So you’ll soon figure out that I am not your average girl (woman?), in fact I am far from average. My friends call me weird so often, that I have started taking it as a compliment and added it to my resume. I mean I am pretty effing strange. But being ordinary is boring too, ladies and gents. I get invited to many places because my company is apparently delightful and entertaining. So that’s what it is. I’m entertainment. It might originate from the fact that I have grown up with a stand up comedian as a dad, and am immune to the emotional spectrum linked to embarrassment and civility. I have grown up quite well, attended prestigious schools with prestigious people, and despite everyone’s combined efforts to turn me into a sophisticated lady, I have remained the same old idiot who enjoys doing the activities concentrated at the apex of the pyramid of stupidity and bad ideas. I am a firm believer in male genitalia and designer heels. I love video games, preferably ones which involve cars and/or shooting things, am not really great at either (no I am not a fucking gamer girl), I love fishing, drunken bar fights, laughing at idiots (other idiots I should say, but seeing as I am a self proclaimed one I’m off the hook, and I prefer having things on my hook, be it hunks or fish), trying to do things which are considered as unhealthy or reserved for people the likes of Steve O and Johnny Knoxville (and the Jackass gang), I mean I could give you examples (trying to hot wire abandoned cars, catch snakes, piss sharks off, yes I honestly have), but I’d just be rambling on for ages. So in other words, I am a serious tomboy. I don’t really look like one, but trust me, I am. The aspects of myself which hint that I am, in fact, a female, are my love for shopping, spending money I don’t have, complaining, sloppy romantic comedies, being occasionally needy and stuffing my face with high quality Swiss chocolate when I’m feeling exceptionally crap about myself (Swiss chocolate not because I’m a snob but because I’m part Swiss and honestly do you expect me to eat anything lesser when my culture has mastered the perfect chocolate formula?). Usually when its that (F*#%?“*) time of the month. The things that do make me feel better then are that my guy (of the moment) tells me how my boobs look even bigger (Than my bloated stomach, fat arse, fat thighs, lovehandles, fat rolls, rolls of fat, Rolls Royce? No I wish but I do get horribly self critical), girls will understand. That was irrelevant but I felt like I needed to throw a little piece of information in which would help you relate to me, the manipulative son of a bitch (daughter? My mothers not really a bitch) that I am. So where does that leave us. You’re reading one of the strangest introductions ever made available to mankind (I already told you, weird is now registered in the column below good, amazing and perfect), either laughing because you can relate to me or find me profoundly moronic, or shaking your head in disgust because you are perfect and what could a weirdo like me possibly say to improve your life? Nothing, so get the f**k out of here you perfect little f**k, I’m proud of you. The rest of you, stay tuned.