1. Dear John Simm, why are you doing voiceovers for everything? You're the voice of the co-operative bank for crying out loud (an advert that preaches the banks good morals and plays Liza Minnelli's Money Makes the World Go Round). Considering that you've last been seen kicking arse in Life on Mars and playing The Master  in Doctor Who, you don't leap out as either a moral spokesman or a Cabaret fan. Yes your soft northern tones probably appeal to some key demographic, but still. 

2. Dear David Tennent - what advert have you been doing voiceovers for? I distinctly heard your voice, but was in the kitchen and ever since I haven't seen the ad. 

Advert voiceovers interest me, obviously.

3. Dear Dole Pineapple, why is it impossible to open any tin, packet, or tub without being drenched in pineapple juice? And why didn't you bother to label the SIX tins I brought that were in syrup instead of juice? Who the hell needs syrup with pineapple?

I’m back. Missed me?

In all fairness, I’m not actually back. This is being typed on my computer the night before my internet is due to be switched on. I’m even lying to you about it being typed on my computer – I’m actually on my mum’s laptop holed up in my room while she watches she season finale of Lost downstairs.

I’m back in spirit, though, even if I may not be technically back with you until as late as Wednesday. It could be in as little as three hours – but with the performance from my provider so far, I’m not holding out much hope.

Which brings me onto my main topic – rants. Oh how I’ve longed to rant while I’ve been journal-less. I couldn’t even go to the library as the internet access there lasts for 15 minutes and you have to stand up. So I’ve been forced to rant long-hand and I’m typing them up for you.

Rant Number 1

This one will actually disappoint you, as I refuse to transcribe it fully. Its contents are quite upsetting and while my friends out there seem to be willing to console a few rants, but I doubt any could handle the virtual emotional breakdown I wrote out in the notebook.

I do feel that the incident was so upsetting that it should be described in the cold hard facts with none of the insults of the rant.

Basically my mother went missing and I found a suicide note on her bed along with all her valuables – which caused me to hysterically call 999. I was forced to tell my dad (4 hours away) what had happened and that her note had essentially blamed him.

Then after 4 hours of worry she returned from the shopping trip she’d taken herself on, screamed insults at me for calling the police, said that she hated me and that I didn’t love her, that I’d nosed in her room and read something private and then had the gall to air her dirty laundry by calling the police.

You can imagine some of the hysterical contents of that rant, but its kind of lead me to a better place. I’ve realised that I’m now living on my own (or will be when she finally leaves on Wednesday) and that my parents problems aren’t (and never should have been) my problems. I’ve wasted my entire teenage years spending my nights at home consoling, comforting, encouraging, pleading with them, and trying to solve their many issues. But I’m twenty and I deserve my own life now – I didn’t ask them to get married or move homes or any of the million things my mother blames her bad life on. A lot of their problems are down to unhappy childhoods, their low confidence, and their character flaws. And guess what? I can’t change any of that and never could have done.

I’m finally free and I will shout that to the world (as soon as my internet starts working).

Rant Number 2

This one is a little bit more rant-y, involves no emotional stuff, and is actually quite embarrassing. Ah…I’ve got your interest back I see.

Let’s just say that it was sunny yesterday after a week of rain and grey skies. Perfect, thought I, I’ll get some juice and test out the new hammock in the yard, while working on my tan and recovering from the intense cycling work-out class I went to this morning.

Emmy got her juice, a low calorie snack, slathered on the sun-cream and climbed in.

You can see where this is going, right?

Emmy leaned back in the hammock (which, incidentally, I had previously tested).

The next thing Emmy bleeding knows she is falling four feet onto concrete and convinced she’s broken her back.

Actually I’ve only badly bruised my behind, but it HURTS and I have chores to do and things to tidy and I can’t BEND DOWN.

Even more annoying, I did not intend to have to WINCE through the Steven Moffat Episode I’d been waiting all bleeding YEAR for.

[Insert OWIE smilie here]

Rant Number 3

Sky are truly excellent television providers. Truly. Pricing is reasonable, I’ve no idea how I functioned in the days before Sky Plus, and setting the TV up was a doddle.

Did I want to set my phone and internet up as well for just £5 a month compared to BTs £30? Hell yeah.

I may have ranted about the issues I had getting set up before, but I’ll update you. Two hours of phone-calling Sky and BT led to them both insisting that I couldn’t be set up with Sky phone or internet but (get this) neither company could actually do anything because it was the other company’s responsibility.  

Essentially there was a tag on the phone line (all UK phone-lines belong to BT) and Sky were supposed to contact them and ask for it to be removed. Sky insisted that it was something I was supposed to do. BT insisted that it was a wholesale number which members of the public couldn’t call.

A week later Sky finally admitted that, oh yeah, it was something that had happened before and they were supposed to sort out. But (get this) it would take them a WEEK to arrange.

The week went. I then had to spend an hour setting up now that there was a line to set up at all and I had to arrange an email address/username. I read out the username three times because I knew that it was an easy one to spell wrong.

E-M-M-Y-A-N-G-U-A

And again.

And again.

I then had her repeat it.

E-M-M-Y-A-N-G-U-A

My router came but (guess what) it wouldn’t be activated until a later date. A phone call to Sky revealed that that date was TWO WEEKS away, and (guess what, again) they put the full blame on BT.

I waited. A week later I got confirmation of my username as password.

Emmyanguy

I was just a bit annoyed, as you can imagine.

I phoned Sky again. It turned out that it was quite impossible for them to change one measley letter (although as least they didn’t blame BT for this one). NO. I had to waste my time logging in and then setting up a second account that I didn’t even want because of their incompetence.

I then trekked to my library to check my bank account – and was annoyed to discover that they’d taken out my money on the bank holiday (when I knew I needed to transfer money into the account but couldn't because I couldn't use the library on a bank holiday) and obviously there wasn’t enough, the debit bounced, and my bank charged me £35 for the pleasure. Firstly who takes money out on a bank holiday? And secondly, it’s it a bit annoying that I’m paying bank charges all because their incompetence has left me unable to check my bank online?

Anyway, the end of the two week wait is up tomorrow, and I’ll see you on the other side. But from their conduct so far, I think you’ll be reading this on Wednesday – and maybe not even then.

If by some miracle you get this tomorrow I’m still not apologising for doubting it.

Anyway, what’s been going on with you all? 

{EDIT - Sky pulled through on this occassion, but only after I spent 40 mins messing around altering my settings this morning.}

Okay, so I'm pissed off. 
BIG TIME.

Why is that I can't break through the writing barrier and become anything more than okay?

I got kicked off my writing run and tamingthemuse today (after seven weeks) for being too fricking late posting because I thought it finished on a Sunday. I barely scraped through the Last Author standing challenge and got at least one comment that made me want to cry. 

To top it off the voting on the tamingthemuse fic barely puts me at 'average', never mind good. 

Why does it feel like no matter how hard I try I can't do it? Writing is all I've wanted for seven years (since I was thirteen) and I loved it before then. So why after seven years am I still average? Or worse, below average? 

Why can't I look at a story I've written and think, 'I know how to make it better'? Instead of just settling for what I've done? 

Why can't I just be good at one goddamn thing? I'm not pretty, I'm not outgoing, I'm not rich, I'm only passibly smart, I'm not educated, I've never even had a fucking boyfriend because no one is interested, I'm not thin, I work in a fucking CALL CENTRE, I don't stand up to people, no one knows the real me at all, and I'm not the girl whose going to get swamped with valentine cards, and I have to be NICE ABOUT IT THE WHOLE TIME. LIKE I DON'T EVEN CARE! 

I'M NOT A NICE PERSON. I'm a BITCH. I sit there and while you all ignore me I'm hating each and every one of you. 

When I talk I can't even finish a sentence. I'm not even fucking confident to finish a sentance. As me the time and even if I know it I'll look at my watch-less wrist and say "It's...uh...about three, I think...". I'm too scared to even say what I really think about anything. Well from now on that's going to change. I'm going to tell people what I really think.

It's like there's a great cosmic sticker on my head that says 'you're not as good as everyone else, so why are you bothering?' and I've spent fucking twenty years BELIEVING IT.

But when I'm writing, just now and then - for a tiny moment - I think this is my talent. I can't sing or dance or any of that, but I can do this.    

Well fuck you all. This is my one thing and no one is going to take it away from me. I'm coming back better and stronger. I'm going to show the world what I have got. 

I'm going to tell the whole world what I really think instead of what I want them to think I think.