicked the tennis ball to the curb, so to avoid it being run over by the truck. What are the odds that the semi trailer not only aims directly for the curb, running over a tiny tennis ball and squashing it flat, but also then reverses to have another 3 goes at it with all the wheels on one side?

Pretty slim of you ask me.

So with this renewed sense of strange odds in the air I'm going to jump onto the Betfair website, and find the biggest odds I can find, and blow some of my soon to be mortgaged to the hilt money on it. Not alot, just a bit. I reckon that tonight's the night kids. Mama needs a brand new washing machine. Come on lady luck. Bring home the bacon.

Update 12.04 am: I've just placed £2 on the Diamond Halo (come on! with a name like that how is that not a sign??!?) to win at £26-1 at Penn, Race 2. It's not the £1000 bet I was looking for, but a girl's gotta start somewhere. If this one doesn't win, then I will go to bed, and sleep. If it does though... oh la la. I might just keep on going until I lose.... stay tuned for my slippery downhill slope towards Gamblers Anonymous!

Update: 12.13am: Well, I'm off to bed then. Nice early night for once. Stupid fucking horse. Hope it's on it's way to make some hefty glue.