Profile for The Baroness:
I'm a23 24 year old ZOMGirl who happens to live in the shallow gene pool that is Norfolk.
Psychochomp described me as "... a middle aged Women's Institute member stuck in a strippers body"
Mykeyboy once said I was "...all the flavours of the wrongbow"
I'm so fucking impressed by all woman morris dancing. I'd been up for 35 hours at this point.
Me struggling to use my phone while drunk
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Are You Damned?
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The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Seventh Level of Hell!
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Take the Dante's Divine Comedy Inferno Test
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- a member for 2 years, 11 months and 15 days
- has posted 73 messages on the main board
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- (including 4 links)
- has posted 14 stories and 9 replies on question of the week
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I'm a
Psychochomp described me as "... a middle aged Women's Institute member stuck in a strippers body"
Mykeyboy once said I was "...all the flavours of the wrongbow"
I'm so fucking impressed by all woman morris dancing. I'd been up for 35 hours at this point.
Me struggling to use my phone while drunk
| Advanced Global Personality Test Results
|
personality test by similarminds.com
Now, have some quizzes. HAVE SOME!!!!!1
Your Birthdate: June 12 |
 You're a dynamic, charismatic person who's possibly headed for fame. You tend to charm strangers easily. And you usually can get what you want from them. Verbally talented, you tend to persuade people with your speaking and writing. You are affectionate and loving, but it's hard for you to commit to any one relationship. Your strength: Your charm Your weakness: Your extreme manipulation tactics Your power color: Indigo Your power symbol: Four leaf clover Your power month: December |
Your Worry Factor is 100% |
 You worry way too much. It's practically ruining your life. If there's anything bad that could possibly happen, you've worried about it. Chill out a little, and realize that life is pretty great as is. Sure, things may go wrong. But if they do, you will be able to deal with them. |
Are You Damned?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Seventh Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | Very High |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | Very High |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | Extreme |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | Very High |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Extreme |
| Level 7 (Violent) | Extreme |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | Extreme |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | Extreme |
Take the Dante's Divine Comedy Inferno Test
You Have a Choleric Temperament |
 You are a person of great enthusiasm - easily excited by many things. Unsatisfied by the ordinary, you are reaching for an epic, extraordinary life. You want the best. The best life. The best love. The best reputation. You posses a sharp and keen intellect. Your mind is your primary weapon. Strong willed, nothing can keep you down. Your energy can break down any wall. You're an instantly passionate person - and this passion gives you an intoxicating power over others. At your worst, you are a narcissist. Full of yourself and even proud of your faults. Stubborn and opinionated, you know what you think is right. End of discussion. A bit of a misanthrope, you often see others as weak, ignorant, and inferior. |
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» Strict Parents
My Dear Mother
My dear mother is what you might call "over protective". Being her first spawn, but ending up being the only girl, and having 7 brothers (three older half-brothers, four younger full brothers), I was treated differently.
I once, on my birthday, asked to go to my friend's house, four doors down, (lived in lovely suburbian north buckingshire btw, not council estate ghetto), I was told it was "too late".
The time was quarter past five. My birthday is in June, so it was still full daylight, and would be for hours.
Oh, and it was my fifteenth birthday.
I could go on, for years actually, various things, screaming at my best friend for swearing and banning me from seeing her again (we were six), spending four hours screeching at me when I walked 500 metres across a milton keynes carpark to get to her car when I should have called her, I could have been murdered (I was on a very rare date, with a BOY, and she made the comment that because he didn't walk me across that well lit car park, that he wanted me to get killed, he probably wouldn't even bother turning up to my funeral, blah blah blah, this is three months before my 16th birthday.)
The final straw was her ripping my room apart to find my diary, which was in a locked box, then smashing my mobile phone (which I had bought with the money I earned from my saturday job, and paid for all the calls myself, it was nothing to do with her) then trying to strangle me when it became clear from the contents of said diary that I was depressed and had attempted to off myself after being confined to my room for a month during school holidays for not telling her that the boy I was seeing was my friend's ex. She sent me to a psychiatrist, who after a joint session, sent my mother out of the room and gave me the number for social services to write on the inside of my wrist, under my jumper.
God bless her.
So, like my three older half-brothers, I reached my sixteenth birthday, finished two weeks of GCSE's, packed my stuff in a black bin liner and fucked off to the next county.
Oh, there was police and everything, she dragged them round to my friends houses, threatening my mates because they wouldn't divulge my whereabouts. The police found me, gave me a lecture that I couldn't stay away forever, I was just a kid.
No, of course not *chuckles*. They underestimated the fear of god that my mother puts into me.
I came back to my home town, because I didn't know anyone in the place I had run to. I slept on friends floors with their parents charging me fifty quid a week for the privilege. I survived by getting two jobs, working 19 hours a day, seven days a week, for months, until I couldn't take being in the same town as my mother anymore.
I moved to Norwich, got a flat, got a proper job, became assistant manager at a well known bank, got bored of conforming because I spent my whole life trying to do what I was "supposed to do".
So I left that, and I've been a pole/lapdancer for the last two and a half years.
*claps at her mother's sterling parenting job*
My mother still terrifies me, she caught up with me two and a half years after I ran away, which jumped me right back into counselling. She still tries to run my life, but I use passive agressive ways of getting around that, like moving and not telling her my address, not picking up my phone calls, and registering my home phone as ex-directory. She doesn't know what I do for a living, or that I smoke and drink, or any details of my life. I was out of the country for my twenty-first last year, and she managed to ruin it by (even though I had told her that I was going to be abroad) spending three days straight calling my mobile (which I'd taken for emergencies and left off in my bag) and leaving me furious threatening voicemails about how I'm selfish for not speaking to her on my birthday.
She divorced my father after I left home, and is shacked up with one of her workmates now.
She only took up that job after I left tho.
She's now a prison officer for murderers, rapists and paedophiles in the maximum security prison in Milton Keynes where they sent Ian Huntley and Harold Shipman for a while.
When my friends found that out, they couldn't stop laughing.
Length? It's 8 foot of hard shiny chrome for me to dance around darlings...
(Sun 11th Mar 2007, 17:25, More)
My Dear Mother
My dear mother is what you might call "over protective". Being her first spawn, but ending up being the only girl, and having 7 brothers (three older half-brothers, four younger full brothers), I was treated differently.
I once, on my birthday, asked to go to my friend's house, four doors down, (lived in lovely suburbian north buckingshire btw, not council estate ghetto), I was told it was "too late".
The time was quarter past five. My birthday is in June, so it was still full daylight, and would be for hours.
Oh, and it was my fifteenth birthday.
I could go on, for years actually, various things, screaming at my best friend for swearing and banning me from seeing her again (we were six), spending four hours screeching at me when I walked 500 metres across a milton keynes carpark to get to her car when I should have called her, I could have been murdered (I was on a very rare date, with a BOY, and she made the comment that because he didn't walk me across that well lit car park, that he wanted me to get killed, he probably wouldn't even bother turning up to my funeral, blah blah blah, this is three months before my 16th birthday.)
The final straw was her ripping my room apart to find my diary, which was in a locked box, then smashing my mobile phone (which I had bought with the money I earned from my saturday job, and paid for all the calls myself, it was nothing to do with her) then trying to strangle me when it became clear from the contents of said diary that I was depressed and had attempted to off myself after being confined to my room for a month during school holidays for not telling her that the boy I was seeing was my friend's ex. She sent me to a psychiatrist, who after a joint session, sent my mother out of the room and gave me the number for social services to write on the inside of my wrist, under my jumper.
God bless her.
So, like my three older half-brothers, I reached my sixteenth birthday, finished two weeks of GCSE's, packed my stuff in a black bin liner and fucked off to the next county.
Oh, there was police and everything, she dragged them round to my friends houses, threatening my mates because they wouldn't divulge my whereabouts. The police found me, gave me a lecture that I couldn't stay away forever, I was just a kid.
No, of course not *chuckles*. They underestimated the fear of god that my mother puts into me.
I came back to my home town, because I didn't know anyone in the place I had run to. I slept on friends floors with their parents charging me fifty quid a week for the privilege. I survived by getting two jobs, working 19 hours a day, seven days a week, for months, until I couldn't take being in the same town as my mother anymore.
I moved to Norwich, got a flat, got a proper job, became assistant manager at a well known bank, got bored of conforming because I spent my whole life trying to do what I was "supposed to do".
So I left that, and I've been a pole/lapdancer for the last two and a half years.
*claps at her mother's sterling parenting job*
My mother still terrifies me, she caught up with me two and a half years after I ran away, which jumped me right back into counselling. She still tries to run my life, but I use passive agressive ways of getting around that, like moving and not telling her my address, not picking up my phone calls, and registering my home phone as ex-directory. She doesn't know what I do for a living, or that I smoke and drink, or any details of my life. I was out of the country for my twenty-first last year, and she managed to ruin it by (even though I had told her that I was going to be abroad) spending three days straight calling my mobile (which I'd taken for emergencies and left off in my bag) and leaving me furious threatening voicemails about how I'm selfish for not speaking to her on my birthday.
She divorced my father after I left home, and is shacked up with one of her workmates now.
She only took up that job after I left tho.
She's now a prison officer for murderers, rapists and paedophiles in the maximum security prison in Milton Keynes where they sent Ian Huntley and Harold Shipman for a while.
When my friends found that out, they couldn't stop laughing.
Length? It's 8 foot of hard shiny chrome for me to dance around darlings...
(Sun 11th Mar 2007, 17:25, More)
» Personal Hygiene
*gags*
Now, working as I do in the exotic dance industry, I've met a few grubby old men in my time. The worst culprit was a skinny man of about 45. He was a builder. And I swear to god he never washed. Never, ever, ever. He had a big ole bushy beard that just reeked of sweat. And to top it off, he smoked cigars.
Now, a cigar at a "swish" gathering where everyone's pissed and you think it's just HILARIOUS to get a big fat thing and light it up is okay. But he used to chain smoke dodgy cheap ones, and the filthy stale air just used to cling to him.
Luckily he used to pay me £100 an hour just to sit with him and listen to stories of when he was friends with Adamski in the eighties. Greed and alcohol got me through a four hour session, gotta be honest.
And just a side note. After work last Friday I went to meet up with my fella, who'd been "on it" for a good 11 hours at this point, as a cure for the hangover he'd been suffering that day (I know, I know, but it works apparently).
So, I'd only had a couple of vodkas at the beginning of the evening, so I was pretty sober, tired, and really didn't want to be in a sweaty, smokey bar at 2am babysitting drunks, so the fella placated me, said he'd get me a drink, and so turned to the bar.
As he was waiting at the bar, he farted.
Now, I've got seven brothers, I've always had more male friends than female, I'm comfortable in the gassy blokey atmosphere and will indulge in a game of "wind tunnel" (where you both stick your head under the duvet when one of you farts and see how long you can stay there, it's good fun.).
But when this product of two all-nighters hit me, I physically gagged. Not like a little "urgh that's nasty" retch. A proper, full on, back spasming, almost throwing up, gag. Twice.
He was so proud, god bless him.
Length? Well, he's 6 ft 8, there's a whole lot of nasty in there.
(Fri 23rd Mar 2007, 11:20, More)
*gags*
Now, working as I do in the exotic dance industry, I've met a few grubby old men in my time. The worst culprit was a skinny man of about 45. He was a builder. And I swear to god he never washed. Never, ever, ever. He had a big ole bushy beard that just reeked of sweat. And to top it off, he smoked cigars.
Now, a cigar at a "swish" gathering where everyone's pissed and you think it's just HILARIOUS to get a big fat thing and light it up is okay. But he used to chain smoke dodgy cheap ones, and the filthy stale air just used to cling to him.
Luckily he used to pay me £100 an hour just to sit with him and listen to stories of when he was friends with Adamski in the eighties. Greed and alcohol got me through a four hour session, gotta be honest.
And just a side note. After work last Friday I went to meet up with my fella, who'd been "on it" for a good 11 hours at this point, as a cure for the hangover he'd been suffering that day (I know, I know, but it works apparently).
So, I'd only had a couple of vodkas at the beginning of the evening, so I was pretty sober, tired, and really didn't want to be in a sweaty, smokey bar at 2am babysitting drunks, so the fella placated me, said he'd get me a drink, and so turned to the bar.
As he was waiting at the bar, he farted.
Now, I've got seven brothers, I've always had more male friends than female, I'm comfortable in the gassy blokey atmosphere and will indulge in a game of "wind tunnel" (where you both stick your head under the duvet when one of you farts and see how long you can stay there, it's good fun.).
But when this product of two all-nighters hit me, I physically gagged. Not like a little "urgh that's nasty" retch. A proper, full on, back spasming, almost throwing up, gag. Twice.
He was so proud, god bless him.
Length? Well, he's 6 ft 8, there's a whole lot of nasty in there.
(Fri 23rd Mar 2007, 11:20, More)
» School Trips
Virgin Poster...
Well, popping my cherry with a no-doubt uninteresting post...
Most of the school trips I've been on were very dull, only memorable for various knicker showing shenanigans on the coaches, or that one time we all started singing the Fatboy Slim song that goes "They know what is what, but they don't know what is what, they just strut, WTF..." until they pulled over to suitably chastise us.
The only story of note is one that I managed to cause from home. I went to a verr posh south Buckinghamshire all girls private school (until I was 13, then moved to scummy grammar school with BOYS! It all went downhill from there), but being the obligatory poor girl, my 'rents were sadly lacking in the neccessary funds to send me on the Year 6 skiing trip to Austria. So when my friends called me from the airport to update me on their trip so far, I was feeling a little mean spirited. One of the girls was informing me of how they'd bought a load of three litre bottles of fanta to stash in their room (private school, eleven years old okay, wasn't going to be coke was it ;) arf ARF).
So being lonely and jealous, I informed them that the luggage compartments get depressurised during flight, and that if they put the fizzy orange substance in their suitcases the bottles would explode and they'd all get into trouble, which caused a certain amount of panic and fanta-guzzling.
Ha, ha. Apparently they had gut-rot for the first three days from drinking so much fizzy. HA!
Length... impressive... but sadly floppy.
(Tue 12th Dec 2006, 11:48, More)
Virgin Poster...
Well, popping my cherry with a no-doubt uninteresting post...
Most of the school trips I've been on were very dull, only memorable for various knicker showing shenanigans on the coaches, or that one time we all started singing the Fatboy Slim song that goes "They know what is what, but they don't know what is what, they just strut, WTF..." until they pulled over to suitably chastise us.
The only story of note is one that I managed to cause from home. I went to a verr posh south Buckinghamshire all girls private school (until I was 13, then moved to scummy grammar school with BOYS! It all went downhill from there), but being the obligatory poor girl, my 'rents were sadly lacking in the neccessary funds to send me on the Year 6 skiing trip to Austria. So when my friends called me from the airport to update me on their trip so far, I was feeling a little mean spirited. One of the girls was informing me of how they'd bought a load of three litre bottles of fanta to stash in their room (private school, eleven years old okay, wasn't going to be coke was it ;) arf ARF).
So being lonely and jealous, I informed them that the luggage compartments get depressurised during flight, and that if they put the fizzy orange substance in their suitcases the bottles would explode and they'd all get into trouble, which caused a certain amount of panic and fanta-guzzling.
Ha, ha. Apparently they had gut-rot for the first three days from drinking so much fizzy. HA!
Length... impressive... but sadly floppy.
(Tue 12th Dec 2006, 11:48, More)
» Best Graffiti Ever
Reading through the entries, I've remembered some gems, courtesy of THA YOOF OF NARCH!
2002 Down the notorious King Street, on a boarded up shop entrance there were various slogans, so and so loves so and so blah blah blah... and...
"Ulrika deserved it - FREE JOHN LESLEY!"
2002 - Under the road bridge at the end of Sloughbottom park
"Costessey Mafia Headquarters this way"
And the best, the winner...
2003-06 The "Welcome To Norwich" sign at the traffic lights by Asda
The city's motto is "Norwich - A Fine City"
With tippex and black marker, some wit had amended it to
NORWICH - ALBINO CITY
(Fri 4th May 2007, 13:13, More)
Reading through the entries, I've remembered some gems, courtesy of THA YOOF OF NARCH!
2002 Down the notorious King Street, on a boarded up shop entrance there were various slogans, so and so loves so and so blah blah blah... and...
"Ulrika deserved it - FREE JOHN LESLEY!"
2002 - Under the road bridge at the end of Sloughbottom park
"Costessey Mafia Headquarters this way"
And the best, the winner...
2003-06 The "Welcome To Norwich" sign at the traffic lights by Asda
The city's motto is "Norwich - A Fine City"
With tippex and black marker, some wit had amended it to
NORWICH - ALBINO CITY
(Fri 4th May 2007, 13:13, More)