I'm addicted to brake fluid,
but do feel that I could stop at any time.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 9:42, 4 replies)

Physically assaulting God-botherers
This is a weird addiction, so bear with me.

I really hate religion. I hate everything about it. I've had a problem containing the rage since school days, when the local vicar would preach his bullshit during assembly where I had to patiently absorb it or suffer the wrath of the headmaster.

My vitriol is now at the point where just seeing a member of the cloth brings the red mist down. I've even had to be restrained by my friends before, most recently after verbally attacking a bishop on his way to a service. I nearly got arrested for that one but I didn't care. I've realised I get a massive buzz out of intimidating the sanctimonious fuckers.

To make matters worse, I recently moved into a shared house and met a like-minded chap. He shares my contempt for theological brainwashing; if anything he's strengthened my resolve to take it to the next level, so we've formulated a plan.

We live pretty close to a Roman Catholic convent so we're going to go out early next Sunday morning and wait for those pretentious black-clad cunts to make their way to the church. My flatmate bought a pair of steel toe-capped DMs for the occasion, which might be pushing it too far. I'm meant to distract them while he kicks one of the sisters squarely up the arse.

It's dangerous, but we're both determined to kick the Habit.



What?
( chart cat has an itch, Mon 22 Dec 2008, 8:08, 13 replies)

Cadbury's Creme Eggs
It's not really fair calling this an addiction, because I am obliged to go cold turkey when Mr Cadbury turns off his egg factory in April, but by god are these things fine.

Absolutely everything about creme eggs is finely honed perfection. Everything. The purple and scarlet foil wrapper gives the egg a regal air, cladding it in colours fit for a Roman emperor. The delicate aroma of cocoa as the foil tantalisingly reveals the first glimpse of the egg's essential surface is an intoxicating scent, rather like what I image the first, bracing smell of heaven would be like. The chocolate is the perfect thickness to offer just enough resistance to teeth, before descending orgiastically into the fondant below. And the fondant... my god, is this what bees feel when they consume royal jelly? By now quivers of pleasure run through my body, and I'm already considering my next egg.

At college I was a fairly healthy lad, eating five fruit and veg a day, going for runs, rowing etc, but for some odd reason was a spot lethargic. More often than not I would doze off in lectures. However, one night my friends dared me to eat ten creme eggs in one minute. Alas, I failed miserably (four minutes fifty), but, well, ten eggs is ten eggs. Within minutes I felt the effect on my body.

That night, when going to sleep, I was tossing and turning for about an hour. If you have watched the Spiderman movie, imagine the scene where Tobey Maguire spends a restless night while developing superpowers and you will have a fair idea of what I was going through. The next thing I remember is waking up at 6:30 feeling like some kind of Olympian god. I immediately leapt out of bed and went for a refreshing sprint around the city, then woke up one of my friends for a game of squash. Soundly thrashed him. Got to my 9am lecture and took the best damn notes I have ever produced. Went for another run instead of eating lunch. Spent the afternoon in the lab, getting far purer crystals of whatever it was we were synthesising than anyone else. Played squash instead of dinner, and then went for a bit of a dance.

Come midnight I had not eaten a thing all day, so simply had a kebab. Funnily enough, the next day was rather similar.

I am now convinced that a healthy lifestyle does nothing for one's quality of life. Creme eggs are the catalyst for unlocking humankind's potential. If only they were available all year round.
(I grew it myself, Tue 23 Dec 2008, 2:14, 3 replies)

My name is Turtles Head and I am addicted to food
There, that's said it, I feel better now.

In my defense, I have been on prescribed steroids for the last few months, and a side effect of them is that I am constantly hungry. No matter what or how much I eat, I never feel full. Anything is fair game, we have had to buy 3 selection boxes for my niece as I ate the first two.

Virtually every waking moment is spent wondering what I can eat. A typical example of thoughts in my head upon waking up 'Oh God I'm starving...oooh I can see my wifes boobs....they remind me of eggs....mmmmm eggs and bacon, I'm starving...I wonder if she will let me touch them.....ooooh melons....I wonder if we have got any fruit.....I could murder an apple..... mmmm apple pie, I'm starving' etc etc all day long.

Today I reached a new low.

I was downstairs and noticed that one of the advent calendars had not been opened for the last two days. So I opened the windows and thought 'Saffy will never know, she's only 4, who will she tell'.

So I ate the chocolates.

Except they weren't ordinary chocolates, they were special dietary ones specifically made for Saffy.

Saffy is our Weimeraner. It was an advent calendar for dogs.

This morning I was so hungry I ate dog chocolate.
(turtles head is touching cloth poked a dwarf on the forehead at, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 11:18, 6 replies)

Smoking and Masturbation
I've been told that i've got to stop, which is very hard as i'm a 30 a day man and i smoke like a chimney.
(fase69, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 14:27, 4 replies)

Quake
.
I don't play online games any more. Too addictive.

The main game I was addicted to was Quake, specifically the mod Quakeworld. Man those were great days.

It started when I was working for a large insurance company in South London. We were the first company to allow people to buy their insurance on the Internet and I was the guy who'd put together all of the web servers, load balancers and other shit. Because of this we had a fat 2 meg pipe to the Internet.

Now these days, 2 meg sounds like bugger all but these were the days of dialup when most people were still on 28 or 56k modems. 2 meg was a monstrous amount of bandwidth back then. But it wasn't enough for what we wanted.

Us Quake players in the office didn't want to share our bandwidth with people buying fucking car insurance. We wanted our own pipe. So we went and bought another 2 meg and explained to the company grown-ups that it was for redundancy. If the main link fell over the we could fail-over to this new link. All that was true but the real purpose was to play Quake.

There were about 10 of us in the company who were Quake fanatics and we formed our own Clan with our own uniforms. Most other clans had names like:

"Death Stalkers!
"The Knights Of Dark Reknown"
"Blade Kissers"

and they all had jazzed up fancy skins with lots of sharp bits and skulls.

Not us.

We were Clan Fluffy - Death In A Fur Coat. Our uniforms were big pink fluffy coats and sunglasses. Every other clan in the universe hated us for not taking it seriously.

We'd be sitting in the office late at night, headphones connected through our own phone system so we could talk to each other and co-ordinate our attacks and defence. We'd all report in from our workstations that we were ready to go and we'd simultaneously connect to the same server. 10 geeks in pink fluffy jackets would drop into a Quakeworld server and unleash hell on the other players.

For the first 30 seconds there'd be absolute carnage as we fragged our way across the map and then the squeals would appear, flashing across our screens as the other players registered that we were on their server.

"It's Clan Fluffy!!!"
"Get the pink bastards!!"
"Everyone play together - truce. Get the pink cunts"

But it was never any use. We had virtually zero lag due to our massive bandwidth and our headset communication was an order of magnitude more efficient at co-ordination than texting commands as they they had to do. Even on a virtually full server - 50 of them versus ten of us it was always carnage.

I must have wasted thousands of good drinking hours playing that game.

Man those were good days. I still miss them but I can't afford the time anymore to get involved in online playing. It would suck the rest of my life away. But I don't regret it.

Cheers - "Death In A Fur Coat!"
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 6:53, 6 replies)

Wanking
Went to see the doctor about it. He said to me "You're going to have to stop it".

"Why?"

"It's making it too hard to examine you"




/coat
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 18:16, 4 replies)

'Twas the night before Christmas
and most everyone
was sleeping, not trying
to think of a pun.

Their minds were at peace
and their souls unconflicted.
They needed no wordplay
on being addicted.

Their stockings well-hung
(in the G-rated sense)
while lonely apeloverage
was tired and tense

and...no, actually fuck it.
I'm not spending all night.
Merry Christmas to all
though this poem is shite.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Wed 24 Dec 2008, 14:46, 6 replies)

Kryptonite.
God knows why I'm telling you this. I feel though that there's an unfair fixation on male masturbation concerning young teenagers. So, yeah, around the age of 12, I noticed that occaisonally I'd get an urge to touch that place. Girls, of course, don't leave so much of a mess when we're finished. No crusty pillow cases for mum to kindly never mention to us. No, slapping the hole of cod is a much more discrete activity, and one that has pretty much stuck with me for years.

The thing is, with it not being so talked about, there are several aspects of autoeroticism that are almost shameful to engage in, and not given as much media-attention, maybe, as their male counterparts. I mean, who's ever heard of softly microwaving a whole banana and not just the skin? Cue several years accruing thick-tongued partners, dildos, vibrators, Ben Wa bells, magic eggs and really stiff pillows.

But the most glorious discovery I ever made was at a Christmas Party in '94. The scene: London, Holden & Smith's (accounting firm) HQ. I'd been drinking wine with my boss, M, and talking about the cute intern who she was planning to seduce. Me being a committed type and having a boyfriend, who turned out to have as little heart as he did cock. Anyway, it wasn't snowing, but in the name of reminiscing, it was snowing...

~~~~~~~~~~~

M says she wishes the party would get started. Sure, it was an accounting firm, but accountants can rave too, y'know? Alright. They can't. But we can clumsily jive to the kind of music that you only really hear on Mark Lamarr's radio shows. We were keen on it though, and the wine was going to our heads and our cheeks, and so we started talking to the DJ and he agreed to play some stuff for us, just while things were being set up.

Both M and myself were in heels and couldn't dance until they'd got the floor covered, for fear of standing on some of the razor tinsel, so we plunked ourselves down on the speakers, and I think I may have used the phrase, "Hit it DJ!"

And then it hit me. Oh shit. The reverb, it just went into my soul, right through me, via the holiest of holies. It was amazing. I turned to M and she turned to me. I remember thinking that she'd know just by looking at my face. I'd found my one true weakness. And from that day to this, I remain, totally addicted to bass.

Woa-wo-wow!
(sorry., Sat 20 Dec 2008, 4:47, 5 replies)

Drinking...
My mum used to drink heavily.

Some days she'd drink 3 or 4 bottles of Vodka, but with the so-called credit-crunch, she's had to cut back.

She's started to drink brake fluid.

I've told her that clearly she needs to get help, but she reckons that she can stop at any time.








[gets coat]
(dchurch bah, Mon 22 Dec 2008, 14:38, 8 replies)

Wrath of Khan
When my father died I suddenly felt very alone in the world. I didn't see him too often anyway working away in Amsterdam all the time, and him back home in Oklahoma really put too much distance between us. In Oklahoma there are two things to do in your spare time, hunt or fish. Neither my father or myself could bare the idea of hunting and so, whenever I was home, we went fishing.
We'd load up the pickup and head to Pickwick, which is where most of the local guys my dad worked with chose to fish.
The mississippi always reminds me of my dad and I honestly think that my happiest times have been spent with him there.
The most common fish in the rivers is the white bass, beatiful fish they are, a little too oily to eat but great to catch and release.

We used to sit in our boat with an old stereo playing country songs and fish all night. Slowing drinking the beers my dad always sneaked past my mother and into the truck.

I'd agreed to make a journey over one weekend in febuary but work suddenly offered me double time to stay the weekend and work. Lovley cash, and i really did need to catch up.
i called my dad and told him that I was working late in transformatorweg, and i wouldn't be able to make the journey.
He sounded ok and i promised that next time we were over we would spend two days out instead of just one.
Later that weekend I got a call from my mother, Dad had been out fishing and not come home, she'd sent his friends out to look for him and when they'd found him he was collapsed in his boat on the shore. He'd had a massive heart attack and later died on his way to the hospital.
I never got to go fishing that last time.
Now i have my own son i go fishing as much as i can with him. My wife complains that it takes up every weekend. we still listen to that old stereo and he's old enough to have a beer or two now.
Inside i always toast to dad.
Two weeks ago my son asked me why i looked sad when we were fishing.
I explained that standing by the stereo I'm feeling so alone
My back against a speaker and I'm moving on my own
Surrounded by so many and they're staring at my face
They're picking up my problem

I'm totally addicted to bass
Wow woah ho
(jindodsdadsdogsdead I am not stusut79, Sat 20 Dec 2008, 18:29, 4 replies)

I guess I'm not much of a sex addict.
At my old university, there was a woman I'd had my eye on for about six months or so, possibly longer. Problem was, despite the combined efforts of her friends and my attention, she was not in the least interested in me as far as I or anyone else could tell.

Finally, one Friday, long after I'd given up and decided that the closest I would get to shagging her was to shag someone who had shagged a guy she'd shagged, she asked me if I wanted to take her to the bar after class. She may have only been using me for my car, but that didn't mean there might not be some "reimbursement" for the favor later.

I jumped at the chance. Here's the next problem, though: I am a solitary drinker, and a hopeless alcoholic (sober for many years now). I hated the bars and never felt comfortable drinking in one. If I drank the way I wanted to I wouldn't be able to drive home, or even walk, for that matter. There was a good chance the bartender would throw me out the back door, a puking pissing mess.

We went to the bar, I sipped a beer while she said hello to some of her friends. Within fifteen minutes, the craving set in and all I could think about was my full and lonely whiskey bottle back in my dorm room. The craving was beyond control, so I found her, said my goodbyes and went home to get drunk.

I traded a night I would never have forgotten for a bottle of whiskey I don't remember. I have few regrets from my drinking days, and this missed opportunity is one of them.
( setimret likes his metaphors mixed, not stirred, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 15:04, 4 replies)

Warning!
Long, very unfunny post ahead.

Several years ago, I began to have troubles with depression. Whilst I was at University I was (mostly) able to stay on top of it, but after I graduated I plunged head-first into full on despair.

I was not really equiped or ready to deal with it, so I did what many a depressed person before me has done, and heavily self-medicated (or, to put it in real terms, drank myself into oblivion at every given oppertunity). This was exasserbated by the fact that I worked in an off-licence (or liquor store, depending on your nationality).

I became very adept at hiding what I was doing. I would travel from pub to pub, only having one or two drinks in each one. I would always have a book, so that I wouldn't just be sitting there (I also had a notebook, and some of what I wrote in there simply terrifies me). I was spending hundreds of pounds - pounds I couldn't afford - a month on booze, and managed to max out my credit card (they actually reduced my limit because I wasn't able to pay it off). I would miss rent payments, bills, everything, because I had spent all my money on liquid death.

I also became very good at stealing from work. I probably averaged one or two stolen bottles a week, and it was never pinned on me.

What I did during this period, I simply do not know. Whole months of my memory are missing, as I would wake up hungover - usually in my clothes - at one or two in the afternoon and head off to work, have a couple of drinks there (yup, couldn't even last a couple of hours), then when I closed head off to the nearest boozer. There are people who know me from this period - I have no idea who they are. There are people who hate me for crimes against them I have no memory of committing. I alienated friends by repeatedly phoning at 3am, and then making no sense as I slurred gibberish over and over. If I was working a morning shift, it was about a 50/50 chance that I would sleep in and not open the shop. It's a miracle I wasn't fired.

Oh, and it made me physically disgusting - not washing, not washing my rather long and very greasy hair, not brushing my teeth, pissing myself, shitting myself once or twice.

This lasted about a year.

Then, one evening that I recall surprisingly clearly, I found myself on a rooftop, and the only reason I didn't jump off was that it was not high enough to finish me off.

That memory terrified me in the morning, so I called my doctor (three years later than I should have) and began the long process of straightening myself out.

Which I have, more or less. I am no longer in therapy, no longer on medication. I am still, however, in a serious pile of financial poo.

I don't drink nearly so much as I did, now. However, I still drink a lot, lot more than I should. Every now and then it just digs away in the back of my mind - smokers will recognise the urge, the desperate need, and nothing will put it off, nothing at all. I still give in sometimes, and buy myself a bottle or two of wine when I am in the house alone. I have to watch myself when I am out socially, as I am pathalogically unable to just have one or two. Once I've started, if I am not incredibly careful, I will be bounding for the finish line like Sebastian Coe.

It says something about me that I no longer notice hangovers, unless they are killer, in which case I may just moan once or twice.

I am trying. I am really trying to stop this. I am getting better at it, gradually. I think, in particular, health concerns are the biggest factor. But it's always there, the unceasing voice in the back of my head: "Go on, you know you'll like it. You'll feel better. Just one, to relax you. Go on..."

I don't know if it's ever going to leave, and that scares me to death.
(HarryTheMole whatever's on my finger is going in your mouth, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 11:07, 10 replies)

*breathes*
Okay. I'll admit it.

I am a lump-lovin', skin-examining, pustule-popping ZIT ADDICT.

I have, many a moon ago, caught myself picking at my ex's spots in broad daylight at the train station.

Another ex asked me what I would do if he stopped getting them- I told him I'd surreptitiously rub Big Macs in his face as he slept.

I have all sorts of techniques for dealing with all but the very worst spots- ranging on the horror-scale from 'wiggling' to 'knuckling' to the dreaded 'needling'. Sometimes I'm too excited (or drunk ) to bother sterilising the needle (gee, I wonder why I'm single?).

People are impressed that I can reach one arm over my shoulder and the other over my back and hold my hands. I can do this left-over-shoulder and right-over-shoulder. They wouldn't be so impressed if they knew it was a developmental response to the frustration of back pimples I couldn't reach previously.

One of the highlights of getting my tattoo was squeezing the blackest of all blackheads out of it a week later (and I once dated a guy with technicolour bacne cos of all his varied tatts- and still think about those happy little pus-bombs).

Sometimes I see the word 'pussy' and my first thought is that it means 'pus-filled'- hang on....ewww. WORST ENTENDRE EVER!

The kinds of pimples have different names- and some repeat offenders (of the genus 'phoenix') even get their own names which are hilarious and sweary. I trash talk them as I kill them. Out loud.

I get trigger fingers around people with really obvious pus-pin~atas (sorry don't know the key for the squiggle*). I don't know if I've ever been caught but I dread the day. I'll be working out exactly how I'd go at it, and I'm experienced enough to reasonably predict volume, type, and shooting-pressure of pus. So much so that if the friend who lets me do his is sick of it and tells me I can only do one, I'll pore (whoops, a pun!) over his face like a kid at a lolly-shop window clutching a lone coin, choosing the biggest and best. And usually try to sneak a few more before he yells at me.

I have even *shame* taken photos of really awesome ones so that I can admire them later. You can't keep them you see, they dry out and shrink (probably good for me though, otherwise I'd probably have grotty jars-ful- actually, that's turned even my stomach, so probably not).

I squeeze my own zits in the mirror at least three times a day. I've even started doing the obvious ones that spring up during the day at work while I poop, with my compact mirror set up on the toilet-paper dispenser. If I find a really bad one in bed at night with my fingers, and don't want to get up, I'll do it by feel with ridiculous accuracy. And sometimes be disappointed if it is an awesome one because I would have loved to see it come out.

I did, however, once stumble across a vid on youtube that put me off for literally days (and no, I wasn't searching for pimple porn- I saw the link somewhere else). I figured it'd be lik e on Jackass when that one guy squeezed a blackhead at the camera. Oh no...

It was a giant infected sebaceous gland (okay, well they all are, but this was rank), the size of my fist in the middle of a guy's back. It was being tended to by some freakin backwards witch doctor or something, surrounded by onlookers. He burst the monster with some kind of instrument (couldn't see what). Rivers of pus spewed down the guys back, and the core itself was like a giant squiggly blackhead, about the size, volume and consistency of toothpaste. Come to think of it, the vid may well have put me off brushing my teeth too.

I didn't even make it to the end. I managed not to throw up and ventured off to warn the interweb in another forum I frequent. Some among us were nurses and very strong of stomach (as am I, usually). They made it to the end and told me that the infection was finally evacuated completely by a swish-around of the witch-doctor's bare fingers in the now gaping wound.

So I'm not the worst in the world- result!

Length, etc. But I got it out in one unbroken, squiggly piece, so by gum it was worth it!

*and if you are similarly disadvantaged, do not ever wish someone happy birthday in Spanish by typing it up. "Cumpleanos feliz" without the squiggle means "Happy anus". Word to the wise!
(Angie the Redneck Wonder, Tue 23 Dec 2008, 8:13, 8 replies)

posting puns on b3ta.
Yes, I'm addicted to online corn.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 22 Dec 2008, 14:43, 5 replies)

sdrawkcab sgniht gnitirw ot detcidda m'i
pleh!
( waffle1 is lurking on, Mon 22 Dec 2008, 16:27, 10 replies)

Well
So there i was. cold shivering, walking through town in the dead of night, flicking at my mobile phone, the battery dying but anxiously waiting for a call to come through. I see a bench, vacant, like me, and i'm weary, this is my 3rd day awake in a row, i shuffle over to it, my arms and legs limp and raw, my fingers start buzzing, My phone! At last, i paw at the keys, it connects, and i hear a voice rasp, "yeah", i'm not impressed, i've been waiting for this call for hours and he has the nerve to sound like some retard chimpanze that's just come out a of a coma, but i keep my thoughts to myself. "You got the stuff?", i enquire, my teeth chattering in the cold, "Sure it's right here in front of me". Well fucking great, another 4 mile walk just to get ripped off, but i'm not complaining, he's been always been there for me to take my money, whatever time of night or day, not unlike the other class of scum that's on the street, they're not even old enough to have their own house yet, selling out of someone else's garden, i bet they're all tucked up in bed with their computer games and dumb school girl friends, easy money to them, sell some drugs here, take a few there, "the good life" or so they say, but i'm rambling now, "ok, i'll you in a bit" i mutter down the phone, i hang up, switch off the phone in the safe knownledge that i'm not popular or wanted enough to be called back tonight, or any other for that matter, put the coat in my pocket and set off into the night.

It's not a bad night tonight, the drunken parties ended about an hour ago, just as i was coming too in an empty carpark, and everyone's going home to be happy tommorow, the joy of christmas, or so they say. A chill breeze slithers through the streets, i pull my worn leather jacket around me, a thin holey t-shirt and some baggy jeans that haven't been washed for days, i'm also at his house now, i walk up to the intercom, press it twice, a call sign, the police only ring once, he answers, not waiting for him to speak i say "it's me". I'm in, walking up four flights of stairs, the door's on the latch and i walk right in, he's sat alone, which was strange, day or night there's always a few people knocking around, but apparently hospitality isn't high on his list tonight, i reach into my jacket, and toss him a half torn, worn out £20 note, it's all i have left, there are 4 needle's out on the table, i look quizzically at him, "merry christmas" is all he says, i don't argue, free drugs are never to be passed up on, but there will be no enjoy, as i need these to stay awake, i need these to feel something, just that one last token hit of magic, "yeah and a happy fucking new year", i say back, i scoop up the needles and head to the bathroom.

Bent spoons and used needles lie in the path, torn towel everywhere, first timers, need to get their veins to show, i've done this a thousand times before, i check the needle, and slip it into my lifeless arm, i wait for the rush to come, that pin prick of life to course through me, this is my happy ending, well until tommorow, 10 seconds pass, nothing, 20... i look down at the fresh hole in my arm, it's hard to spot at first, scar's scracthed away from years of abuse, it's seeping a bit of blood.. why can't i feel anything.... I grab a strip of towel wrap it round my arm and pull it tight, the vein, almost destryoed, surfaces gently and weeps a single droplet of blood, i grab a 2nd needle and jab it into my arm... FUCK, WHY CAN'T I FEEL ANYTHING, shit, this is bad, bad drugs, no way, he's always been good to me, and it's christmas, it's not supposed to happen this way, i grab the last 2 needles desperate claw for a vein. My wrist starts throbbing, it's as good a place as any, i stab both of them into my wrist, i don't even care anymore if they hit a vein, these have to work...

i wait, theres nothing more to it now, i mean 4 needles in as many minutes, i should be on cloud fucking nine by now, suddenly my head goes light, and i feel warm and wet, theres a dull throbbibg in the my head, i must of hit it as i fell off the toilet, a bright light comes on, and i drift off to have my bit of life.



"Shit!", fucking junkies, i mean he can't of been there long, 5 - 6 minutes max, i'm staring at a soon to be body of a regular customer, his leather jacket around his slim frame, but his weight isn't my main concern, it's the worrying amount of blood seeping out of his wrist with 2 needles in it that are my main concern, i lean down and gingerly pull the first one out, i reach for the second and drag it clear, FUCK, theres blood everywhere, the needles now disgarded in the bath, i have to get him out of here, trust reliable junkies to go and OD and bleed out on my night off... There has to be a way out of this, i drag his body through my apartment, blood's going everywhere, i pick him up and throw him over my shoulders, i've had to lift heavier bags of shopping, i walk down the steps and out into the night, he starts to choke, i don't know if this is a good or bad thing, he's stopped moving on my shoulders, all i wanted for once was some peace and quiet, and i get stuck with this waster. I drop him into the back of my car. I don't know if he's breathing, you can never tell, and this pissing wind isn't helping, i close the door and go round, turn the engine on, it splutters to life and all i can think is "drive".

I watch from my parked car as the paramedics load his body into the ambulance, i'm not half a mile away from where i live, the black bag he's in is twice his size, his skeletal frame barely making a dent in it. They couldn't tell when exactly he died or where, just that it was somewhere between 3:30 - 4:30am on christmas morning, his name was Edward, and he was 23.
(My name was taken by me Is Sleeping With Your Sister/ Daughter/ Mother On, Mon 22 Dec 2008, 16:22, 4 replies)

I've found it impossible to become addicted to love,
since the local supply is cut with so much other crap.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 20 Dec 2008, 3:30, 1 reply)

inter-office team meeting
with work one year, there were about 40 of us sitting along a giant table. we were from 3 different offices and some of us hadn't met before. so the boss thought it would be a great icebreaker if we all stood up and introduced ourselves.

which was fine, until it got to one guy, who stood up, held his waterglass in the air, and announced, "Hi, my name's Phil and I'm an alcoholic."

most of us thought it was hilarious, but the boss didn't. poor disciplined phil. i've never yet had the guts to try this in a work scenario!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 11:27, 8 replies)

Anal Sex.
A girl I once dated was a slave to the anal g-spot. On our first foray into making the beast with 2 backs, I was slightly bemused, and more than a little aroused when she insisted I penetrate her rectally.
This was fine when she had douched prior to the act being performed, but when she became randy at work and insisted we engage in velocitous and frenzied fornication on our arrival home from work, I often pulled out with more than I went in with.. ergo, a couple of large and unsightly winnits adhering to my manhood.
Sadly my wish to use her mauve envelope instead fell on deaf ears, and eventually led to the downfall of our relationship when, after a series of shuddering orgasms, each more climactic than the last, I withdrew my spent phallus, and was rewarded with a payload of arse-gravy of biblical proportions.

It took me weeks to get the smell out of the mattress and eventually I was forced to dump it in the doorway of a nearby charity shop.

We parted shortly after. The last time I saw her she was being prescribed anusol in bulk quantities and required 3 pile cushions for her distended anus whenever she sat down.
(Vic Flange, Wed 24 Dec 2008, 9:03, 9 replies)

Kinder Surprise
Since starting work in a building with it's own shop, I have become addicted to the eggs of numbing inevitability. Not to the point where I ask for them in the third person, but still.

It started innocently enough as a bit of a jape between myself and a co-worker. We bought them, and sure enough got a nasty little toy inside the horrible chocolate. We did this for a couple of days just to see what pitiful, shoddy lumps of plastic were on offer. Then it happened.

The other guy got a miniature helicopter (which can be seen at the bottom of the pic below). It was great. Simple, effective, and it really flew. We played around with it for a bit, and eventually he challenged himself to get it out of the skylight. He did. The fun was over.

I had to have a helicopter of my own. I hadn't had enough fun with it, and he'd lost his. So I bought some more. And more. Even though I got strange looks from the cashier and other customers. And then I got one. So the other guy had to have another one, as we'd discovered they could fly sideways as well. After a while the teeth on the pulley system which allows the spinner to take off wears out. I was desperate for another, and my co-worker was helping, but at a slower rate than I. He wasn't addicted. I was.

And now, even though the helicopters are no longer included as one of the prizes, I keep collecting, on the lookout for the next great lump of plastic. I'm eating endless amounts of shitty chocolate in the vain hope there might one day be something amazing in the little egg. Occasionally, there are some nifty bits, but most of the time it's cack. Stuff you have to build is generally okay, especially if it doesn't fit inside the egg it came in. You might notice there are some strange animals in there. They have interchangeable parts, and you can give a fish horse legs, and a rhino crocodile legs, etc. I keep collecting so I can have complete variation. The main collection at the moment is 'Pirates and Monsters'. I'm two figures away from a complete collection (mental analogy welcome), but I keep getting the same ones again. Still I don't stop. At 55p a throw, the collection now stands at around £40 worth. It's ridiculous. It gains me nothing. The chocolate is crap, and the plastic is poorly painted. Some of it is just useless (flick books, jigsaws, etc). But as this picture shows, I am addicted:



P.S. And this is without going into how to choose the egg from the display, whether to eat or open first, the savouring of unwrapping the foil or the dedication in applying stickers. All have procedures which I must strictly adhere to.
( Awesome Welles petitioning for foetuses to be rebranded 'wombles', Tue 23 Dec 2008, 19:05, 7 replies)

Salt and Vinegar Strokes.
I don't really like crisps. I am aware of their existance as a snacking option, but would normally bypass them for either a non potato-based savoury alternative or maybe a bit of chocolate. Normally, they just passed me by.

Anyhoo, one day whilst living in student halls I decided to "make my way to Billy Mill roundabout". To "groom the wookie". To "take the one eyed snake for a walk". And after that, if I had time, I thought I'd have a wank as well.

Anyway after I coughed my filthy yoghurt, I had an urge for a post masturbationary snack. This being student accomodation, my options were limited to the snack machine in the common room. As I craved a savoury product, the only options available to me were either nuts (instant, painful death) or salt and vinegar crisps by a well known manufacturer advertised by a jug eared ex footballer.

I purchased said crisps and returned to my room, where I fell upon them like a beast. I don't know whether it was due to my post -fwapping glow or a major electrolyte imbalance, but these crisps were the BEST I ever tasted. I finished the bag and lay back with a satisfied sigh. Since then, no episode of self-love is complete without a bag of Mr Walker's salted snacks. Aeven the sight of the packet gives me the horn.

Ahh...and I'm spent.

Length? Shorter if you get salt on it.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Sat 20 Dec 2008, 8:48, 4 replies)

Fizzy Goodness
I have recently become addicted to eating Berocca-style fizzy vitamin things straight from the tube. It may possibly be the healthiest addiction ever. Plus, if you put a whole one in your mouth, you eventually look like you have rabies.
(kitteny_goodness, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 17:21, 2 replies)

I thought I was addicted to sex
But I haven't had it for a month and the withdrawal symptoms aren't nearly as bad as I thought they'd be. A shaky hand every now and again, but that's about it.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 19 Dec 2008, 10:32, 1 reply)

I’m an addict. No, worse than that, I’ve become a pusher…
Oh, people of B3ta, hear my sorry tale of woe that you might amuse yourselves and escape such a fate.

It’s been ten years. I thought I was cured. It was hard. After I gave it up, threw it all out, avoided anywhere I could get it and pretended I’d never known it’s sweet embrace, I thought it was out of my life – forever. Oh, how short sighted I was.

It all came back last year. Thanks to a no-good, layabout friend of mine. And, most sickeningly, a police officer. That one phone call was the beginning of the end.

“Mate, umm, I was kinda just thinking, it’s been a long time, you know? Maybe we can try it again, see how it goes?”

If I’d had any inkling of the consequences I’d have slammed the phone down, buried it in concrete and never spoken to him again.

You see, I’m addicted to… God, I can’t even say it. I don’t want you all to judge me, but I might, just might, reach somebody else out there.

I’m addicted to Warhammer 40000. I know… It was a slow descent back into madness. It started with a novel, a dog-eared sci-fi fest that a friend recommended.

‘There’s no harm in a book,’ I said. My friends, a few, self-deluding fools, agreed. “It’s not like we’re gonna collect the models, that’d be tragic. They’re for kids.” ‘Yeah,’ we guffawed, ‘we’re not going down “that” road. Definitely not.

We’d chat over beers. “Have you read the latest book? It’s great.” And it was. And for a time it went no further. We kept it to ourselves and kept it ticking over.

Then, Black Tuesday. The day it got out of control. That phone call. “Mate, I was just passing the shop and I bought a squad of Space Marines and some paint… You know, it’ll be fun. Just a laugh… Maybe you could get some too? And I’ve asked the others, they’re gonna do it too. Please? I can’t be the only one…”

And so it began. So began the buying, modelling, painting and playing. Books, paints, tanks and sordid weekends involving D6 and a Codex. Afternoons spent being lectured on rules by eight-year-olds and having our arses kicked by teens with their mums beeping car horns outside.

God, I feel so dirty. But I’m in too deep. Six months in, about £400 in models, paints, books and scenery. Last night I…oh my… I went to Warhammer World in Nottingham…

I’m sorry, I can’t go on. I’m going to have to shower again. But the dirt never comes off… Maybe afterwards I can paint some Shield Drones… *sob*

Length? Dunno about that, but the standard miniature height is 28mm….
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Thu 18 Dec 2008, 21:18, 10 replies)

This story is true, I swear......!
In case anyone hasn't read my profile, here's a small recapitulation:

I have done a fair whack of stuff. I've done a wide range of drugs (legal or otherwise), I smoke, I drink, I gamble and I'm an adrenaline-junkie.

I've done it all and I could take or leave it. I don't really have an addictive personality. But there is one thing I went through utter hell to break free of.....

Swearing.

Up until 2 years every other word would either the "P-word", the "S-word", "F-Word" or the "C-word". If I were to say "Some gentleman told me go away", it would come out like:

"That 'effing c-word just 'effing told me to 'eff off!"

I was so inarticulate. My turning point was when I read "The Count of Monte Cristo" by Alexandre Dumas. I read his prose and the way he structured sentences and thought "I wish I could sound like that".

From that day onwards, I gave up swearing. It wasn't easy, everytime I couldn't express myself or got flustered or angry, I'd resort back to swearing again. It took 6 months for me to start structuring sentences without any swearing in it without thinking about it.

After 2 years, I've finally given up swearing. I'm quite proud of myself. It was the toughest bad habit I've ever had to break, but I feel it was for the best.

Now it's time to learn some new words. Anyone got a dictionary.....?

Length? Well, after 2 years, I'm still going strong...
(The Stig, Thu 18 Dec 2008, 20:06, 5 replies)

sex drugs and rock and roll
sex - all the time, got to have it, at it like a rabbit 15 times a week and more on sundays, doggie, anal, facesitting, asstomouth, the works, two, three different guys a day*

* may actually be in danger of sealing up and becoming a born again virgin

drugs - yeah baby, coke, e's, heroin, k, roofies, everything except boring dope, my bag is squished full of my stash*

* may be lemsip, tunes and strepsils

rock'n'roll - see above*

* may be blurry eyed from poring over tedious insolvency documents and consider bed at 10pm a huge relief compared to this shit...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 18 Dec 2008, 18:25, 5 replies)

When...
1) the only choice of drinks in your house are cider or tap water.

2) 'once you pop, you just can't stop' becomes true...
That might be an innuendo for you girls out there i don't know.

3) your greatest fear is being facebook-raped.

4) you have read every single front page of the QOTW for the last year.

5) you just can't stop thinking about 'her'...
or facebook stalking her.

6) your family gets you cider and biscuits for your birthday...
and that is all.

7) Every facebook picture you are in involves you either drunk or getting drunk...
Even the ones at 10am.

8) You judge people who don't know what happened in last week's episode...
and then find it difficult to make conversation with these 'weirdos'

9) you add everyone you meet, however briefly on facebook....
you then look through their profile to see if you think that you will actually get on with them.

10) you know which 'flash' games to recommend to friends when they're bored.

11) you wait for the new QOTW to come up...
and then are pleased for the rest of the day when your post gets on the first page no matter how irrelevant...
and are then devestated when your post doesn't make it onto the front page.

12) you spend more on alcohol each week than food.

13) most of your anecdotes come from b3ta.

14) you measure how good a drink is by it's alcohol:price ratio. The higher the better...
taste is irrelevant.

15) you are proud to be called a b3tard or b3tan.

16) 7p ASDA smart price noodles becomes an option if it means you can get another pint tomorrow night.

17) you compile this list at 2am because you're bored.

18) everything in life can be related to something that you saw in the simpsons, south park, family guy or scrubs.

19) you keep going back for more with the girl that clearly doesn't feel the same about you...
but until she makes it abundantly clear that she doesn't you will go back again.

20) the first thing you did on the day the 7th book came out was go and get it...
you were very happy when Mrs Weasley shouted "NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!" in the last book...
and have joined facebook groups with other people that agree.

21) you will do almost anything for a free drink.

22) you are a 16-22 year old male and 'it' is all you ever think about.

23) you think that Russell Brand is a pretentious twat but still envy him.

24) you collect different kinds of cider cans and bottles.

25) watching Anne Widdecombe present 'Have I Got News for You' is better than sleep.

26) a 'mixer' just takes up vital room.

27) Arnold Schwarzenegger in 'Jingle all the way' becomes vital watching.

28) strongbow is drinkable...
otherwise you wouldn't be able to afford to drink as much as you want to.

29) you write or read fanfiction of any kind.

30) you need BBCi player to survive.

31) you cried when a fictional character died.

32) super strongbow (7.5%, 3.8 units a can) is THE BEST THING EVER.

33) You put way too much thought into your posts which it is likely that no-one will ever read or really care about.

or is this just students?

EDIT:
34) you come back to your post and make several additions and alterations.
(Ginger_Whinger got in the newsletter!! =D, Tue 23 Dec 2008, 2:13, 6 replies)

women.
Can't get enough.

Can't get any in fact.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 22 Dec 2008, 23:07, 7 replies)