#4 "The attack of the gay love, race changes, and nu-rave choirs"

Hey everyone! Jesus this week has been unbearably hot, I've even managed to reach the ultimate tan level where It's just being presumed that I am mixed race, much to my best friend Melody's distress as she continuously purchases hours of sun-bed minutes to keep up the notion that she is in fact, actually a black person.

Had a busy week working at the vintage shop/cafe, the venue got booked for a private "Caribbean Night" event ; jerked chicken, reggae music, and Rastafarian's showcasing some serious dance moves - sounds great huh? Sorry, I think you're forgetting to take into account one thing : U.F.B.W aka "unfriendly black women".

You laugh, but just wait till your faced with a whole herd of them, screaming at you that their drink doesn't have the right amount of pineapple juice, ice, and things like "Ummm I KNOW you didn't just touch my straw? That is a health an safety violation!".  Basically, dealing with that from 6pm till 4:30am...dark times.

All of the work stress aside, had a nice relaxing weekend out and went to see my best friend Miguel's sister's band Gaggle. They're an all girls nu-rave choir complete with neon crazy outfits, strobe lights, and dubstep drumbeats in the background whilst they sing and chant in a choir like formation. Apart from there being a vast amount of hostile lesbians (it was a lesbian charity event night, but hey don't frown at me because I'm wearing cute shoes), it was one of the best gigs I'd been to in a while. They're doing some British festivals like The Big Chill and Bestival, so if per chance you're going, make sure you check them out live!

Check out their music on http://www.myspace.com/gagglespace

And check out their track "I Hear Flies" on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mkx8j6-ymgg

it's like being on an acid trip inside a church - what more could you want?

#3 "The good, the bad, and the amazingly hideous"

It’s been a busy few weeks, and for the next few days I’ve added traveling to Holland and eating a fatal overdose of cheese to my schedule by hopping on a plane to Amsterdam (whilst hyperventilating into a paper bag of course, because I’d probably rather be driven across the boarder in a truck full of farm animals and Mexicans).

I arrived in Amsterdam in the evening and made a beeline for Rotterdam to meet the Paay family to celebrate my oma’s (grandma) 84th birthday for a nice dinner.
Of course, being me, I couldn’t board an airplane knowingly about to see my mother without putting on my most amazing so-disgusting-it-works outfit. I opted for an 80’s patterned dress, complete with a colour pallet of peach, apple green, and canary yellow (yes it’s as bad as it sounds, and it’s previous owner was probably an old woman with a lot of cats).

Disappointingly enough I can report that my mother merely flinched/gagged when having spotted my outfit, and instead concentrated on my “power brows” or as she likes to call them “Brutus brows”. I know I already have big eyebrows that could rival that of Burt from Sesame Street, but what can I say? I love Madonna enhanced eyebrows – and I’m damn proud of it!

So mom, this weeks article goes out to you.

May the fact that I photographically documented that I own this dress, haunt you forever.

#2 "Returning from La La land back to reality"

By the time you guys read this, and I say this with tears in my eyes (snik snik), I’ll be back home from LA and in my ghetto-fabulous apartment London.
I’ve been staying at my dad’s house in the Hollywood Hills for the past two weeks, attempting to change my skin color from looking like a corpse, to a golden bronze.
After baking in the sun, risking skin cancer, and blinding the neighbours with my constant nudity, I have managed the impossible. Are you ready for this? My body…is now the same color as my hair. So if you see what looks like a giant orange Strepsil walking around London getting a McDonalds, don’t be alarmed!

Apart from having to endure the painful experience of going to a gym in Hollywood, and being surrounded by various skinny blonde girls on treadmills, a sight which one could only describe as “chiuahuahas on speed”, I had a fantastic time out here.
Infact, I had such a great time that (I haven’t even told most of my friends this yet, so I hope you guys can keep a secret!) I’m going to be moving to LA this fall and stay for a few months to live and work in the land of stars and eternal sunshine.

Seeing as I’ve already got a greencard/visa because I’m an American citizen, all that’s left to do is find an apartment – easy right? WRONG.

All I’m going to say is, so far I’ve encountered a very short, perverted landlord with only young girls in his house and a few too many Porsche’s (I wonder what he’s trying to make bigger...) , and an offer of a room free of charge by an overweight 44 year old woman as long as I “dominate her, treat her like a slave, and abuse her”.

I politely declined.

The hunt for an apartment in the city of angels continues…

#1 "When one door closes, another closet door opens?"

As spring has finally sprung, and the count of date-ready single men is rapidly meeting the current quantity of footballers committing adultery, I sit in solitude in my London poor-excuse-for-a-park thinking back to my last couple of relationships.
Everyone has a handful of cringe worthy boyfriends they’d like to pretend never happened; the one who tried to put his feet way too close to your nether-regions (who’s the wise ass who ok’ed this? Are we considering this foreplay now? Really?), or the one who’s speech barrier (or there lack of) in the bedroom resembled that of Katie Price after one too many bottles of Lambrini.

One door opens when another closes, plenty more fish in the sea blah blah blah. But what if multiple doors (not one, but several) turned out to be a closet? Yes, that’s right ladies and gentlemen, I am the official closet opener, the one before they “found” themselves, the grim reaper of homosexuality.

Four men I’ve had relationships with have turned out gay, three I previously lusted after followed suit, and one who’d claimed to be besotted with me in middle school has pounced out of the closet in full lycra and glitter wearing glory this month (whilst performing his best ‘jazzhands’ on the way out).

I do wonder, am I such a horrific dating experience that I send men running to bat for the other team? Or maybe it really is true that gay men, essentially, are the only male specimens pleasant enough to co-exist with. Maybe next time I’m out I should make a beeline to the first gay bar I see, smile and wave, and hope to god that rules of reverse psychology can also be applied when seeking out a location to find decent men.

But for now, I’m content with dating my man of choice with delicate female features, long hair, and who inevitably, gets called “miss” by the waiter every time we go out.