DOtty’s FavOurite Letter Of The Alphabet

 

My favOurite letter Of the alphabet is O.

O is a nice letter, rOund and lOOpy.

Where dOes O begin?

Where dOes it end?

NObOdy knOws.

It begins wherever yOu want it tO begin.

It ends wherever yOu want it tO end.

 

 

YOu can make pretty patterns with it –

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 

It lOOks like a dOt.

It lOOks dOtty.

And spOtty.

And blOtty.

 

 

It’s full Of expressiOn –

O – is an expressiOn Of a sudden surprise – bOO

Or a sOmewhat disappOinting surprise

Or a questiOn (if a questiOn mark immediately fOllOws it)

 

Or –

oooooo – is an expressiOn Of a cOmpassiOnate wince

Or a juicy tempation like a lOvelyCumberland sausage sandwich I’m abOut tO eat

Or a lOvely Cumberland sausage sandwich I’ve just eaten

 

 

 

Because it’s a gOOd letter, O dOesn’t appear in the impOrtant basic swear wOrds I like tO use –

FUCK

SHITE

BASTARD

ARSE

TWAT

 

 

O is the neatest letter Of the alphabet. Even the scruffiest, sprawliest handwriting can’t fuck it up.

O has nO sharp cOrners.

O is perfect.

 

 

O is the shape Of a ring.

O is the shape Of a circle.

O is the shape Of Our planet when yOu lOOk at a picture Of Our planet.

And all the Other planets. 

 O is the shape Of O.

O is the shape Of everything.

O is what we’re made Of.

 

 

 

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The World According To Dotty (An Illuminating View Of EVERYTHING)

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Wanky Wednesday One Word Post

 

 

shite

 

 

 

 

Little Emily Is Dying And Dotty Might Have Destroyed The Universe (If I Have – Sorry Everyone)

 

She’s had a relapse, a bad one. Branwell came last night, but they don’t need me to go up there because Charlotte and Anne are home again. I’m so worried about her I’ve done something I probably shouldn’t have done – I gave Branwell my emergency course of antibiotics that I keep for emergencies and I told him to sneak them to her at the correct times. Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have given them to him but I can’t stand the thought of her being so ill when the very medicine that could make her better is sitting in my medicine cupboard doing nothing. 

But the big question I’ve been asking myself since is – might I be fucking about with TIME and FATE and HISTORY? Might the universe POP or IMPLODE or TURN UPSIDE DOWN or FLOAT AWAY or something just as devastating if little Emily doesn’t stay ill and die when she’s supposed to? Who knows – I don’t know and you don’t know either, the only people who profess to know are the UNIVERSE BOFFINS and all they know is how to talk a load of SCIENTIFIC WORDY SHITE about their THEORIES. But really they don’t know any more than we do – they’re just GUESSING in their SCIENTIFIC UNIVERSE BOFFIN ways of guessing and getting paid a fucking great shedload of money to do so.

Why are there no UNIVERSE BOFFINS who specialise in COMMON SENSE? For instance, when they prattle on about the BALLOON THEORY – I’ve never heard one of them ask ‘What’s on the OUTSIDE of the balloon?’ because common sense says the balloon has to expand into SOMETHING. And what colour is the balloon? (I hope it isn’t yellow, I don’t like yellow balloons, they make me feel sick.) And why isn’t the balloon DEFLATING like old balloons do if they’ve hidden themselves behind the sofa for a week?

And WHO BLEW THE BALLOON UP IN THE FIRST PLACE?

And did who ever blew it up use one of those BALLOON BLOWING PUMPS or did they blow it up with their lips and their breath?

And WHY did they blow it up?

A birthday? A wedding?

And is there any writing on the balloon?

9 TODAY?

HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY?

CONGRATULATIONS (with a little picture of two horseshoes).

It’s all too complicated for my little addled brain to think about. But I’ve affected SOMETHING because WEIRD UNIVERSE TRICKS have already started –

TWO OF MY PENS RAN OUT OF INK THIS MORNING

What are the odds of that happening, eh?

TWO pens, the two pens I use – but I didn’t start using them at the same time, one was older than the other. I’ve left them both sitting on my kitchen worktop so I can try them again later to see if the INK HAS COME BACK because if it DOES come back it means TIME HAS REVERSED ITSELF and I’ll have to prepare myself for my front door de-bricking itself.

 

I’m going to have some Cumberland sausage sandwiches (my last?) and then a big swig of laudanum (my last?) and wait for Branwell to come and tell me how little Emily is doing. IF he comes.

Goodbye, my bloggy friends. It’s been nice knowing you.

 

The Dotty Headbanger Award For Being Mental And Loving It

THE DOTTY HEADBANGER AWARD

FOR BEING MENTAL AND LOVING IT

 

 

I feel like a horrible cow for not accepting awards that people give me so I’ve decided I’m still not going to accept awards, instead I’m going to GIVE OUT MY OWN AWARD because I’m nice and kind like that and it is bettereth to giveth than to receiveth. Also, I needed to show off and brag about my new-found skill of being able to WRITE INSIDE A PICTURE which I spent all morning perfecting.

I’m not really sure how this award thing works, but from what I’ve seen there are specific QUESTIONS TO ANSWER, so here are the questions for THE DOTTY HEADBANGER AWARD FOR BEING MENTAL & LOVING IT.

 

QUESTIONS TO ANSWER

1.  How many bricks do you own?

2.  How many Cumberland sausages can you fit in your mouth without chewing?

3.  What is your most inventive way of using biscuits (or cookies if you’re American)?

4.  If it was made compulsory to have a mental illness which one would you choose and why? (If you have a mental illness already you have to choose another).

 

 

So now I have to give it out to people – BUT I CAN’T, I don’t want to leave someone out and watch them sitting alone in the corner crying because they haven’t been chosen (like when the BITCHES who chose the netball teams never picked ME). So what I’m going to do is present it to EVERYONE WHO READS MY LITTLE BLOG AND EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATES IN ITS MENTALNESS to say THANK YOU VERY MUCH and you all (y’all) can do what you want with it, either give it out and MAKE ME VERY FAMOUS or ignore it (at your peril).

P.S. You now have a choice of TWO pictures, mine (the one I sweated blood and tears over) or the new posh one made by clownonfire (the link to his blog is on the right at the top of Dotty’s Pet Blogs). Choose which one you want.

 

Dotty On Reality (WITH TWO PICTURES)

 

I'm off to get a chunk of moon cheese for my dinner.

If this post is going to make any sense you’ll have to read my last post, Dotty Headbanger, Star of the Dark Satanic Screen and then it will make complete and utter sense. If you don’t read my last post you won’t know what I’m whittering on about here so go and read it NOW and then come back and by then I’ll have finished writing THIS post.

Go on then, off you toddle. And don’t forget, you can’t lie to me and tell me you’ve read it when you haven’t because I CAN SEE YOU ON MY STATS.

 

Right then, you’re back. Good. I’ll start by telling you that I HAVE BEEN TO SLEEP. And it was my last post that SENT ME TO SLEEP (I hope it hasn’t done the same for you – that would be a BAD THING TO HAPPEN and I’d have to cut my fingers off so they won’t ever BORE you again). Anyway, when I was writing my last post  (at 12.30am this morning) I couldn’t work out which parts of it were real and which weren’t and my brain got all boggled and exhausted and I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I fell asleep. But when I woke up this morning everything was crystal clear – my brain must have sorted it all out when I was asleep and I’m not confused about it any more, I know what’s real and what isn’t and so should YOU.

 

So here’s what my brain did in the night to sort out REALITY for me —

 

I am real but I’m not real because the me you THINK I AM isn’t the ME I AM (this is true of EVERYONE, isn’t it?)

Little Emily WAS real but now she isn’t. BUT SHE IS.

Heathcliff was NEVER real, only in little Emily’s head and then in the heads of her READERS which makes Heathcliff real INSIDE HEADS which makes little Emily real because how could Heathcliff be real inside heads if little Emily didn’t put him there?

Nurse Ratchett IS real. I know because I saw her yesterday when she was mean and cruel to Jack Nicholson who isn’t real because the age he was yesterday when I saw him isn’t the age he is NOW, so the Jack Nicholson I saw yesterday is an unreal long gone GHOST.

The dead ewe IS real because the carrion crow was eating it.

The carrion crow is NOT real because where is it? It’s nowhere to be seen.

The Cartesian Evil Demon IS real because if she wasn’t real it would mean that I wouldn’t be here and I AM HERE because YOU ARE READING ME.

I am NOT real. That isn’t really ME cycling to the moon in the picture — I don’t LIKE moon cheese so I would never eat it, I only like DOUBLE GLOUCESTER cheese. And anyway, you know it isn’t really me because how could it be – I CAN’T GO OUT.

The words I am writing are NOT real because when you leave this page WHERE ARE THEY?

YOU are not real because even if you’re size zero you STILL wouldn’t be thin enough to fit inside my laptop.

 

So now we know what’s real and what isn’t, I want to show you this picture of the REAL ME before I finish–

I DON'T LIKE MOON CHEESE, I ONLY LIKE DOUBLE GLOUCESTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

P.S. Do you know how long it took me to do these pictures? A FUCKING LONG TIME, that’s how long. And if they come out wonky when I press Publish I don’t care, they’ll have to stay wonky.

 

Dotty Headbanger, Star Of The Dark Satanic Screen

 

Sometimes I feel like I’m in a film of a tragic, desperate character who goes through a lifetime of SHITE only to die a horrible death at the end. Except I can’t act. And I don’t know who’s directing the film, maybe Nurse Ratched who I always thought was NURSE RATCHETT until 2 minutes ago when I checked I was spelling her name properly – unless everyone else is spelling it wrong and I’m right which is more than likely the case; it happened to Galileo, it could easily happen to me.

So NURSE RATCHETT is the Director, I’m Dotty, the unfortunate main character (who we in the acting world like to call the unfortunate MC), the Producer is a CARTESIAN EVIL DEMON named Clive (do you see what I did there with the name?) and the people in the camera crew are THE SPYING, PRYING EYES OF HUMANITY.

The film I’m in isn’t The Truman Show (which, as we all know, is not a film, it’s a documentary). It’s not Lassie – the last time I looked I wasn’t a dog (actually, that’s not true – after 3 nights with no sleep I admit it, I look a right fucking dog at this moment in time). It’s not any of The Matrix films either because okay I might be having psychotic delusions but they don’t include alterations to the laws of gravity and I KNOW Keanu Reeves can’t run up walls and move at speed x 100 because if he could he’d have done it in The Lake House to get to the letter box on time.

The set is grim (it’s grim up north – which reminds me, did you see that t-shirt with THE YORKSHIRE RIPPER on it? VERY BAD TASTE, A HORRIBLE WAY TO MAKE MONEY, YOU VULTURES – I HOPE YOUR BUSINESS GOES BUST AND YOU GO BANKRUPT AND STARVE).

Yes, the set is grim, filled with all things DARK and SATANIC. The camera pans out across the moody moors and lingers on a carrion crow feeding on the carcass of a dead ewe. The crow caws, a sound that chills the soul, viler than the screeches of BANSHEES ON HEAT. Heathcliff strides over and bats the crow away with his hairy, manly fist. He turns and looks at the camera, his broody, lowered eyebrows meeting in the middle. Little Emily runs up behind him, her skirts muddy and wet. In her inky hand she holds a feather – ‘GET BACK IN MY PEN, HEATHCLIFF, OR I’LL KILL YOU OFF ON PAGE ONE’ – and she stabs him in the neck and he disappears. And so do I.

The End.

 

 

Dotty In The Doldrums (with very little swearing)

 

It’s funny how thinking about one thing always leads to thinking about another. Except when you’re comatose, no one knows what your thoughts do then and there are no memories to show you afterwards. My little foray into thinking got me thinking a bit more today, not much, just one question that kept repeating itself over and over and still won’t go away —

What is Dotty?

No answers come. There are no answers. To have answers you first need truths and all my truths went out of the window years ago. One truth that everyone on this planet thinks they are certain of is BEING BORN. I’ve never been certain of it. How do I know I was born? I only have meine Mami’s word for it and that’s not really proof, is it, it’s hearsay. I don’t remember ANYTHING about my alleged birth and you’d think I would seeing as it’s up there with DEATH in the list of major life events.

 Some of us trudging this planet might not even be homo sapiens, we might be another, different, cousin species of the first apes to stand up, homo doomigloomius, homo slittywrists, homo whythefuckamIevenhere. Because most of the time I don’t feel human and human behaviour confounds and baffles me and I think, Dotty they are just like you without the fuckupiness, but no, they’re NOT, they’re SO different that I can only conclude I’m right about not being completely human, or either I’M not completely human or THEY’RE not, it depends who and what the original namer of the species was –  if he was a happy chappy then THEY became humans, if it was a miserable fuck then We Who Are Mental did.

But if we ARE all one species then it all becomes truly tragic and hopeless (which is the way WE see it now – which, I suppose, is a TRUTH after all). If we are all one species then NORMAL people are merely posturing their way through life in the hope that others will believe they too are NORMAL. Scratch down a bit and We Who Are Mental  would see them for what they really are, reflections of ourselves, because it can’t work the other way round, scratch OUR surfaces and all you’d find is more of the same. And worse.

Which is why, one species or not, WE will always be the not-quite-human humans (if we are human at all), made to feel like an alien species, unborns, mental abominations, fucking loose-minded loonies who need locking away. But it isn’t US they really fear even though they think it is – it’s what they see in us, the dark reflection, it’s what they hear in us, their own echo, it’s what they know when they think of us – that IT lives somewhere within themselves too. And it truly terrifies them. As it should.

 

 

 

 

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