Squallyoaks Does Gay Sex

Warning: This video may be too sexy for normal people eyes.

You know that saying 'necessity is the mother of invention?' Well I’ve thought of a new one: ‘poverty spawns creativity.’ And this amazing and sexalicious video proves it. The latest export from Squallyoaks, this 1.20 minutes of ecstasy was made in celebration of our flatmate Dominic's birthday. To think, this masterpiece probably wouldn’t have been made if all of us weren’t so dirt poor that we couldn’t afford to buy Dom an actual present.

Also, if you’re wondering about the whole ‘Karley’s Vagina Promotions’ thing, then yes, it actually exists. I hire someone to do my vagina’s PR. If you want to know more about this, you can email Dom at Dominic@karleysvaginapromotions.omg.org/\/poopoclock

Note: That amazing song you hear in the background- that's my slobulous band, Indie Boys Don't Get Boners.

I'm Turning into my Mother

I'm turning into my mother. It's scary. Actually, it's so far beyond scary that I can't even begin to explain the terror I'm feeling in words. Believe me, I’ve tried. But every time I do my body instantly goes into spasm, puss shoots out of my eyeballs and my tongue flaps around outside my mouth like a confused trout. See, it just happened again. You can’t see me right now, but if you could you’d be laughing.

Back to the point. Like many of us, when I was younger my mother was the single most horrifyingly embarrassing person on the face of the Earth. She had the ability to make a scene like no one I'd ever met before. She was the epitome of that lady. That lady screaming at the waitress. That lady making the shop attendant cry. That lady having a breakdown at the check-out because she thought there was a deal on ice-cream but actually when she got to the register there wasn't and now she's so annoyed that she just needs to scream at someone and the chubby sixteen-year-old girl behind the register was the first person she saw and she thought, she'll do. That lady was my mother. And now, that lady is me.

I yell at everyone—bus drivers, old people, charity workers. I show no mercy. And the worst part is I can’t explain why. Well, deep down I do know why. It’s because I hate the world and everyone in it. But I doubt many people would consider this a rational explanation. It's like I'm constantly on the brink of having a mental breakdown. I'm a walking fucking heart attack. I can't even get on public transportation these days because I'm too afraid I'm going to get claustrophobic and start yanking out the bus seats, barking like a dog and attacking babies with my eyelash curler. It's frightening.

The reason this is all so ridiculous, though, is that I have nothing to be stressed out about. I don't fucking DO anything. Why am I so on edge? Jesus. Imagine if I had a real job where I had to wake up at 8am every morning and, like, go and do work or something. Or if I had to do any of those other real people things I don't do—like pay rent, make my bed, or take showers. I do none of these things. Not one. The only thing I have to worry about on a daily basis is whether to drink vodka or tequila, and whether to think about Jamie Bell or Gareth out of The Office when I masturbate. These are not difficult decisions.

I know your entire life everyone is always warning you that this will eventually happen to you—that you too will grow up to become everything you’ve always hated about those weird, anxious, deranged embarrassing adults that raised you—but I'm only twenty-two for fuck’s sake. I always thought I'd have at least a few more years of dicking around looking cool before I turned into the epitome of everything I despise.

OMG I'm, Like, Totally In French Playboy

This is me showing my boobs in this month's issue of French Playboy. This makes me happy as I like the idea that weird pervy men all over the world are potentially jerking off over my tits, then climaxing all over my shiny, 2-D body, leaving their man juice to dry and get all crusty on my face. Nice one.

The picture was taken by Rankin, who is basically the epitome of the stereotypical fashion photographer. He spent the entire shoot shouting really cliched things like, "Oh yeah baby, give it to me. That's it!" and "Work it girl," while also occasionally throwing in the odd, "Do it. Make love to the camera, you sexy bitch." What was most impressive, though, was that he managed to me me look this amazing (I don't normally) without laying eyes on me one single time. Impressive. Basically, he was everything I hoped he would be and more.

I'd also like to take this opportunity to say that if anyone wants to send me creepy, dirty emails, my email address can be found in the upper right corner of this page. Any I receive I plan to make into a book to give to my boyfriend for his birthday. He's been being a right prick lately. He came home yesterday after I'd been in the house cooking us dinner all night (I would have used the phrase 'slaving in the hot kitchen all day,' but that would have just been a blatant lie. I was making sandwiches.) He was carrying a white plastic bag, held it up and smiled, "I bought you some presents!" This excited me as practically never happens.

So I open the bag all giddy, and what do I find? A carton of apple juice, which I despise (we have been together for four years now. He should know this), a string of love hearts (which is basically the only thing on this Earth I hate more than apple juice), and a copy of NYLON Magazine, which conveniently has the name of his ex-girlfriend's band printed in huge letters on the cover. Wait... let's reevaluate the situation at hand. Do you HAVE a brain, or have you taken such an incomprehensible amount of drugs that it has completely disintegrated, leaving a crater-filled globule of crusted slime it's its place? I know, I've got a great idea! Next time you want to surprise me with something, why don't you just ejaculate into a list of all the girl's names you've ever slept with, and then wrap it in a carton of apple juice? Fucking moron.

So yeah, like I said- filthy emails welcome.