Pot Plant On Fire

Things are happening. The ball is rolling. The sheep are flocking. The martians are invading. The pie is steaming. Die Russen kommen. Achtung! Achtung! Achtung! There are happenings GALORE and I can't sleep (my liver is having some kind of violent sex party that the rest of me isn't invited to) because all of the sleeping positions are not possible hence I am here at this god terrible bless my socks hour to inform you of the news and the jazz and the poppycock. And use occasional German words.

I have dates for my work experience. I have a hostel booked. I have a multipack of iced gems. I have a ticket to the first Mindless Self Indulgence gig in the UK for 5 years. I have trains. I HAVE EVERYTHING. This time in eleven days my knees will be pushed to the extreme limit looking at stamps and old smelly things, making cups of tea and doing a variety of aution based tasks somewhere in West London. I can't deny, I'm pretty excited, I'm going to hang out with people who aren't extremely likely to keel over by the end of the day and that's bound to take a weight off one's mind. My mature and useful side will be shining through (and it actually will, let's not forget, I gotz da skillz) apart from the occasional blip where a bit of random Constanze babble slips through (I implied that the entire staff of the auction house might be murderers on the phone to the manager, woohoo for first impressions)... I never say anything offensive though, just weird and confusing. In an endearing and humerous fashion. Ahem.

I'm also allowed to keep my green hair which is even more exciting. I was worried I might have to dye it a reasonable colour and be sad because a Constanze without green hair isn't a Constanze at all... I think I'll just about pull off looking smart, I mean, I look stupidly smart all the time anyway (go out the house without heels and make up, are you insane?), just a bit too far into the bonkers sort of smart for a posh antique auctioneers. I must remember, no luminous yellow lace, no foil skirts and no bright green lipstick. Be a nice sophistigoth. I'll look damn cool, I am after all a fashion queen (lolololol but seriously I've been on a fashion blog and won best dressed girl so I actually am fuck you I rule), like a walking advertisement for times gone by. I don't even have to try, my world is a land of underskirts and vests. I hope I don't get mistaken for an auction lot (here's lot 795, a 1950's shop dummy, fully dressed in overly moral attire) like that time I got mistaken for an exhibit at Malaysia night. Ergh.

But overall I think I shall be great and it all shall be fun. It's just the omnipresent question of WILL I BE ABLE TO STAY AWAKE OR WILL THEY FIND ME ASLEEP BEHIND A CUPBOARD? Speaking of sleep, my extreme painkillers are just setting in and I feel like a blanket of cuddles is surrounding my left side. Bedtime now, to dream of my day spent having my mind mashed by films with no discernable plot. Because making sense is for losers?

Constanze :) xXxXxXx

P.s I am dead to the world. My eyes have been sandpapered. My brain is the soup of the day. All I see is a sea of cardigans and I actually think it may be possible to sleep resting your head on a ladder.

P.p.s VORSTELLUNGSKRAFT!