So

I applied for a job yesterday. A real job. Well, I say real job, I mean a weekend job in a library. 

I had to fill it loads of forms online. Most of which I answered as 'None' or 'n/a' or just left it blank, cos I haven't bloody done anything.  If they're looking for someone with experience then I have no hope. They also wanted to know my sexuality and religion. I ticked 'Heterosexual' and 'Lesbian' then added as a note (well I THINK I'm heterosexual but I'm not totally sure. I may swing the opposite way. I'll keep you posted.)* Points to Louise for creativity. Then I ticked all six religion options and added (I like to practise all, to cover every eventuality that may occur during my life.)* 10 points. I was also tempted to put my age as 205, but I thought that might be pushing the mark and be really childish.

The box where you sell yourself was cool though. Naturally I shouted for "MUUUUMMMMM..." cos I "NEEDed HELP WITH THE HARD BIIIIIIIIIIT". But she just stared at the screen and after a while said "Well I don't know. Say you're amazing and they'd die without you." before walking away to carry on doing the washing...or other mumsy things...*shrugs* So I filled it with "Why hello. To be honest, I have a shitload of stuff I could tell you about me, so I'm going to make this short and sweet. I'm amazeballs and am gonna be, like, well famous one day. So you should hire me so in 10 years time you can say 'Ooooooooh guurrrrllll I SO knew Louise Jones before she got proper rich and famooooo.' Love to the family. Caio."* 100 points. I am pretty much guaranteed the place.

IN OTHER NEWS:

I get my GCSE results next Tuesday. That's LESS THAN A WEEK my friends. Let us pray. And book a one way ticket to Japan. They have everything in Japan. Everyone (adulty people) keep asking "How do you think you did?" and I have no fucking idea. Which makes the whole situation a whole lot worse cos I have a load of As on my left shoulder going "Oh babe you aced them all. You wrote like a bleedin' genius and didn't even get hand aching syndrome at the end. You ticked those boxes like a PRO. Chillax. Have a kitkat." and then I have a load of Cs on my right shoulder going "Girl you better be shitting your pants cos you FUCKED EVERYTHING UP FOOOOOL. You misinterpreted every question and your quality of language and structure was utter shite. Start taking drugs and getting early maternity wear NOW. Underage & Preggo have allocated you a slot." so I'm like SAY WHAAAAT?! I can picture myself in that hall, shaking and dripping. The dripping can be from sweat, tears or wee. Make your choice and delete where applicable. The big brown envelope will be put in my clammy hands but will be immediately too sopping soggy for me to read what grades I got. The ink will spread down the sheet, onto my hands, arms, and slide onto the floor, spelling out the words "SCREW UP" Oh Jesus.

My birthday is in 22 days. I shall be 17. RTKFGXBWKMTRGKRRTIELKT\MELRMURB NITMKHVRTNIGUMNHYKHNYH. I want a Big Brother party. As in, I want to live in the house with a load of friends (plus some Twitter people, Sam Pepper and Josie) and have tasks and have it filmed and have Marcus Bentley narrating and EVERYTHING. It would totes make sense that this should happen, cos my birthday is a day before the Ultimate BB final (maybe) and it's not like they need the house anymore. So yes, do note down September 9th. Oh, you want to get me a card and a present? You don't have to! No seriously don't. You'll jump off a building if I refuse to accept it? Oh well if you insist. Bless you.

I wish I could make this blog longer. But I have no more news. At all. Boring sod. However, I have set myself a mission to make my whole blog more popular. I am being serious now. Seriously. *serious face* I want it spread round Twitter (RTs and mentions), Facebook, and on your toast. I want a ton of followers and have 50 comments on every blog post, like other blogs do *glares at them*. I want to win a Blog Award! "Louise, you WOULD LIKE, not you WANT." Sorry mum. X

*I didn't