Green and mushy and full of pea goodness

I have the biggest urge for mushy peas. I need them. I must have them in my mouth RIGHT NOW.



I've been drooling over this photo for a while in the hopes that it would take away the cravings, but now I need to eat them even more.
I still remember those peas. They were bloody good.

Maybe garlic peas would hit the spot. Noooooooooooommmmmmmm.

My most recent pipe dream: Etsy

The Dream:
Create awesome shit out of a bunch of stuff. Drink a lot of coffee. Smoke a lot of cigarettes. Make more awesome shit out of a bunch of stuff, until my house is so full of awesome shit I could explode with my own inflated sense of greatness.
Put the most awesome of the awesome shit on Etsy for millions of pennies. Give the lesser of the awesome shit away to people for Xmas. Make more awesome shit. Conquer Etsy. Become rich and possibly famous. Cackle a lot.

Why this is a pipe dream and not really a possibility:
My ability to turn a bunch of stuff into a pile of awesome shit is much, much lower than my enthusiasm for the activity. I always envisage great things for my bunch of stuff, but the actual skills involved in the magical transformation from 'stuff' to 'awesome' always leaves me with a not-so-awesome pile of raggedy, cut-up stuff. Past awesome shit experiments have always ended with me kneeling on the floor and wallowing in my own pity, surrounded by objects of failure, tears rolling slowly down my cheeks.
In short, I fail at producing awesome shit. It's been a difficult truth to face up to.

I lay my pipe dream to rest. I can now carry on with my life.

Or, you could just call me Bett...

I'm Betty Broke.
It's obviously a fake name. I'm not actually cool enough to pull it off in real life, but I thought for the purposes of writing, it suits me well.

The reasoning:

1. Betty
a. My grandmother's name is Betty, I like her a lot.
b. I've always liked the name itself. It conjures up, for me anyway, wiseness with a hint of cuddliness, interestingly weirdliness, and stale fag smoke. I'm not wise, nor particularly cuddly, or indeed interestingly weird, really; but I definitely smell of stale fag smoke.

2. Broke
a. I'm incredibly poor. It's not entirely to do with my smoking habit, though I'm sure nicotine addiction doesn't help matters.
b. 'Broke' begins with the letter 'B' which is the letter my *real* surname begins with.
c. Betty + Broke = Betty Broke. Ooo, alliteration. I most thoroughly enjoy it. Plus, my initials will be BB, which are most definitely awesome initials to have. (The word 'Boobies', for example, cannot be spelled without my fake initials. Also...Have you ever noticed how a capital B looks like a pair of boobs? There's totally two pairs of boobs right there.)
d. The word 'Broke' could also mean I'm somehow flawed. I sometimes feel as though I am, but an in depth analysis of my mental state is not the point of this post. (Though I may splat out some self critical doomwriting at some point in the future.)

3. My real name is boring, and for a small portion of my life I want to feel as though I'm a rockstar. Or at least a rich-and-famous person. Or maybe just someone with a more interesting name.
By the way, I'm in a band, but I wouldn't like to actually ever get famous. I'd probably be dead by the time I was 27. I'm 23. That only gives me three and a half years to live! Nooooo! Why wish such a fate upon myself?!

So, hello. I'm Betty Broke, and I will be writing about things I do, have done, or will do, while never giving away enough detail for anyone to ever find out who I really am.

Muahaha!